This situation was a heart attack waiting to happen. He just knew it. The stress of the job, now this. Yep, he was going to keel over. He could see the writing on his tombstone now: --Sloane
The more closely he has observed the tugboat, the more deeply he has been stirred by it, and the more eagerly and vividly he will strive to recreate it, in building, in drawing, in words.
I am the chosen of the Lord, for who He loveth, so doeth He chastiseth. But I be durn if He dont take some curious ways to show it, seems like.
And she doesn't understand why he doesn't want to put out his medal like a trophy. And he can't tell her that he liberated Europe with a spade.
He looks at one of the pictures for a long time. Then he looks at me. "I'll keep you up here." He taps his temple. "Where you can't get lost.
To this day I don’t know if he was struggling with the moral implications of gunning down half a dozen civilians, or if he was mentally counting to see if he had that many shells left in the gun.
Does he know you’re with me? Does he know about me? Does he know we fuck each other in our dreams every night? ~ Ripp Collins
The uncertainty, the fear of the unknown was driving him, almost to the point of desperation. He felt as if he was going down a dark stairway, missing a step, hurtling into the unknown and having no idea where he would land.
Why had he wanted to be rich, or to feel rich? Was he an unhappy mouse before? Didn't he see the King himself often looking sad? Was anyone completely happy?
The reason he could do none of the necessary things to take care of himself, on the few occasions when he thought of them, was that he was preoccupied elsewhere.
And at that moment, Thibaut knew he was a murderer. He had murdered his brother that night; he had taken away his brother's soul.
Perfect,” he groaned. “You are perfect.” He sank his teeth into her ass, hard, drawing blood. “And now you wear my mark,” he finished proudly. “Your ass is mine.
The ferocity of her passion was what he'd been waiting for night after torturous night. He wanted her to hunger the way he hungered. To need like he needed.
He looked like someone pretending to be a knight, which was bad. He figured pretending to be something he actually wanted to be was just asking for it.
...he didn’t know when he was going to get the chance to play WoW again. And it was damn important to do his bit to save all life on Azeroth while he could.
He was delighted to recognize his own human name on two of the papers; he always got an odd thrill out of reading it, as if he were two places at once.
His shoulder-length hair was a rich, dark-brown color with a slight wave to it and it flowed behind him as he ran into the center of the gypsies. He was tall, muscular, and so beautifully handsome, yet primal. He looked magnificent.
But when he has done this, let him not say that he knows better than his master, for he only holds a candle in sunshine.
Wouldn't he know without being asked?' said Polly. 'I've no doubt he would,' said the Horse (still with his mouth full). 'But I've a sort of an idea he likes to be asked.
There are stories in the air as thick as birds around me, he would say. I will save those stories from starving he would say. I have a great hunger for stories, he would say.
We don't need teenage bouda sex fiends as interns. How do you know he is a sex fiend? He is fifteen and he's a bouda. Hello?
