Love

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Best Erotic Romance

  “I’ve been dying to eat you,” he said gruffly. “I’ve jacked off a dozen times thinking about it. Get comfortable, baby. We’ll be here awhile.” “I have meetings to attend!” she protested. “I can’t—oh, god!” The first stroke of his tongue stole her wits. It was a soft, slow lick that fired every sensitive nerve ending. The next pass was more deliberate, working her clit with the ball of his barbell piercing. His groan vibrated against her, making her pussy spasm in want of his cock to fill it. Her hands fisted the comforter. “You’re so sweet,” he praised hoarsely, his hands sliding down to her inner thighs. “Your cunt is so soft.” A soft noise escaped her. His mouth sealed over her clit in a heated circle, his pierced tongue fluttering over the hard knot with devastating strokes. Her hips moved without her volition, thrusting and rocking as she chased another orgasm. In her past, she’d been lucky to come once with a partner. With Paul, the more he touched her, the more sensitized she became. Each climax came quicker than the one before it until she was coming in rolling waves that seemed to have no end or beginning. “Fuck me with your tongue,” she gasped, draping one leg over his powerful shoulder to urge him closer. Her back arched as he obliged her, teasing her quivering slit with shallow thrusts. Gripping his overlong hair, she rode his mouth, shameless in the extremity of her need. She’d watched people dismiss Paul out of hand because of his appearance. Those who clung to stereotypes saw mobile homes and biker gangs when they looked at him. They couldn’t see past the stubble-shadowed jaw and visible tattoos. But beneath the body jewelry, ink, and shaggy hair was a gorgeous face that was classical in its lines and features. Paul could have graced an ancient coin or inspired a statue in a temple, and he was far wealthier than people would ascertain from his laid-back style. Cupping her buttocks, he lifted her hips and tilted his head. His tongue pushed deeper, and her pussy clutched helplessly around the rhythmic impalement. Robin squeezed her aching breasts inside her bra, pinching her nipples to ease their tightness. Her hips churning restlessly, she begged, “Make me come.” Latching on, he kissed her pussy, drawing softly with gentle suction while he rubbed her clit with his tongue. She cried out and fell apart beneath his avid and tender mouth, her body melting into a boneless, breathless, teary puddle on his bed. “I love you.” He pushed to his feet and tossed the condom in the trash. “You love fucking me,” she whispered, knowing that when the passion was sated and reality intruded, he would withdraw again as he’d done before. Paul leaned over her, pressing his hands into the mattress on either side of her waist. “I’m in this for the long haul.”

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Our foray into role-playing took longer and didn’t really take hold until after a particularly good time at a Halloween party. I had never found Dracula sexy before, but Blake convinced me to join him in my sister’s guest room, and he turned me from a sexy kitty to a kitty in heat in no time flat. After that night, I bought more outfits to act out fantasies of all types. I chose the naughty nurse; Blake had a thing for lady cops, which we managed to accomplish with the help of a fake nightstick and the back seat of our car on a deserted dirt road. It had all been passionate and fun and, I thought, completely worth it. There wasn’t a boring night of sex in months, and we both seemed to be enjoying the ride. The dominatrix fantasy was mostly my idea, but Blake seemed more than a little interested. The outfit was the most expensive one yet, but I relished putting it on and the power I felt holding the whip was undeniable. I had hoped that Blake would be a good little submissive, but his willful eyes left me no choice but to reach over and untie him. “I’m sorry, Blakey. I thought this would be fun, but if you don’t want to do it, maybe we can save it for another time.” After I freed him, I felt even more foolish in my getup than I did before. He rubbed his wrists, and I moved off the bed to change out of my new personae. Blake shook his head and grabbed my arm to pull me back down next to him. “Daisy, I’m sorry. I really am. But, I don’t know. Do you think we could just have sex tonight?” “We were going to have sex, Blake. That was the point of this whole thing.” He stared at me until I looked up, embarrassment making my cheeks flush. “No. I mean sex. Like we used to have. Just you and me, on our bed. You know, sex. I hate to use the word normal, but it somehow seems appropriate.” “You mean boring sex?” “God, fuck! I wish I’d never said that. That’s what all this has been about, hasn’t it? Because I said we were boring in bed.” “No.” Blake didn’t say a word, but he made it clear with his eyes that he knew I was lying. “Okay, fine Blake. Fine. Yes. I was trying to make our sex life less boring. You seemed to enjoy it. What’s changed?” “Nothing. And, I did like most of it. But, I miss being with you. Is it so crazy to want to feel you, be with you and watch you come? No bells, no whistles, no whips. Just you and me.” Secretly, they were the words I wanted to hear since our sexcapades began. I had been afraid to say it, but hearing Blake confess made my resolve melt away.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  It was. They sipped and talked, long into the night, long past the three-quarter moon’s shimmer on the water. Eventually they staggered to the bedroom, spread the sleeping bag he’d brought onto the bed, and made love again. Slower, this time, and more bittersweet, perhaps, as Bella cradled his head in her hands and he buried his face in her shoulder as they came. They were roused the next morning not by the stream of sunlight across the bed but the sound of the front door being unlocked. Ethan scrambled into pants and shirt, giving Bella time to dive for the bathroom. She was vaguely amazed she had no hangover. And no heartache. In the bathroom mirror, she saw that her hair was a tangle, her lips puffy from kisses, and her eyes sparkling from pleasure despite the circles beneath them. She pulled herself together as best she could. She had no idea where her bra had ended up, but there was nothing she could do about that right now. Shirt and skirt would suffice. She emerged to find Jane, the realtor, clutching bread mix (because the scent of baking bread was a huge lure to buyers) and fresh flowers. Ethan, meanwhile, had Bella’s bra clutched behind his back. Bless his heart. “Bella!” Jane’s astonishment was clear. “You’re here, too.” Bella gave a weak wave. “Morning, Jane.” “Well.” Jane’s voice turned brisk as she went into professional mode. “We’ll have to get things cleaned up before the open house starts. There’s already a line of cars at the end of the drive. I’ll get the bread going. The sofa cushions need to be straightened, and that candle…” “We appreciate everything you’ve done for us,” Ethan said. “But we’ve reconsidered, and we’ve decided not to sell.” “We have?” Bella asked. Her heart rose even as her stomach plummeted, her emotions in a tangle. “I’m not ready to sell,” Ethan said, taking her hand. “That would be selling all the memories we have here. I think we have a chance to make more memories. If you’re willing to try, that is.” “It won’t be easy,” Bella said cautiously. “We’ve got a lot of work to do. Communication, and all that.” Ethan drew her into his arms. “I realized something. When we’re here, we’ve never had problems talking. We were able to leave our problems behind; this was always a place where nothing else mattered except us.” Bella took a deep breath. “Take down the ‘For Sale’ sign and cancel the open house,” she said to Jane. But it was Ethan she was looking at when she said, “This isn’t for sale anymore.” HONEY CHANGES EVERYTHING Emerald Kim wrestled her armload of groceries through the back door and kicked it shut behind her.

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  a radiance that almost everyone who met him in this period could feel. Understand: The story of Anton Chekhov is really a paradigm for what we all face in life. We carry with us traumas and hurts from early childhood. In our social life, as we get older, we accumulate disappointments and slights. We too are often haunted by a sense of worthlessness, of not really deserving the good things in life. We all have moments of great doubt about ourselves. These emotions can lead to obsessive thoughts that dominate our minds. They make us curtail what we experience as a way to manage our anxiety and disappointments. They make us turn to alcohol or any kind of habit to numb the pain. Without realizing it, we assume a negative and fearful attitude toward life. This becomes our self-imposed prison. But this is not how it has to be. The freedom that Chekhov experienced came from a choice, a different way of looking at the world, a change in attitude. We can all follow such a path. This freedom essentially comes from adopting a generous spirit— toward others and toward ourselves. By accepting people, by understanding and if possible even loving them for their human nature, we can liberate our minds from obsessive and petty emotions. We can stop reacting to everything people do and say. We can have some distance and stop ourselves from taking everything personally. Mental space is freed up for higher pursuits. When we feel generous toward others, they feel drawn to us and want to match our spirit. When we feel generous toward ourselves, we no longer feel the need to bow and scrape and play the game of false humility while secretly resenting our lack of success. Through our work and through getting what we need on our own, without depending on others, we can stand tall and realize our potential as humans. We can stop reproducing the negative emotions around us. Once we feel the exhilarating power from this new attitude, we will want to take it as far as possible. Years later, in a letter to a friend, Chekhov tried to summarize his experience in Taganrog, referring to himself in the third person: “Write about how this young man squeezes the slave out of himself drop by drop and how one fine morning he awakes to find that the blood coursing through his veins is no longer the blood of a slave but that of a real human being.” The greatest discovery of my generation is the fact that human beings can alter their lives by altering their attitudes of mind. —Wil iam James Keys to Human Nature We humans like to imagine that we have an objective knowledge of the world. We take it for granted that what we perceive on a daily basis is reality—this reality being more or less the same for everybody. But this is an illusion. No two people see or experience

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  me, but she restrained herself. So did I. I kissed the cheek she offered me. I saw Grant near the jukebox. A moment later I heard “Stand By Your Man” playing. Thanks, Grant. I asked Theresa to dance. She took her time smoothing my collar and adjusting my tie before she led me to the dance floor. We moved beautifully together. Meg told me later we looked as good as Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. All the while we were dancing, Theresa traced the back of my neck above my collar with her fingernails. She was driving me mad. I guess that was the point. I know I was driving her crazy, too, but I was being very, very careful doing it. Sometimes when you just move a little, carefully, it’s a whole lot more powerful than grinding, When the song finished I let go of her, but Theresa pulled me back. “I wasn’t trying to be mean to you at the plant. Did you think I was?” “No, it felt good.” She smiled. “TI don’t think I was very nice to you. I was just teasing you, to get your attention. I liked you.” I blushed. “Nobody ever flirted with me outside a bar before—I mean in the real world, you know? It made me feel normal.” She nodded like she really understood. We talked for a while about out lives. She was a rural girl from Appleton. She came right out and told me she got friends to drive her to this bar just to look for me. Then someone tapped Theresa on the shoulder. The women she rode to Buffalo with were leaving. She took my face in both her hands and kissed my mouth. I blushed from head to toe. She stood back and grinned at my color, proud of her work. “Tl make you dinner at my house next Saturday night if you want,” she offered. “You're on,” I said, still blushing. She scribbled her phone number down on a cocktail napkin. “Call me,” she shouted over her shoulder. “You can bet on it,” I answered. I was still blushing. You would have thought I’d won the Kentucky Derby the way everybody came over to congratulate me. I felt like a million bucks. I just wondered if P’d ever stop blushing. It took me all day Saturday to get ready—pick out the right clothes, bathe, shower, shower again. Then there were questions like which tie, cologne or no cologne? Something so sweet took a lot of care. I brought Theresa daffodils. When I handed them to her, her eyes filled with tears. I had a feeling nobody had treated her like someone special before. I silently vowed to always make her feel that way.

• From The Hours (1998)

  She conquers the desire to go quietly back upstairs, to her bed and book. She conquers her irritation at the sound of her husband’s voice, saying something to Richie about napkins (why does his voice remind her sometimes of a potato being grated?). She descends the last three stairs, crosses the narrow foyer, enters the kitchen. She thinks of the cake she will bake, the flowers she’ll buy. She thinks of roses surrounded by gifts. Her husband has made the coffee, poured cereal for himself and their son. On the tabletop, a dozen white roses offer their complex, slightly sinister beauty. Through the clear glass vase Laura can see the bubbles, fine as grains of sand, clinging to their stems. Beside the roses stand cereal box and milk carton, with their words and pictures. “Good morning,” her husband says, raising his eyebrows as if he is surprised but delighted to see her. “Happy birthday,” she says. “Thank you.” “Oh, Dan. Roses. On your birthday. You’re too much, really.” She sees him see that she is angry. She smiles. “It wouldn’t mean much of anything without you, would it?” he says. “But you should have woken me. Really.” He looks at Richie, lifts his brows another centimeter, so that his forehead is creased and his lustrous black hair twitches slightly. “We thought it’d be better if you slept in a little, didn’t we?” he says. Richie, three years old, says, “Yes.” He nods avidly. He wears blue pajamas. He is happy to see her, and more than happy; he is rescued, resurrected, transported by love. Laura reaches into the pocket of her robe for a cigarette, changes her mind, raises her hand instead to her hair. It is almost perfect, it is almost enough, to be a young mother in a yellow kitchen touching her thick, dark hair, pregnant with another child. There are leaf shadows on the curtains; there is fresh coffee. “G’morning, Bug,” she says to Richie. “I’m having cereal,” he says. He grins. It could be said that he leers. He is transparently smitten with her; he is comic and tragic in his hopeless love. He makes her think sometimes of a mouse singing amorous ballads under the window of a giantess. “Good,” she answers. “That’s very good.” He nods again, as if they share a secret. “But honestly,” she says to her husband. “Why should I wake you?” he answers. “Why shouldn’t you sleep?” “It’s your birthday,” she says. “You need to rest.”

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Dustan playing for the farm team, Maddy’s brothers playing for the townies. The farm team had won, and they were heading off for drinks, when this girl in a daisy-yellow sundress and white sandals crossed the field, calling his name. “Dustan,” she said, although everyone else called him Dusty so he didn’t know it was his name she was saying until she got close and touched his shoulder. “Can I go out with the winning team?” she’d asked. The first time he’d seen those eyes, that smile that gave her one dimple on the side, a pushed-in petal. His teammates were there, standing with him, but he couldn’t hear or see them. He could only see the freckles on her chest and the way the sundress cut into her pale shoulders just enough to make red marks. “I, uh...” His stuttering had been bad then, words more than just an enemy, words a cow kick to the gut that he couldn’t step out of the way of. “Oh, I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl,” she’d said, as though he’d actually said all of the things that were in his brain. The what and the why and the way these boys, these farm boys, got drunk and wild beyond what she could have possibly seen, and how the whole other part of him was saying Please, yes, please. “Besides,” she’d said, raising her voice in the direction of the other team. “Those town boys are b-o-r-i-n-g.” Later, she said that was their first date, although he hardly counted it. It was beers with the boys and darts. She’d flitted among them like some exotic insect, but one who clearly liked them. And even more clearly liked Dustan. He still had no idea what she’d seen really in him that day or that night, or the days after, even though she’d told him a million times. “It was that farm-boy muscle in those baseball pants,” is what she always said, putting the emphasis on muscle. Singular. She’d let him love her then, and she was still letting him love her now, she was crossing a field of clover and honeybees in her bare feet to bring her pricker-and-honey love to him, to stand on his booted feet and wiggle against him. “So, you have time for a quickie, Mr. Fence Fixer?” Her words accompanied by her fingers tugging at the bottom of his T-shirt. “Or do I have to go back to the house all sweating and unsatisfied?” “What, here?” Words came better, without the stutter, but still slow. One or two syllables to her elaborate sentences. She was nibbling at his neck, laughing. “Mmm, you taste like sweat. And sunshine. More, please.” He meant to resist. He had work to do.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Milli looked amazed. “Do you really know that?” I nodded. She put her arms around me. “We fit perfectly,’ she ran her hands up and down my back. “Remember those old spy movies where they cut a playing card into two jagged pieces? Then when the spies meet they put the two pieces together. That’s how pros and stone butches are. We just fit, you know?” She kissed me again. She was a great kisser. Then she grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled my head back and really looked at me before she spoke again. “You're the only women in the world who hurt almost the same way I do, you know?” WG Leslie Feinberg I did. “And another thing,” she kissed my throat. “You're the tenderest lover in the world.” She unbuttoned my shirt as she spoke. The talking was over. The conversation had just begun. We conducted electricity between our bodies. Later, in bed, I held her in my arms and remembered our fight as if it had been a dream. “When will you start?” I asked her. Her body tensed. “Tl call Darlene tomorrow.” I spent all week in a panic putting in applications at the plants. If I could just get a job before the end of the week. Thursday Milli told me real casually at dinner she was going to start work with Darlene the next night at the Pink Pussy Kat. I poked my meat loaf with a fork. “Don’t start,’ she warned me. “T didn’t say anything.” We ate in silence. On Friday I left for the bar in the early evening while she was still sleeping. I packed a lunch for her and stuck little red paste-on hearts on the brown paper bag. Everybody at the bar knew I was upset. The butches patted me on the back and told me to cheer up. The femmes just kind of smoothed the lapels of my suit coat and held me in their gaze for a moment—a more complicated message. Then Justine called me across the room by curling her index finger. She grabbed me firmly by my tie and wouldn’t let go. “Cut it out,’ she ordered. “What?” “T said,” she gripped my tie more firmly, “cut out all this drama. She doesn’t need it, honey. And if you want to lose her, this is just the way to do it.” I felt stunned. “I don’t get it,’ I answered honestly. “Grow up,” she concluded, and let go of me. By the time the sun came up I was excited about seeing Milli. When she arrived with the other dancers from the club, I was anxious to leave together. But they all spent a long time in the bathroom together. Finally, each of the women came out, hesitantly leaving the camaraderie of their group and joined us, one-on-one. Milli’s head rested on my back the whole ride home. I was afraid she was asleep and might fall off on a curve.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  “Yes, dammit!” He looked at me, both of us sobering at the same time. “I’m sorry if that bothers you. God, I hope it doesn’t! I’ve been in love with you for so long. I feel like some gawky-assed teenager tripping over his words.” He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he realized what he’d said. “Shit. I hadn’t meant to say that yet. The L-word, I mean. But it’s true, dammit, and I won’t take it back. I love you. I want to marry you. And I’m making a total fucking mess of this conversation!” He slammed his hand against the wheel. “Fuck!” We were pulling into the hotel. Eric turned toward the parking structure. I put my hand on his arm and said, “Valet. Now.” He whipped the wheel to the left and into the circle in front of the main entrance. I released my seat belt, braced my hand on his thigh, and leaned over him until my lips were just above his. “I love you, too. Yes, I’ll marry you. I’m out of my fucking mind, but it’s true, and I’m scared to death. Take me upstairs and make love to me until I’m not afraid anymore.” I fell back in the seat, shaking like a leaf. If I looked anything like he did, the valet was getting one hell of an education in what “deer in the headlights” looked like. “Fair enough,” he choked. And tripped trying to get out of the car without taking his seatbelt off. I don’t remember getting to the elevator. I was in his arms when the door closed, our tongues tangling coffee and mint-laced kisses as he ground his erection into my belly. “Security cameras,” he gasped as he came up for air. I wrapped my leg around him, the wet silk of my dress rubbing against my pussy. “Don’t care.” Then we were kissing again. The bell dinged and he broke free, panting as the elevator door opened. He pulled me down the empty hall, pressing me against the wall as he slid the keycard through the slot. Suddenly his hand was beneath the back of his jacket, the butt of a gun showing at his waist. “Wait here.” He ducked quickly inside, scanning the room, checking the bathroom and under the bed before he pulled me in behind him. Then he shoved the door closed and threw all the locks. “What the hell is your job!” I demanded. I was shocked to realize I didn’t really care. I just wanted to know. “FBI, fifteen years,” he growled, tearing his jacket off, throwing it onto the nightstand. He stripped off the weapon harness, checked the safety, and tossed it down on his jacket. “Are you okay with that?” “It’s better than blowing up crap in the desert,” I sighed. “I’ll still worry. Are you okay with that?”

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  you proud of me. Al, I loved you then and I love you now.” I wiped tears off my arm twice before I realized they weren’t coming from my eyes. “T told you, you shouldn’t have come,” the Oracle whispered over my shoulder. “No, it was important to come,” I said. I stood up and put my arms around Al again. I kissed her gently on top of her head, and let my lips linger on her hait. “T love you, Butch Al.” I whispered. The nurse watched me from the doorway. I straightened up to go. The Oracle crossed herself. “Blessed be,” she said, looking at me and shaking her head. Moving very slowly, I took her hand in mine and kissed it lightly. She dropped her eyes and blushed. “Goodbye, Grandmother,” I told her, “thank you for letting me come.” I pulled the Triumph into the driveway behind Blue Violets. I found Jan and Edna inside the shop. They both looked grim. Edna wouldn’t meet my eyes; Jan smoldered. I walked outside behind the greenhouse and waited for Jan to follow. She stood three feet away from me. Her fists were balled up at her sides. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” she demanded. “It wasn’t my place,” I shrugged. “T didn’t want to come between you two.” Jan came closer. “Well, you couldn’t if you tried.” I inhaled through clenched teeth. “Actually, I know that. I couldn’t hold onto Edna. But am I gonna lose you too? I didn’t do anything to you. It’s not fair.” “Fair?” Jan shook her head. “It doesn’t have to be fair. ’'ve got a right to be pissed.” “No, you don’t,” I shouted at her. “You’re the one that got her. You two have each other. ’m the one who has a right to be hurt.” “You went behind my back and fucked my girl!” Jan yelled. “Whate” I slapped my thigh. “You must be kidding! You and Edna hadn’t been lovers for twelve years!” Jan obviously missed the logic. I smiled. “What’s so fucking funny?” she demanded. I shrugged. “You’re mad at me for dating Edna a dozen years after you broke up. ’'m mad at Edna for getting back together with you almost a decade after she and I stopped seeing each other. You know what I think?” Jan kicked the cement. “I don’t really give a fuck what you think.” I shrugged. “I’m gonna tell you anyway. I think there’s not enough love to go around. I’ll tell you what else I think. We all go back a long way. We really need each other, even if we’re real upset right now.” My voice softened. “T’ll speak for myself. I really need you, Jan. I didn’t betray you. I’ve always been a friend to you.” Jan shook her head. “Just let it be for now. Don’t tell me I don’t have a right to feel what I’m feeling.”

• From Best Erotic Romance

  He was flushed and shiny with sweat, his beautiful hazel eyes as red as hers felt. “So damn fucking sorry that I ever let you think, for even a moment, that you were nothing but a convenient piece of ass to me. I loved you the moment I saw you. I should have told you—” “I need things from you.” She wrapped her hands around his wrists, anchoring herself as the pleasure threatened to sweep her away. “I know.” His hips rocked in a slow and easy tempo. “I need things from you, too.” That caught her. She wanted him to need her. She wanted to be valuable to him, to serve a purpose in his life. To share his life. “Such as?” “I need your travel schedule.” His lips kicked into a smile when she scowled. “So I can plan my trips to match up with yours. And I need you to move in with me. Your jewelry business is you, right? You can design your pieces anywhere?” Robin nodded, unable to speak while he was saying everything she’d longed to hear and fucking her so perfectly. The fluid, rhythmic plunges of his cock were driving her half out of her mind. Her entire body was straining with the need to come, her hips lifting to meet his downstrokes. He was so hard and it felt so good to be with him again. To smell the scent of his skin and feel his flesh beneath her hands. “I’m stuck for now with the brewery in Portland.” His words slurred slightly as the pleasure built for him, too. “But if you don’t like the city or the house or anything, I’ll go where you’re happy. I just need time, time I don’t want to spend without you.” “Harder,” she urged, grabbing his taut perfect ass in her hands. Her neck arched, her head pressing into the bedding as her climax hovered just out of reach. “Fuck me hard.” Gripping her waist, Paul gave her what she needed. His aggressive strokes set her off in a rush. “I’m right there with you,” he groaned, driving powerfully into her. He made that sexy little noise that made her hot, a cross between a grunt and a hum that said more than words how much pleasure she gave him. “Right there...Right. There.” His gaze locked with hers as he came, the heady rush of pleasure shared between them. “I love you,” he grated, shaking with the force of his climax. She couldn’t look away, daring to believe. Paul got her naked.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  He opened the door and caught his breath. Brynn was in the bathtub, her long blond hair twisted up in a knot on her head, a pouf of bubbles surrounding her pale, naked body. The only illumination was the fading sunlight through the bathroom window above the tub, and Brynn seemed to glow in that golden light. If not for her red-rimmed eyes and shiny red nose, she would look like a mermaid splashing about in the tub. A sexy mermaid. Paul felt something inside him catch —and he smiled gently. He loved this woman, no matter how crazy she made him sometimes. Loved her and wanted her. “The water isn’t too hot,” Brynn said quickly. They had been reading the baby books in bed together before they went to sleep—about the only thing they really did in bed anymore. “I’m sure it’s fine.” Brynn sunk down lower in the tub, the peak of her pregnant belly remaining above the surface of the water. “Don’t look at me, I’m hideous.” Paul perched on the edge of the tub, studying her. “No, you’re not. You’re stunning.” Shaking her head stubbornly, Brynn pointed to her stomach. “I found a stretch mark. All these months of slathering myself with cocoa butter and my skin is bursting anyway.” “Where? I don’t see anything.” Brynn pointed to a faint purple mark that started an inch or so under her belly button and disappeared into the water. “There. It’s ugly. These things are like gray hairs—where there’s one, there will be more. I’ll be covered in them.” A fresh bout of tears followed, and Paul couldn’t help but chuckle. “Why are you laughing at me?” Brynn sat up, more indignant than modest. “It’s not funny. I look like a whale.” “You look like a mermaid.” “Don’t try placating me,” Brynn accused. “I know what I look like.” Paul slipped to his knees beside the tub, the water that had splashed over the side of the tub soaking through his trousers. “No, you don’t know what you look like. You’re emotional and afraid and you look in the mirror and see how your body has changed and think it’s a bad thing—but it’s not.” He took Brynn’s face in his hands. “Listen to me. You are beautiful. I love the way your body is changing.” To prove his point, he moved his hand from Brynn’s cheek down to her full, dark-tipped breasts. They were exotic, earthy—larger than he’d ever seen them. Paul felt something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in months out of respect for Brynn’s self-consciousness and discomfort: desire. Hot and needy desire. Without thinking, he cupped Brynn’s breasts in his hands.

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  At other times I thought it was because girls liked the fact that I was going through as much pain as they did to look good. Either way, once I found success, I wasn’t going to mess with the formula. I kept going back to the salon every week, spending hours at a time getting my hair straightened and cornrowed. My mom would just roll her eyes. “I could never date a man who spends more time on his hair than I do,” she’d say. Monday through Saturday my mom worked in her office and puttered around her garden dressed like a homeless person. Then Sunday morning for church she’d do her hair and put on a nice dress and some high heels and she looked like a million bucks. Once she was all done up, she couldn’t resist teasing me, throwing little verbal jabs the way we’d always do with each other. “Now who’s the best-looking person in the family, eh? I hope you enjoyed your week of being the pretty one, ’cause the queen is back, baby. You spent four hours at the salon to look like that. I just took a shower.” She was just having fun with me; no son wants to talk about how hot his mom is. Because, truth be told, she was beautiful. Beautiful on the outside, beautiful on the inside. She had a self-confidence about her that I never possessed. Even when she was working in the garden, dressed in overalls and covered in mud, you could see how attractive she was. — I can only assume that my mother broke more than a few hearts in her day, but from the time I was born, there were only two men in her life, my father and my stepfather. Right around the corner from my father’s house in Yeoville, there was a garage called Mighty Mechanics. Our Volkswagen was always breaking down, and my mom would take it there to get it repaired. We met this really cool guy there, Abel, one of the auto mechanics. I’d see him when we went to fetch the car. The car broke down a lot, so we were there a lot. Eventually it felt like we were there even when there was nothing wrong with the vehicle. I was six, maybe seven. I didn’t understand everything that was happening. I just knew that suddenly this guy was around. He was tall, lanky and lean but strong. He had these long arms and big hands. He could lift car engines and gearboxes. He was handsome, but he wasn’t good-looking. My mom liked that about him; she used to say there’s a type of ugly that women find attractive. She called him Abie. He called her Mbuyi, short for Nombuyiselo. I liked him, too.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  She kissed him, grinding along the front of him as much as she could while he was holding her. Her mouth tasted like raspberries and cream. She wiggled along him, and he had to put her down, out of breath and bending backward. Her bare feet—the toenails painted like mini-suns—disappeared into the clover. “Maddy, you shouldn’t be barefoot out here.” He could hear the scolding in his voice, couldn’t help it. “You’re going to step on a pricker. Or a bee. Or worse.” “I’m fine,” she said. “Besides, I’m only interested in being stuck by this particular pricker.” He wondered, as he often did, if her daddy knew what a wild creature she was. He doubted it. Her hand found the front of him, already half-hard, tickling her fingers over his zipper. The flash of her ring in the sunlight as she stroked him, lifting her head, laughing. “Maddy,” he said. “What?” All innocent, that look, as her gaze caught his—she had deep brown eyes, big and dark, lightly flecked with gold in the centers, and thick dark eyelashes, a sharp contrast to her lighter hair. On one of their first dates, he’d told her, “You have eyes like a Jersey calf.” He hadn’t meant to say it—words were his enemy, mostly, things that bit at his tongue and made his cheeks fire. But Maddy hadn’t laughed at him; she hadn’t gotten angry at being compared to a cow. She’d said, “I don’t have to moo when we have sex for the first time, do I?” He’d never thought a woman could say things like that. She said things like that all the time. Words loved her. And he knew then that he wanted to love her like that. The crazy thing was that she let him do just that. Madeline O’Hara, daughter of Fire Chief O’Hara, Queen of the Country Fair, she of the proper “Please” and “Thank you,” she of the gold-brown corn-tassel hair and the calf-brown eyes. Dustan had seen her his whole life, of course, the way he’d seen all the town girls he’d grown up with. From the outside. Genqua wasn’t even that big of a town, but it was big enough to split the farmers and ranchers from the ones who had town jobs, town roles. Maddy O’Hara wasn’t just way out of his ballpark. Maddy O’Hara was out of his league. Except they’d met, officially, for the first time in a ballpark.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  She bit the fruit and chewed it, savoring its intense flavor. He wiped a trickle of juice from the corner of her mouth. “Are you sure you should do that?” she asked. “You’ll get me started again.” “That was my intention.” His smile was wicked. She couldn’t resist teasing him back. “Sure you can hack it?” “Oh yeah, I’ve been hard thinking about you every night since I first saw you, and I’ve got a lot of erections to work off.” Cassie gestured at the fruit bowl. “In that case I believe it’s time to adjourn to your bed. You grab the fruit, I’ll bring the wine.” Samuel grinned. “You got it.” As they stood, wobbly and laughing, she clutched him to her. “I like you Samuel, I like you a lot.” He cupped the back of her head and kissed her deeply. “I like you too, a lot. In fact I think I fell in love with you weeks ago. Does that worry you...?” There was a challenge in his eyes. He really was a very intense sort of man, and that set her alight. “Not any more.” She ran her fingers along his jaw, sighing happily. “One thing I ought to say, though,” she added. A concerned look flitted across his eyes. “You must let me take my turn cooking....otherwise you won’t get to know which meal turns me on most of all.” The concerned look disappeared and he grinned. “It just gets better and better.” She trailed her finger along his jaw. “When I like something this much I always come back for more.” HE TENDS TO ME Justine Elyot He hates it when I’m ill. He hides it well, replenishing magazines and tissues, haunting the pharmacy, inventing new recipes for hot toddies, but I know that this evidence of disorder in his world disturbs his equilibrium. Because Matthew’s world must be, above all things, perfectly ordered. My strep throat was not on the agenda for this month, and therefore all is awry and out of kilter. It’s worse for me, of course. I had to cancel a series of concerts, for a start. But Matthew has lost his control of the universe, which usually drives him to demonstrate his mastery of life a little closer to home. At my sickbed. I am accustomed to Matthew’s bedside manner, so when I arrived home on a rainy wintry night with unusually heightened color in my cheeks and greeted him with a croak, I knew what was coming. He leapt up from his writing desk and put a cool palm to my forehead, shaking his head and muttering. “You’re feverish,” he diagnosed. “Get to bed. Now.”

• From Best Erotic Romance

  She couldn’t look away, daring to believe. Paul got her naked. Robin missed how he accomplished the feat while in her euphoric postclimax haze, but she was grateful for the result. She lay curled against his side, her legs tangled with his. Her head lay on his chest and her fingertips tracing her name imprinted in his skin. “I was going to fuck you and walk out,” she confessed. “I caught that.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “I wouldn’t have let you leave. I would’ve followed you with my junk hanging out if I had to and hauled you back.” She lifted her head. “Like I’d ever let other women get an eyeful of you.” Paul smiled. “I’m all yours, honey. Flaws, baggage, and all.” Her hand stilled and settled over his heart. “You’re not ready, Paul. I wish you were.” “The counselor I’ve been talking to says otherwise.” Robin’s heartbeat skipped. “Counselor?” He nodded. “I’ll need to keep seeing him for a while, but I know enough about what losing Curt did to me to have my head on straight again.” Her heart ached for the tragedy he’d suffered. She couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to outlive your child. His fingers linked with hers. “I should have talked to someone a lot sooner, most especially after I started seeing you. It wasn’t fair to you that I didn’t.” “You can’t take all the blame,” she said softly. “When we started out, our arrangement was perfect for me, too. No strings, hot sex, and a guy who listened to me ramble on about jewelry. Things were fine until I changed my expectations.” He reached over with his free hand and opened the nightstand drawer. She thought he might be reaching for a condom, and her pulse quickened. Then a dark blue velvet box appeared in her line of vision, and her heart stopped altogether. Paul set the box on his washboard abs and took a deep breath. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to buy an engagement ring for a jewelry designer who’s kicked your ass to the curb?” Unable to help herself, she reached for the box. “Wait,” he said, staying her. “Going back to the list of things I need from you...I need you to marry me, Robin. The next time we leave this room, I want us to come back to it as man and wife. I promise you’ll have the wedding of your dreams, with our friends and family and doves and swans and whatever the hell you want, but I’d really like the vows now—today—and getting married here in Vegas feels like it fits us.” Us.

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  was lazy, and he had believed it, but now he was not so sure. Each day represented a challenge to find more work and put food on the table. He was succeeding in this. He was not some miserable worm who needed a beating. Besides, the work was a way to get outside himself and immerse his mind in the problems of his students. The books he read took him far away from Taganrog and filled him with interesting thoughts that lingered in his mind for entire days. Taganrog itself was not so bad. Each shop, each house contained the oddest characters, supplying him endless material for stories. And that corner of the room—that was his kingdom. Far from feeling trapped, he now felt liberated. What had actually changed? Certainly not his circumstances, or Taganrog, or the corner of the room. What had changed was his attitude, which opened him up to new experiences and possibilities. Once he felt this, he wanted to take it further. The greatest remaining impediment to this sense of freedom was his father. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t seem to get rid of deep feelings of bitterness. It was as if he could still feel the beatings and hear the endless pointed criticisms. As a last resort, he tried to analyze his father as if he were a character in a story. This led him to think about his father’s father and all the generations of Chekhovs. As he considered his father’s erratic nature and his wild imagination, he could understand how he must have felt trapped by his circumstances, and why he turned to drinking and tyrannizing the family. He was helpless, more a victim than an oppressor. This understanding of his father laid the groundwork for the sudden rush of unconditional love he felt one day for his parents. As he glowed with this new emotion, he finally felt completely liberated from resentments and anger. The negative emotions from the past had finally fallen away from him. His mind could now be completely open. The sensation was so exhilarating that he had to share it with his siblings and free them as well. What had brought Chekhov to this point was the crisis he had faced when left alone at such a young age. He experienced another such crisis some thirteen years later, when he became depressed about the pettiness of his fellow writers. His solution was to reproduce what had happened in Taganrog, but in reverse—he would be the one to abandon others and force himself to be alone and vulnerable. In this way he could reexperience the freedom and empathy he had felt in Taganrog. The early death sentence from tuberculosis was the last crisis. He would let go of his fear of death, and the bitter feelings that came with having his life cut short, by continuing to live at full tilt. This final and ultimate freedom gave him

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Whether it was necessary for Christ to suffer for the deliverance of the human race?Objection 1: It would seem that it was not necessary for Christ to suffer for the deliverance of the human race. For the human race could not be delivered except by God, according to Is. 45:21: “Am not I the Lord, and there is no God else besides Me? A just God and a Saviour, there is none besides Me.” But no necessity can compel God, for this would be repugnant to His omnipotence. Therefore it was not necessary for Christ to suffer. Objection 2: Further, what is necessary is opposed to what is voluntary. But Christ suffered of His own will; for it is written (Is. 53:7): “He was offered because it was His own will.” Therefore it was not necessary for Him to suffer. Objection 3: Further, as is written (Ps. 24:10): “All the ways of the Lord are mercy and truth.” But it does not seem necessary that He should suffer on the part of the Divine mercy, which, as it bestows gifts freely, so it appears to condone debts without satisfaction: nor, again, on the part of Divine justice, according to which man had deserved everlasting condemnation. Therefore it does not seem necessary that Christ should have suffered for man’s deliverance. Objection 4: Further, the angelic nature is more excellent than the human, as appears from Dionysius (Div. Nom. iv). But Christ did not suffer to repair the angelic nature which had sinned. Therefore, apparently, neither was it necessary for Him to suffer for the salvation of the human race. On the contrary, It is written (Jn. 3:14): “As Moses lifted up the serpent in the desert, so must the Son of man be lifted up, that whosoever believeth in Him may not perish, but may have life everlasting.”

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Objection 4: Further, “What things soever were written,” especially of Christ, “were written for our learning,” according to Rom. 15:4. But some of the things written in the Gospels touching Christ’s burial in no wise seem to pertain to our instruction—as that He was buried “in a garden . . .” in a tomb which was not His own, which was “new,” and “hewed out in a rock.” Therefore the manner of Christ’s burial was not becoming. On the contrary, It is written (Is. 11:10): “And His sepulchre shall be glorious.” I answer that, The manner of Christ’s burial is shown to be seemly in three respects. First, to confirm faith in His death and resurrection. Secondly, to commend the devotion of those who gave Him burial. Hence Augustine says (De Civ. Dei i): “The Gospel mentions as praiseworthy the deed of those who received His body from the cross, and with due care and reverence wrapped it up and buried it.” Thirdly, as to the mystery whereby those are molded who “are buried together with Christ into death” (Rom. 6:4). Reply to Objection 1: With regard to Christ’s death, His patience and constancy in enduring death are commended, and all the more that His death was the more despicable: but in His honorable burial we can see the power of the dying Man, who, even in death, frustrated the intent of His murderers, and was buried with honor: and thereby is foreshadowed the devotion of the faithful who in the time to come were to serve the dead Christ. Reply to Objection 2: On that expression of the Evangelist (Jn. 19:40) that they buried Him “as the manner of the Jews is to bury,” Augustine says (Tract. in Joan. cxx): “He admonishes us that in offices of this kind which are rendered to the dead, the custom of each nation should be observed.” Now it was the custom of this people to anoint bodies with various spices in order the longer to preserve them from corruption [*Cf. Catena Aurea in Joan. xix]. Accordingly it is said in De Doctr. Christ. iii that “in all such things, it is not the use thereof, but the luxury of the user that is at fault”; and, farther on: “what in other persons is frequently criminal, in a divine or prophetic person is a sign of something great.” For myrrh and aloes by their bitterness denote penance, by which man keeps Christ within himself without the corruption of sin; while the odor of the ointments expresses good report.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  I answer that, Good and evil are the object of the concupiscible faculty. Now good naturally precedes evil; since evil is privation of good. Wherefore all the passions, the object of which is good, are naturally before those, the object of which is evil—that is to say, each precedes its contrary passion: because the quest of a good is the reason for shunning the opposite evil. Now good has the aspect of an end, and the end is indeed first in the order of intention, but last in the order of execution. Consequently the order of the concupiscible passions can be considered either in the order of intention or in the order of execution. In the order of execution, the first place belongs to that which takes place first in the thing that tends to the end. Now it is evident that whatever tends to an end, has, in the first place, an aptitude or proportion to that end, for nothing tends to a disproportionate end; secondly, it is moved to that end; thirdly, it rests in the end, after having attained it. And this very aptitude or proportion of the appetite to good is love, which is complacency in good; while movement towards good is desire or concupiscence; and rest in good is joy or pleasure. Accordingly in this order, love precedes desire, and desire precedes pleasure. But in the order of intention, it is the reverse: because the pleasure intended causes desire and love. For pleasure is the enjoyment of the good, which enjoyment is, in a way, the end, just as the good itself is, as stated above ([1225]Q[11], A[3], ad 3). Reply to Objection 1: We name a thing as we understand it, for “words are signs of thoughts,” as the Philosopher states (Peri Herm. i, 1). Now in most cases we know a cause by its effect. But the effect of love, when the beloved object is possessed, is pleasure: when it is not possessed, it is desire or concupiscence: and, as Augustine says (De Trin. x, 12), “we are more sensible to love, when we lack that which we love.” Consequently of all the concupiscible passions, concupiscence is felt most; and for this reason the power is named after it. Reply to Objection 2: The union of lover and beloved is twofold. There is real union, consisting in the conjunction of one with the other. This union belongs to joy or pleasure, which follows desire. There is also an affective union, consisting in an aptitude or proportion, in so far as one thing, from the very fact of its having an aptitude for and an inclination to another, partakes of it: and love betokens such a union. This union precedes the movement of desire. Reply to Objection 3: Pleasure causes love, in so far as it precedes love in the order of intention.