His warm hands slid under her jacket, caressing her back through the thin T-shirt.
What does d-i-z-y-g-o-t-i-c twins mean?
There she changed into jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers.
His warm hands slid under her jacket and explored her back through her T-shirt.
"Don't have time, don't want the drama," he replied and swiped his T-shirt from the ground.
She wore a T-shirt and shorts that revealed her shapely, soft legs.
He wore only jeans and a dark T-shirt that stretched across his chest in all the right places and clung to bulging biceps.
He wore a snug T-shirt that displayed the roped forearms covered in tattoos.
Damian breathed in her scent, brutally aware that all that lay between her tight little body and him was a long T-shirt.
His visitor wore a T-shirt and had hair the color of last night's sunset.
Shaking her head, she pulled out a t-shirt and jeans, tossing them on the bed.
He wore jeans and a t-shirt that outlined his lean frame.
His back was to her, his arms crossed, and his t-shirt stretched tightly across his thick back and shoulders.
He wore jeans and a snug t-shirt that outlined his muscular frame.
They both loved many of the same things – riding, playing soccer on the front lawn, and fishing in the creek. t was nearly an hour before she returned with Destiny.
Curly brown hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she wore jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt that was tight over her swollen belly.
There were no trench coats outside of the underworld he'd consider wearing, but he pulled on a soft black t-shirt and strapped a few sheaths to his body.
He was muscular and tall, clothed in dark jeans, a snug grey T-shirt that hugged his biceps and stretched across his chest and back and then sagged at his slender torso and hips, and a round black medallion that fell from his T-shirt as he leaned over her.
With a sigh, she cleaned up the area as well as she could and pulled off the sweater, as it was warm enough in the study with her T-shirt.
Even when she knew she was dreaming, she couldn.t wake herself up or shake the fear that this time, Rhyn wasn.t going to come.
As the two stared each other down, she wasn.t sure who had the better chance of winning: Gabriel, an Immortal sworn to serve Death, or Darkyn, the leader of all the demons in Hell.
"This," said Princess Ozma, "is my friend Mr. H. M. Woggle-Bug, T. E., who assisted me one time when I was in great distress, and is now the Dean of the Royal College of Athletic Science."
"H. M.," said the Woggle-Bug, pompously, "means Highly Magnified; and T. E. means Thoroughly Educated.
On it is the recipe to make you, a recipe written in a language which has only four letters, commonly called G, A, T, and C—and is three billion letters long.
Historian Will Durant summarizes the situation thusly: [T]he concentration of wealth is natural and inevitable, and is periodically alleviated by violent or peaceable partial redistribution.
Earlier in the day we had had a tussle over the words "m-u-g" and "w-a-t-e-r."
Miss Sullivan had tried to impress it upon me that "m-u-g" is mug and that "w-a-t-e-r" is water, but I persisted in confounding the two.
That's Roman wormwood--that's pigweed--that's sorrel--that's piper-grass--have at him, chop him up, turn his roots upward to the sun, don't let him have a fibre in the shade, if you do he'll turn himself t' other side up and be as green as a leek in two days.
The old man began to sing, in the cracked voice of old age: Malbrook s'en va-t-en guerre.
The field marshal grows impatient and sets to work himself and finds letters from the Emperor to Count T., Prince V., and others.