Long dark lashes and black curly hair - he had it all.
She felt the hair rising on the back of her neck.
He pushed the hair from her neck and his lips sizzled a hot trail in its wake.
He has big brown eyes and long golden hair and pretty round cheeks.
She lifted the hair off her neck and sighed as she paused in the shade of a huge oak tree.
As the Princess held the white piglet in her arms and stroked its soft hair she said: Let Eureka out of the cage, for she is no longer a prisoner, but our good friend.
A lock of mousy blonde hair covered her left eye.
His face was clean shaven, but his dark curly hair was thick and unruly.
Walking so fast that it created a breeze that caught the loose hair hanging down her back, she turned her ankle slipping off her sandals.
The hair on her head was thick.
Instead of braids, she brushed her hair into a ponytail.
Matthew had thick black hair, but Natalie's was blonde.
Don't forget the mess of red hair and freckles.
I told her that her hair was brown, and she asked, "Is brown very pretty?"
"Well now, isn't she a fool!" shouted the prince, pushing the book aside and turning sharply away; but rising immediately, he paced up and down, lightly touched his daughter's hair and sat down again.
Her eyes are very big and blue, and her cheeks are soft and round and rosy and her hair is very bright and golden.
Her dark hair was pulled back severely from a narrow face.
Signs were hung out on all sides to allure him; some to catch him by the appetite, as the tavern and victualling cellar; some by the fancy, as the dry goods store and the jeweller's; and others by the hair or the feet or the skirts, as the barber, the shoemaker, or the tailor.
He brushed a strand of hair from her face and stroked her cheek.
This morning I took a bath, and when teacher came upstairs to comb my hair she told me some very sad news which made me unhappy all day.
He was dressed plainly, and, with his reddish-brown hair and mud-bespattered face, looked like a hard- working countryman just in from the backwoods.
"Demosthenes, I know thee by the pebble thou secretest in thy golden mouth!" said Bilibin, and the mop of hair on his head moved with satisfaction.
Did he have reddish-brown hair, and did he ride a gray horse?
Auburn hair - and you barely have enough freckles for anyone to notice.
He stood and whistled softly, his gaze taking in her dress and hair appreciatively.
She combed Destiny's hair into pig tails, and then on impulse, did the same with hers.
Then he took off his nightcap, combed his hair over his temples, and donned his cap.
He looked to be about her age and his blond hair was neatly combed into a fashionable style.
Her jet black hair was swept up gracefully into a plaited crown.
With consummate skill he has set his trap with a hair spring to catch comfort and independence, and then, as he turned away, got his own leg into it.
The old prince always dressed in old-fashioned style, wearing an antique coat and powdered hair; and when Prince Andrew entered his father's dressing room (not with the contemptuous look and manner he wore in drawing rooms, but with the animated face with which he talked to Pierre), the old man was sitting on a large leather-covered chair, wrapped in a powdering mantle, entrusting his head to Tikhon.
Instinctively her fingers affirmed her hair was in order for the mug shot.
The beautiful creature passed her hands over her eyes an instant, tucked in a stray lock of hair that had become disarranged, and after a look around the garden made those present a gracious bow and said, in a sweet but even toned voice:
The angry eldest princess, with the long waist and hair plastered down like a doll's, had come into Pierre's room after the funeral.
Felipa pulled the hair up and used combs with amethyst jewels on them, giving the impression of long hair.
The handsome boy adjutant with the long hair sighed deeply without removing his hand from his hat and galloped back to where men were being slaughtered.
Tucking a wayward strand of curly brown hair back into her bun, she replaced her hat and wrapped the lead lines around the wagon break.
"Ah, madam, it is a great sacrament," replied the priest, passing his hand over the thin grizzled strands of hair combed back across his bald head.
To get her to do the simplest thing, such as combing her hair or washing her hands or buttoning her boots, it was necessary to use force, and, of course, a distressing scene followed.
He ducked under the water and came up, wiping the water from his eyes and pushing his hair back.
She ripped the flower from her hair and slung it in the dust.
The golden brown skin and black hair reminded her of the conversation at Thanksgiving.
Giddon eyed her long hair thoughtfully, but said nothing.
He stroked her hair and then patted her awkwardly on the back of her neck.
Her arms stole around his neck and she ran trembling fingers through the soft hair on the back of his head.
After the play Miss Sullivan took me to see him behind the scenes, and I felt of his curious garb and his flowing hair and beard.
I got up, washed my face and hands, combed my hair, picked three dew violets for Teacher and ate my breakfast.
She will insist on having her hair put in curl papers when she is so sleepy she can scarcely stand.
She stroked his hair and kissed his forehead, while tears coursed down her cheeks as well.
She straightened her hair and collected her thoughts before opening the door.
When I saw you standing there in the road, so beautiful, your hair flowing around you like morning mist, I couldn't let you walk away.
"Who is that man?" asked Gautama, "and why is his face so pinched and his hair so white?
She brushed the hair back over her shoulders.
Dolokhov was of medium height, with curly hair and light-blue eyes.
Yeah, my nose is too big and my face is full of freckles, but my hair looks great.
Except for my hands and hair I was not badly burned.
Her hair was drawn back severely into a bun and she had black eyes that could render a lie detector machine obsolete.
Laughing softly at the matching shadows of her hair and skirt, she imagined it was a Christmas tree.
Under the hat, her hair was filthy and matted.
His red shock of hair stood up like a flame as he glared down at her.
"Did you what?" he asked, running fingers through his hair to straighten it.
Alex stroked her hair and spoke to her softly, encouraging her to close her eyes and relax.
Of course, Alex didn't have any gray hair yet, and his lips were fuller - more defined.
Refreshed from the inside out, she dressed and combed her hair with her fingers.
One of the next arrivals was a stout, heavily built young man with close-cropped hair, spectacles, the light-colored breeches fashionable at that time, a very high ruffle, and a brown dress coat.
He ran a hand through his hair and clamped his hat on his head.
The boys wore long hair and striped sweaters and yelled their college yell every other step they took, to the great satisfaction of the populace, which was glad to have this evidence that their lungs were in good condition.
It was not the dress, but the face and whole figure of Princess Mary that was not pretty, but neither Mademoiselle Bourienne nor the little princess felt this; they still thought that if a blue ribbon were placed in the hair, the hair combed up, and the blue scarf arranged lower on the best maroon dress, and so on, all would be well.
Some of this dust was kneaded by the feet and wheels, while the rest rose and hung like a cloud over the troops, settling in eyes, ears, hair, and nostrils, and worst of all in the lungs of the men and beasts as they moved along that road.
Nicholas was short with curly hair and an open expression.
He stroked Carmen's hair.
Even the way she wore her hair, with those braids wrapped around the top of her head like a crown and the long shiny blond curls falling around her shoulders and down her back – she wasn't simply beautiful.
She ran a comb through her hair, deciding not to re-braid the top part.
She ran a hand through her hair.
"Here I thought you'd still be angry," he said, breathing in the scent of her hair.
Brady smoothed the hair away from her face.
Her hair whipped in the wind chilling his body.
He said nothing to her but looked at her forehead and hair, without looking at her eyes, with such contempt that the Frenchwoman blushed and went away without a word.
Alex ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck.
A cool breeze lifted the damp hair at her temples and ruffled the hem of her full skirt.
Unbraiding her hair she brushed it.
The tops of their heads had no hair, but were carved into a variety of fantastic shapes, some having a row of points or balls around the top, others designs resembling flowers or vegetables, and still others having squares that looked like waffles cut criss-cross on their heads.
One was black as ebony, with little bunches of fuzzy hair tied with shoestrings sticking out all over her head like corkscrews.
Ferapontov came out after her, but on seeing Alpatych adjusted his waistcoat, smoothed his hair, yawned, and followed Alpatych into the opposite room.
Part of her hair was still damp due to the volume.
On seeing the soldiers he was about to shout at them, but suddenly stopped and, clutching at his hair, burst into sobs and laughter:
Her dark shining hair was pulled back loosely with bejeweled combs and hung in loose curls down her back.
Her hair sparkled in the sunlight against the dark tan of his hand.
When I left the room, she was sweating until even her hair was wet.
He pulled her close, stroking her hair.
Pierre was beyond handsome with his brooding looks, wind-swept blond hair, black clothing, and trench coat.
Snow covered his hair, and his skin was cold.
He knelt, ruffling the snow from Darian's hair.
She put her hair down to hide the mark, horrified by the idea of belonging to the devil.
She hadn't thought to put her hair up; it blocked the name of her mate on her back.
Just under six feet tall, wide-shouldered and lean, Darkyn's youthful appearance was framed by short, dark hair.
Darkyn said Hell would do what she asked, so she willed her hair shorter and blonde.
The chilly ocean breeze made her dress move as if it was alive, and she swiped at the pink hair blinding her.
She willed her hair shorter and blonde once again, knowing he'd already read her mind and seen the reason why she changed her hair.
He was neither ancient nor ugly, with familiar dark eyes and hair and roughly hewn features.
Unlike Darkyn, whose hair was short, Zamon's long hair was captured in a braid.
He brushed a mop of stringy hair back from his face.
She possessed a head of coal black hair, tied in a single braid that extended below her waist, dark eyes, and a smile that lit up the room.
He had red hair and drove a blue truck – I think maybe an old Ford, but it might have been a Chevy.
She seems so taken with her, dressing like her and coloring her hair and all.
A gust of wind tore the hood from her head and snatched at her hair.
She swung around to see what had frightened the goat and the hair lifted on the back of her neck.
Despite his urgency, Mr. Tim was immaculately dressed, his silvered hair clashing with features rendered youthful by multiple advanced cosmetic surgeries.
Will keep him out of our hair.
Lana looked from him to Major Brady, with his darker features and hair.
She wondered if her hair was as messy as she suspected.
Brady nudged strands of her hair away from her eyes and cupped her face with his other hand.
Suddenly she jumped up onto a tub to be higher than he, embraced him so that both her slender bare arms clasped him above his neck, and, tossing back her hair, kissed him full on the lips.
That evening, proud of Dolokhov's proposal, her refusal, and her explanation with Nicholas, Sonya twirled about before she left home so that the maid could hardly get her hair plaited, and she was transparently radiant with impulsive joy.
To that question, "What for?" a simple answer was now always ready in his soul: "Because there is a God, that God without whose will not one hair falls from a man's head."
His long fingers traced her jaw to the hair on the back of her neck.
His piercing gaze lifted to her face and the hair rose on the back of her neck.
A cold chill crept up her spine, raising the hair on the back of her neck.
He ran fingers through his hair and stared at her through tortured eyes.
The sub bumped against a dock, and the door opened to reveal the man he assumed was Jim, dressed in his workout clothing with mussed hair.
"Is he tall and with reddish hair?" asked the doctor.
Natasha, throwing a clean pocket handkerchief over her hair and holding an end of it in each hand, went out into the street.
A beard and mustache covered the lower part of his face, and a tangle of hair, infested with lice, curled round his head like a cap.
And smoothing his hair he began to pace the room.
Karay, his hair bristling, and probably bruised or wounded, climbed with difficulty out of the gully.
At tea all sat in their accustomed places: Nicholas beside the stove at a small table where his tea was handed to him; Milka, the old gray borzoi bitch (daughter of the first Milka), with a quite gray face and large black eyes that seemed more prominent than ever, lay on the armchair beside him; Denisov, whose curly hair, mustache, and whiskers had turned half gray, sat beside countess Mary with his general's tunic unbuttoned; Pierre sat between his wife and the old countess.
A cold wind tore at her hair as she stomped across the courtyard and out to the chicken coup.
She dressed hurriedly in the clothes Sarah had loaned her and ran fingers through her hair, wishing she had a comb.
She rose and smoothed her hair, which was as usual so extremely smooth that it seemed to be made of one piece with her head and covered with varnish.
Look at those big gray eyes and that beautiful red hair!
"I know," he said with a sigh, running fingers through his hair.
"Someone must have spiked my punch," he said, running a hand through his hair.
He ran a hand through his hair.
The braids had to be untangled in order to shampoo the mud from her hair.
Was he that anxious to get her out of his hair?
She felt an unwelcome rush of excitement and reached to push his hand from her hair.
He looked relieved and reached up, pulling a leaf from her hair.
She kneeled beside her, stroking the soft curly hair.
His face turned scarlet and he looked away, running a hand through his hair.
One thing she had plenty of was hair.
As they climbed out of the car, a screen door squealed on the front porch and a short stocky man emerged, running a hand through graying hair.
Nowadays they cart them off to some baby sitter they hardly know, just to get the kids out of their hair.
She had large brown eyes with thick black lashes and matching hair that was stacked becomingly on top of her head.
She wrinkled her nose at him as she brushed by and he tugged playfully at her hair.
She quirked a brow and made an exaggerated point of putting her hair back in order, tossing her head pertly and smiling up at him.
He reached out and brushed her hair away from her face.
You're even getting hair in your ears.
Lifting the hair off the back of her neck, he applied the cool towel.
He rubbed his forehead and ran his fingers though his hair until it stood on end.
And then cool hands were pulling her hair back and turning on the water.
He brushed the hair back from her face and stroked her cheek gently.
At her nod he stroked her hair.
He returned to the kitchen after a few minutes in dry clothes, his hair freshly combed.
His fingers caressed her palm warmly and then he brushed the hair away from her cheek.
He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
You want me to get out of your hair?
His hand stroked her hair.
Zach jerked suddenly, knocking his cap off and exposing a scalp full of red hair.
The left side of Howie's head was absent hair and a series of three dark scars were visible.
But please, ditch that awful hair piece.
Raw fingers plucked at his lengthening hair, his hair piece long since dumped.
"He'd just shave his mustache off, maybe dye his hair and lose weight," Betsy grumbled.
She was taller than Howie but rail thin and possessed an engaging smile, long blond hair and arresting blue eyes.
Maybe he's waiting to see if we buy her story or the tip that mentioned his facial hair.
Molly O'Malley was a pretty child, easily recognized as Julie's daughter with her long blond hair and beautiful eyes.
Next I was shown a photograph of a chubby cheeked man about forty, with short hair and a six o'clock shadow.
I could see my wife's nervousness; picking at her fingers, chewing her lip, twirling her hair.
The pretty young girl materialized, hair wet and smiling, dressed in a new bathrobe Betsy had purchased.
She twilled a lock of her hair, a sure sign of nervousness.
She tied her hair back and straightened the sweatshirt, somewhat relieved and disappointed it hadn't been Aaron at the door after all.
He ran his hands through his wet hair again.
She didn't see her brother's bleached hair and familiar face anywhere in the crowd.
She appeared as he remembered her the day of her murder: a ten-year-old with long blonde hair, striking blue eyes, and golden skin.
The man was in his prime with silver hair and dark eyes, a handsome face, and a body as muscular as Talon's.
Dusty relaxed and smoothed her hair back like he might a child's.
Her hair was damp at the roots but her long curls as bouncy and cheerful as she felt fatigued.
Her skin was caramel, her long brown hair falling in fat ringlets around her elfin features.
He wondered if Bianca's thick curls were as soft as Sofi or Jenn's hair.
The young man's face paled even more, until he was as white as his bleached hair.
He smoothed her hair from her face and rested his hand against the soft skin of her exposed thigh, admiring her body.
White hair, really big like Talon, these eyes that were darker than night, and when he talked, you could tell he didn't have a soul.
Her hair was free, the long, loose curls cascading down her shoulders and back.
She smelled of her own musk, strands of hair escaping her braid to tickle his face.
He froze on the bottom step, the hair at the back of his neck standing up.
A slight man with white hair, velvety green eyes, and a fatherly smile stood in the middle of the kitchen.
He looked at the slight Natural with dark hair and eyes who happened to have a doctorate in every type of science he could name.
His bleached hair was disheveled, his eyes squinting at the hall light.
An older, harmless-looking man with white hair and beautiful emerald eyes stood near the door, holding out a phone.
"You've turned into a man overnight," she said softly, ruffling his hair.
He stroked her hair.
The woman had Dusty's cold beauty, with feminine, chiseled features, long blonde hair and large blue eyes lined with silver.
He sat on the ottoman in front of her, reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ear.
She touched his face, then his hair, her cool power soothing him.
Her skin smelled of their lovemaking, her hair and the sheets of him.
At the husky female voice, Dusty turned to see Jenn fluff Jonny's hair as she passed.
Water, sand, and hair stung her vision and lungs.
He smoothed her hair from her face with a gloved hand.
"I owe you one for bringing me back from the dead," he whispered into her hair.
Damian's silver-white hair was braided down his back, his thick body causing him to sink two inches into the mud.
The hair on the back of his neck had been standing for the past mile he'd walked, only he wasn't entirely certain why.
Two men sat at the table, one with blond hair and the other like something out of a movie.
His hair was long and black, braided down his back.
Her hair was fiery red and curly, her frame tall and slender.
He'd nearly reached the end of the alley when the hair on the back of his neck rose like it did when a Watcher was present, only this was no Watcher.
The gangly youth before him had dyed his hair from platinum back to its natural color of black.
Whatever was in the house, it wasn't human, or the hair on the back of his neck wouldn't be standing on end.
Darian emerged from the kitchen, trailed by a small, shapely woman with dark, curly hair tied in a ponytail.
His long, sleek hair was tied in a tight braid, and despite the cold and wind he wore only a long-sleeved sweater that hugged the muscles of his arms and shoulders beneath a down vest.
The man looked like an ancient Greek prince with blond hair and chiseled features.
The unidentified male was seven feet tall, dark hair, with eyes that glowed like a vamp's.
The hair on the back of his neck rose, and he tensed, waiting for the creature to materialize.
She took it, his power moving through her and making the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.
It flipped her hair and swirled around her.
It kept her centered and prevented her from running for the hills tearing her hair out.
Her hair glowed as if it were on fire, and she floated, her slender form clad in simple leggings and a tunic.
Next to a small toiletry bag was a brush, hair clip, and scrunchie.
A shapely woman with curly dark brown hair leaned against the railing of a paddock between the house and a large outer building.
She rubbed its forehead and leaned forward to touch its neck, marveling at how soft its hair was.
Absorbed by the horse, she didn't feel the hair on the back of her neck rise.
Sofia sighed and raked a hand through her hair.
His frame was slight, his hair silvered, his smile fatherly.
Unlike the others dressed for a white tie event, he was dressed in leather pants with a tight black Pearl Jam T-shirt, his hair braided, a chain from his spiked belt to his wallet, and heavy black boots.
He was as large as the others, with olive skin, long white-blond hair, and golden eyes the unusual color of honey.
With her large, two-toned eyes, flawless skin, and long, straw-colored hair, she resembled a doll.
His hair was silver, his body broad-shouldered and muscular.
His visitor wore a T-shirt and had hair the color of last night's sunset.
Rainy, a brooding Guardian with striking green eyes and a shock of dark hair, was his youngest station chief at a youthful two thousand years old.
She wore jeans and a T-shirt, and her blonde hair fanned out over a pillow.
A sheen of sweat coated his body, and his white-blond hair was back in a braid.
His hair was silvered.
The second was closer to Han's age with midnight hair and eyes.
The man in the executioner's hood left while Jilian, the man with midnight hair and eyes, approached.
He sat beside her, stroking her hair with one hand.
Exactly. You'll be holding her hair for her in the bathroom several times a day.
Damian's hair was mussed, his arms crossed.
A short time later, she sagged against the toilet, ignoring Pierre as he tsked and held her hair.
He smelled of soap, and his hair was wet.
His hair was sandy blond, his skin golden.
She pulled her hair into a simple French twist, the kind she wore to work, and applied her make-up carefully.
She still wore the gown, though strands of hair blinded her and she knew her pillow would be filled with makeup.
She fixed her hair while sliding on her shoes.
The hair on her arms and neck stood up.
He touched her hair.
His hair was brown rather than white-blond, his beautiful eyes deep set and large.
Uncertain how to explain things, she turned and swept her pink-dyed hair from her back to show him the mating mark.
He grinned at the attempt and grabbed her hair, yanking her head back to expose her neck.
He was as skinny as a stick, in his early twenties, and his long blond hair hadn't seen scissors since he began his transcontinental trek.
She ran her fingers through her hair.
Shouldn't there be hair and—skin?
It means he combs his hair like he's still wearing his football helmet.
Jennifer Radisson, in spite of her height and eye catching blonde hair, was quickly lost in the happy crowd that clogged the sidewalks.
Cynthia was standing at her bureau for a last minute comb of her hair.
He'd seen him jogging the highway, his long hair, now covered by a helmet, spilling behind him.
Her eyes were red, her red hair wet and disheveled, and she wore a flannel bathrobe and was barefoot.
Roger was a tiny man, no taller than Cynthia, with snowy white hair and sparkling blue eyes.
"I remember him—a redheaded guy, with long hair," Charlie said.
Dean rubbed his fingers through his hair and looked at his wife.
She flipped a few strands of her blond hair back in place.
He had white hair.
Dean combed his fingers through his hair.
Short, dark hair framed a face with plain features that showed the signs of a lifetime of battle.
Her skin was prickling the way it did when another deity used magic around her, the fair hair on her arms standing on end.
It was hard for him to remain detached around the beautiful woman with silver-white hair.
Her hands were rubbing her sweater absently, her silver-white hair long and loose, hanging almost to the small of her back.
Her fine hair tickled his chin.
Now I've got two brothers in my hair.
"Speaking of people in your hair, you may want to keep an eye out for any pesky demons," Gabriel said.
Deidre hadn't tried to dye her hair pink or hide the fact she was different.
It doesn't matter what color your hair is or what Darkyn did to you.
Tying her hair back, she pulled off her socks, took a deep breath and dove into the frigid lake.
His dark hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck.
Her fingers ran through his short hair.
He paused and brushed wet hair from her face with one hand, scouring her features.
Her hair was still pink and in a loose bun on the top of her head.
He was dressed as if he'd just come from some club, all in leather with his blond hair in a braid.
The ocean breeze made her dress move as if it was alive, and her pink hair swept across her features.
Her hair was mussed.
Still wearing the garb of Hell, Darkyn's mate was sporting fangs with her pink hair and a heavy sultriness that made Deidre look twice.
A teenage girl with a scarred face framed by short dark hair and tiny fangs marking her as a demoness trailed her.
Harmony was tall and willowy with red hair and green eyes.
Running a hand through his hair in a way that Carmen had grown to recognize as a nervous habit, he addressed Lori in a tone that was both stern and conversational.
Maybe it was the wild red hair.
The idea raised hair on the back of her neck.
She glanced at him and he looked away running a hand through his hair.
Violet eyes and blond hair - what a combination.
In spite of her extra pounds and gray hair, it was hard to believe Mums was in her late 60's.
He had red hair.
A man was waiting for me at the old house - a man with red hair.
Carmen dreamed all night about being chased by a dog with red hair.
He had blue eyes like Katie, and light colored hair.
His mother had dark hair and eyes...
He is clean shaven and his hair is graying at the temples.
Brushing her hair until it shined, she put her clothes on over the new underwear and headed for the kitchen to start supper.
While he was in the bathroom she stripped down to the black underwear and gave her hair another brushing.
Then he ran both hands through his hair.
She caught her reflection in the mirror and admired her hair.
His brown hair was tousled from the ocean breeze, and he was dressed in jeans and a loose shirt fastened across the golden skin of his chest by one button.
Death was almost seven feet tall, built more solid than a tree trunk with hair and eyes darker than a moonless night.
Wind tossed her hair, and she tied it up in a bun.
His features were partially illuminated by the moonlight: a chiseled jaw and cheekbones, dark eyes and neatly trimmed, dark hair.
Her face was stiff and blue while her hair was hot pink.
Your face may be blue and your hair pink, but I don't see you doing anything messy, like taking a shotgun to the head.
He found a strange woman with pink hair and a blue face, sprawled on the beach, staring at the sky with a childlike fascination.
A towel was wrapped around her and her pink hair clipped on top of her head.
Though her hair was pink, there was no mistaking the delicate facial features, porcelain skin and large eyes of the woman who tormented him his entire life then dumped the underworld on him.
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.
I mean, the deity we knew would never dye her hair the color of a water sprite's.
His eyes were white then black then changed from every color in between, his brown hair of medium length and wavy, ruffled by the sea breeze.
She turned and pulled her hair aside to show him the tattoo once again.
The man in her bedroom was kind of creepy: tall and lean with blond hair and eyes so dark, she couldn't see his pupils.
"I like your hair," he said, looking her over.
Wind whipped up the building and tossed her hair.
A stunning man with a large smile dressed in white stood a few feet away, his brown hair ruffled by the sea breeze.
Taking one arm gently, he turned her back to him and pushed her hair away to read the tattoo.
The hair on the back of her neck rose, and she glanced around.
"I like your hair," one of the kids said, approaching.
One of the girls grabbed her hand to pull her to the blankets where they'd been sitting while another one tugged at a loose lock of her hair.
The kids seemed entranced by her pink hair.
He smoothed the hair from the side of her face.
Definitely some advice from someone who understood make-up better and a real hair stylist who could figure out how to un-pink hair.
She reached up to her head, surprised it wasn't bandaged and she still had all her hair.
"What have you done to my hair?" the female voice asked.
The only difference was her hair and the eyes that turned from white to black to every color in between.
At close to seven feet with eyes and hair blacker than night and a permanent scowl, he was what most expected Death to look like.
The kid was adorable, with dark eyes and hair, sun-kissed skin, and a round face.
He looked like death with his dark hair and cold eyes, his panther-like physique, and gloved hands.
He stood sleepy and frowning, dark hair tousled.
His white-silver hair was long and clasped at his neck, his bronzed face and forest- green eyes displaying no emotion.
There were dark circles beneath her light eyes, her hair was in a half-assed lumpy ponytail, and her face was so pale and drawn, she looked ill.
Andre was dressed in cashmere and wool, his hair kept short and neat, his loafers more expensive than Kris's conference room had cost to build.
Most of his face was hidden behind the mask, but his silver-white hair was too familiar to be anyone else's.
He was built like Kris with dark hair.
Her dark, curly hair was matted with blood, her features pale.
The voice sounded like the sultry growl of a woman, but it had short hair and no breasts.
He smoothed out her hair and finally rested a feathery hand on her eyes, easing her into a restless sleep that didn't last long enough.
She braided her hair to keep the stiff sea breeze from tossing curls in her face and squinted upward again.
His hair was dark, his eyes liquid silver, his complexion olive and unshaven.
Sweating already from the effort, she braided her hair to keep it out of her face and then leaned her full weight on the rope.
She dropped the hair she'd been holding up and wrapped the towel around her tightly.
Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, her hair in a half-assed braid.
Rhyn ignored his brother as the lean man paced and pulled at his hair in frustrated silence.
His hair was tied back, his jaw and chin scruffy from a couple days' growth of hair.
Kris's white hair, fair complexion, and amber eyes were at odds with Rhyn's darkness and glowing pewter gaze.
Both were outwardly calm, though tense enough that a hair landing on their arms would make them snap.
She shut off the shower and wrung out her hair, then wrapped herself in the thick towel.
She tossed her hair over one shoulder and walked to him, pushing him toward the door.
Left with her towel and her toiletries, she took her time applying the thick moisturizer and lotion over her entire body, then finished by combing through her hair.
Most wore trendy boots and coats, sat in designer jeans and sweaters worth a month of her salary, and wore make- up that coordinated perfectly with their expensive clothing and hair.
A touch of coldness made the hair on the back of her neck rise, and she sat up, fearful Kris or Sasha had come for her.
Rhyn emerged from the shadows near the window, dressed in black with his hair tied back.
He smoothed her hair and rested his chin on her head.
Her skin was scrubbed clean, her dark hair wet.
He pulled away from her and pushed her hair from her face.
Snow fell in lazy, fat flakes, sticking to his clothes and hair.
Her white hair and snowy skin glowed in the dim chamber.
His bright features turned pink beneath his wire-rimmed glasses and straw-colored hair.
Taken aback by his anger, she watched him run a hand through his hair in an unusual sign of agitation.