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.
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.
His face was clean shaven, but his dark curly hair was thick and unruly.
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?"
The hair on her head was thick.
"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 dark hair was pulled back severely from a narrow face.
Her eyes are very big and blue, and her cheeks are soft and round and rosy and her hair is very bright and golden.
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.
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.
He looked to be about her age and his blond hair was neatly combed into a fashionable style.
Instinctively her fingers affirmed her hair was in order for the mug shot.
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.
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:
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.
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.
"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.
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.
"Who is that man?" asked Gautama, "and why is his face so pinched and his hair so white?
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.
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.
She brushed the hair back over her shoulders.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Part of her hair was still damp due to the volume.
Unbraiding her hair she brushed it.
He ran a hand through his hair and clamped his hat on his head.
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.
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.
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 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.
"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.
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.
Karay, his hair bristling, and probably bruised or wounded, climbed with difficulty out of the gully.
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.
He pulled her close, stroking her hair.
She sighed and ran fingers through her tangled 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.
He pressed her back against the couch, and she yielded, her hands touching his face, his soft hair, his neck.
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.
Pierre was beyond handsome with his brooding looks, wind-swept blond hair, black clothing, and trench coat.
"We should've seen this coming," he said, running his fingers through his hair.
His hair was brown rather than white-blond, his beautiful eyes deep set and large.
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.
Uncertain how to explain things, she turned and swept her pink-dyed hair from her back to show him the mating mark.
She hadn't thought to put her hair up; it blocked the name of her mate on her back.
He grinned at the attempt and grabbed her hair, yanking her head back to expose her neck.
Just under six feet tall, wide-shouldered and lean, Darkyn's youthful appearance was framed by short, dark hair.
Deidre whipped the door open, ignoring the sting of her wet hair against her shoulders.
Her pink hair was up in a bun that revealed the delicate cut of her elfin features.
He touched her hair and the sensitive skin around her neck.
Deidre felt Harmony's light touch as the death dealer brushed her hair aside.
He pushed her hair over one shoulder, and his hands dropped.
Deidre sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees, pink hair falling down around her.
With his hair mussed and his youthful features, he didn't look like the devil she knew him to be.
She checked her hair twice to make sure no part of her marks were obscured.
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 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 combed her fingers through her red hair, forgetting her pushed-back sunglasses and knocking them to the ground.
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.
He had red hair and drove a blue truck – I think maybe an old Ford, but it might have been a Chevy.
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.
Dressed all in black with his dark eyes and hair, he looked like a living shadow in the snow-covered world.
The woman.s face was hidden behind a mass of blonde hair, but he recognized the hot pink fingernails instantly.
He took a step closer, his blond hair and green eyes highlighting a slender face.
Ully emerged from the castle, hair mussed and dressed as if for a run.
She brushed hair away from the child.s face.
Gabriel frowned and ran a hand through his hair.
Hannah peeked from the bathroom door, her normally neat hair mussed and her eyes red from crying.
His white hair was streaked red with blood, his roving gaze tired.
The woman.s hair was red with blood, and her face clammy, but she appeared to be alive.
He gave her one last, long look and pushed her hair from her face.
Another form knelt beside him, this one with blond hair.
Kiera took her usual chair, and Romas ruffled her hair as he passed her.
She pushed blonde hair from her face.
Romas's people were fair skinned with light hair in varying shades of blond and red.
They were a handsome couple, the elegant woman's hair so fine and blonde it resembled white silk.
The man beside her had dark blond hair, serious brown eyes in a chiseled face, and a form as fit as his son's.
Behind the tent and its low, shallow steps was a small group of blond warriors surrounding a fifth man with darker skin and hair.
Long, dark hair was held in place at the base of his neck by a thick band of rose gold.
To them, she was an exotic little doll with her huge, gem-hued eyes, black hair, and toned hour-glass shape.
She was delicate, with long hair as dark as the night sky and large eyes that turned from blue to green to grey.
He knelt and brushed his woman's hair from her face.
Their upper bodies were tanned from exposure to the sun, their dark hair and eyes pinned on her.
Dressed in dark clothes with dark hair and olive skin with a dark stare, he was both riveting and frightening.
She straightened her hair and took a deep breath.
Dark hair was tucked into a tight knot at the base of his neck.
Another was hunch-backed and dressed in heavy robes despite the heat of the day, and a third man barely taller than her had white irises and silvering hair.
The man A'Ran fought was more than a foot taller, with light skin and black hair resembling one of the observers.
The men around her broke away, the two with dark hair joining A'Ran's opponent while the alabaster giant joined Ne'Rin.
A'Ran's eyes didn't leave her as she tied her hair in a knot at the base of her neck.
He was much older with a full head of silver hair, a similar shade of dark eyes, and a lean build.
Kiera pulled her hair into a ponytail, the back of her neck already damp with sweat.
She pulled her hair back in a scrunchie at the base of her neck, growing nervous once again.
Her long blonde hair, unfastened now, cascaded about her shoulders.
She was not pretty, but it was obvious, even to Dean's untrained eye, that her attire, hair do, makeup and whole mien did not evolve from the poor side of the tracks.
Her long auburn hair, while looking like a magazine ad, was not enough to elevate her that step above ordinary.
The little girl, hair streaming, offered encouragement while skating backwards, one leg lifted high and beckoning unsuccessfully for Dean to follow.
Her brilliant hair topped a freckled face and mile-wide smile.
Smiling, she ran the comb through her long hair.
It still has some hair on it!
She had pulled her long auburn hair high on her head, making her appear taller and almost regal in spite of the simple lines of the garment, and the plainness of her features.
She had loosened her hair and her long tresses fell in a wave, over her shoulder and across her small breasts.
Her dress was a half a step above the rag she used to polish the furniture and her hair had longer roots than Elmer Fudd's garden.
She was easily recognizable, her dark hair streaming in the breeze of her partially open window.
Her hair was done in a pug, a style not seen by Dean since his childhood.
He finger-combed his hair.
She was now a blonde, with her hair pinned high to the top of her head.
"I decided to change my hair color," she said.
"The white dress, blonde hair and her trying to emulate Annie Quincy...it frightens me," Cynthia said with a shudder.
Fred joined them from his room across the hall, a startled look on his face as he first noted the blonde hair.
Effie brushed back her hair and looked down at the pages.
Perhaps it was the blonde hair in the comb.
She reached up to unclasp her now-blonde hair, dropping it in a cascade about her shoulders.
We'll be out of your hair after the weekend.
She seems so taken with her, dressing like her and coloring her hair and all.
As it tolled its final gong, Edith Shipton appeared, in her late night attire— the Annie Quincy white dress—her hair loosened about her shoulders.
The Annie of Dean's dreams had long blonde hair but kept her head turned from him as she wrote in her journal.
He woke with a start, to find Edith Shipton, with only her long blonde hair covering the body that was snuggling against him!
The headlights of a slow moving car washed her white body, shadowing the curve of her buttocks, the roundness of her shoulder, painting her golden hair in its light.
Her long blonde hair, unfastened, cascaded about her shoulders.
"You could have slept with her," Cynthia answered, brushing back a hair and looking down.
She had long blonde hair like spun silk, a perfectly proportioned figure and blue-green eyes that made you feel you were looking into the sea.
She had eyes the deepest blue-green of the Celtic Sea and flaxen hair, which although matted and unkempt, promised to shine sun-kissed when groomed.
While stroking her hair, he spoke softly, "My name is Jackson Parrish, and as God is my witness, I will do all in my power to correct this situation."
He opened it to confirm his presumption regarding Sarah's hair.
His black hair appeared darker, thicker and shone as if coated in oil.
Jackson's hair was still wet and slicked back.
He had taken a lock of her hair between his fingers and gently twirled it.
He brushed her hair behind her ear.
Sarah removed the towel from her hair and shook out her locks.
Even wet, her hair cascaded in a full mane that framed her face beautifully.
She wore a flowing, diaphanous gown and had long, wavy, bronze colored hair.
I bet you could use a hair of the dog.
He thought briefly of his dream, but the hair color differed.
It was bronze in the dream, not red, and Freckle's hair was Irish red.
She appeared to be in her early thirties, had chestnut brown hair that fell in soft waves around her shoulders with thin streaks of what looked like fire running through it.
He had to resist the urge to bury his nose in her hair right then.
The hair on the back of his neck bristled and a shiver coursed down his spine.
Her eyes, her hair, those legs, the way she moved, her full, rich voice, but mostly that feeling when their eyes connected.
Both her scent and the fire running though her hair were unmistakable.
He ran both hands through his hair, exasperated.
A sheepish smile tugged at his lips as he raked his fingers through his hair.
He put a hand through his hair.
She set her mouth in a pout as Connor kissed her hair and led her out of the room.
Tucking her hair behind her ear, he murmured, "It's going to be a long week."
Burying his face in her hair, he inhaled deeply.
She made her way to him and put both hands in his hair.
Her hair fell softly around her face and she had an ethereal glow about her.
He brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck.
Jackson took a lock of her hair in his hand, carefully combing through all the colors for the bronze.
Has your hair ever been any other color?
Your hair is the most beautiful color I've ever seen.
Yes, I've never colored my hair.
He whispered into her hair, "It hurts me to leave you."
Jackson drew Elisabeth close, burying his nose in her hair.
Returning with the tray, he sat on the bed and brushed the hair off her forehead.
He put his arms around her, held her close and spoke into her hair.
"Yes" He dragged both hands through his hair.
He whispered into her hair, "I'm not sure I know how to live without you anymore."
After a prolonged pause, Jackson ran a hand through his hair and inhaled deeply.
She put one hand in his hair and combed her fingers through.
He pulled her close and spoke into her hair, You are denying me nothing.
Jackson ran his hand through her hair.
Samantha stood at 5'10 with caramel colored skin and curly jet-black hair that fell to the middle of her back.
Jackson ran his fingers through her hair, reflecting on the day and the new challenge they faced with her pack.
Jackson brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck.
He brushed her hair back.
Jackson could only see her hair, shortening, then nearly disappearing.
The fur was the exact color of Elisabeth's hair in his dream.
Running a hand through her hair, he contemplated how to explain all that had happened.
He pulled her close, murmuring into her hair, "Just so you know, I plan to take those ankle socks off with my teeth later."
Elisabeth and Jackson hugged her from either side and Jackson stroked her hair.
So, you mean in a million years we'll have gray hair and wrinkles?
She raked both hands through his hair.
A rhinestone barrette held her hair in a messy updo.
With a husky breath, she dropped to his lap, dove both hands into his hair and pulled his head back, planting a hard kiss on his lips.
Brushing the hair from his forehead, she asked, "Will you sit for me today?"
He held her tightly and stroked her hair.
She was shorter, yet had the same hair and moved with the same self-assured serenity as her daughter.
He brushed the hair off her face and turned his attention to his dessert.
Jackson didn't respond until she put her fingers in his hair.
Jackson embraced her and stroked her hair as she began to weep.
He nuzzled into her hair.
He brushed the hair off her face.
She placed one hand in his hair and the other on his chest.
The wind yanked Carmen's hair with icy fingers.
His black curly hair was cut short, every hair in place, and his angular jaws were freshly shaven.
She ran a hand through her hair.
Had she even combed her hair this morning?
Combing her hair, she was thankful for the natural curls that softly framed her face.
Alex tousled her hair as if she were a child.
Bore him completely out of her hair.
"You look a sight," he said, as he plucked a feather from her hair.
Alex held a chair for Lori, and Josh glanced uncomfortably at Carmen, running a hand through unruly red hair as he spoke under his breath in a sarcastic tone.
In her concern for his safety, she hadn't showered or changed clothes - or even combed her hair.
Of course, as long as she kept the hood up, he needn't know her hair was a mess.
He ran fingers through hair that didn't need straightening and brushed the straw from his pants.
He laughed and tousled her hair.
I've got to go comb my hair.
She ran a hand through her hair and moaned.
His lips were warm and inviting and the hair on the back of his neck was silky soft.
A gust of wind tore the hood from her head and snatched at her hair.
He tousled her hair.
I'm out of your hair - that's what you wanted, isn't it?
And I haven't shown up on your doorstep so often because I want you out of my hair.
She rubbed her cheek against the soft hair on his neck.
He ran fingers through his hair and stared at her through tortured eyes.
The word usage examples above have been gathered from various sources to reflect current and historial usage. They do not represent the opinions of YourDictionary.com.