Quotes About Heat

Alex's gaze bore her through like an icicle. He was tempted to shove her back into the ornate carriage and tell the driver to head straight for London. Or a far hotter place.

Leo stared back at her with a mixture of wary amusement and growing heat. He could no longer deny that he found nothing in the world more entertaining than talking to her. Or just being near her. Cantankerous, stubborn fascinating creature... completely unlike his past lovers. And at times like this, she had all the cuddlesome appeal of a feral hedgehog. But she challenged him, met him as an equal, in a way that no other woman ever had. He wanted her beyond reason.

Yes, she, Claire Parks, who by all rights should have been dead these many years, her bleached bones rotting in the cold ground, was turned on. Waves of heat rolled through her body in liquid surges. The heat became almost incandescent in her breasts and in her loins, but her entire body burned and tingled with heat and life.

His eyes hold mine and the depth of power and heat I find there are as limitless as what he makes me feel.

Our laughter dissolves into a crackling current that steals my breath away. Our eyes lock, and heat pools low in my belly.

My story begins on a sweltering August night, in a place I will never set eyes upon. The room takes life only in my imaginings. It is large most days when I conjure it. The walls are white and clean,

medium heat. Stir constantly until mixture boils. Continue to cook and stir for 1 minute after mixture starts boiling. Stir in the milk. Heat, but do not boil. Remove from heat and add

a bruise, blue in the muscle, you impinge upon me. As bone hugs the ache home, so I'm vexed to love you, your body the shape of returns, your hair a torso of light, your heat I must have, your opening I'd eat, each moment of that soft-finned fruit, inverted fountain in which I don't see me.

You know you're from Arizona when you drive two miles around a parking lot looking for a shady place — even in the dead of winter.

Damned mating heat. Lawe is threatening to join a monastery and Rule's threatening to quit. Why don't you two try to show the younger guys it can be fun instead of taking a note out of everyone else's books and letting it drive you insane? -Jonas

If you know anything about summer in Louisiana you know that the heat, moist and heavy, presses down on the pavement until it sends up shimmering mirages, and lovers, looking for a little noontime solace, stick to one another in high-ceilinged bedrooms.

Even now the wicked spirit lurked there, a glint of mischief in the darkness of heat and desire. It made her smile, and she brought her smile to his mouth and gave it to him. "Miss you," she whispered. "So much.

Broccoli has almost as much calcium as milk," she told him, amused. "It gives you strong bones." His gaze slid to hers, and she felt her face heat again. He had strong bones. And as they both knew, a few minutes ago, he'd had one particularly strong boner to boot. But mercifully he let the comment go.

And good Lord, the way he looks at you is contributing to global warming

I'm all sweaty," she said again, even as her hands fisted in his hair. "That's okay," he said silkily, his mouth brushing her temple. "We're going to get even more so.

It gets too hot in there after a long test," he told Ehren. "The air gets all squishy." "It's called humidity, Tavi," Ehren said. "I haven't slept in almost two days. It's squishy.

There's no cold like the cold of dark water. It's . . . almost a predator, a living thing, and you can feel it ripping the heat out of you the instant you're immersed in it.

It was a strange drive, a sense that you could see the June heat lifting off the earth, the greenness darkening as the twilight waned. Far off the west there were thunderheads that caught the sun we could no longer see and made the air yellowish. We took a gravel road norh that dead-ended at the Niobrara River, the wind around the speeding car too loud for talk.

so hot that August comes on not like a month but like an affliction;

There is an airport in Hermosillo, and Hermosillo is only eighty-five miles about Guaymas, but to fly is to miss the point. The point is to become disoriented, shriven, by the heat and the deceptive perspectives and the oppressive sense of carrion. The road shimmers. The eyes want to close.

It is three o'clock on a Sunday afternoon and 105° and the air so thick with smog that the dusty palm trees loom up with a sudden and rather attractive mystery.

August comes on not like a month but like an affliction.

pobra canícula, també la seva glòria és incerta...

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