Six Sentence Sunday 8-28-11 Hurricane Irene Edition

“Where exactly does it hurt?”

"Like a freakin' head vise," he said, massaging his temples and shrugging shoulders stiff with tension. Magnificent shoulders that filled out the black evening jacket like the steel and titanium span bridging Nuevos Mares to mainland New Mycenae.

 “Take it off,” Mia instructed.

  

 “Excuse me?” Green-gray eyes probed hers with the merest hint of impending storm at sea -- and Mia wasn't about to press her luck and push his mood past nor'easter.

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Six Sentence Sunday 8/21/2011

           
             Mia tapped the computer to call up Surfer Dude's medical history. Too many entries she could not access at her clearance level. He might be Lord of the Deep, but a spurt of unease hit her gut like a bad clam.

          “When was your last blood test?”
          “Maybe six months ago,” he said and held up a hand to cut off her sputter. "Haven't been with a nymph since."

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Six Sentence Sunday 8/14/11

     Mia forced back the heat rising to her cheeks by adopting an air of cool professionalism as she stood up and reclaimed the stool behind the reception desk -- indicating with a flick of her hand that Surfer Dude's place was on the other side of it.

      He rose to his full height and nearly took her breath away.

      Leaping lobsters.

      Well over six feet of prime, masculine real estate.

      When he glanced down at her, her toes curled within the chunky fleece-lined boots she’d taken from Letisha’s locker.

      She adjusted her eyeglasses with scholarly deliberation and then picked up a digitex plasma clipboard as if it were a shield.

      "What seems to be the problem?" she asked.

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Six Sentence Sunday 8/7/11

Taking a break from Surfer Dude and Mia this week for a little more Cole.

        Cole stared at the words “Property of the FBI” stenciled in peeling letters across Lara's chest and suddenly felt a twinge of… envy? He hated the idea of Lara as anyone’s “property.” Least of all the bureau’s.  The flare of possessiveness made him uneasy and his scowl deepened. This was a new low in the annals of sexual depravity, he thought. Jealous of his own fucking sweatshirt. 

                   
                                         
                                                                                                          

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