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Laurence Sterne Excerpt: A girl came out of lawyer Royall's house, at the end of the one street of North Dormer, and stood on the doorstep. It was the beginning of a June afternoon. The springlike transparent sky shed a rain of silver sunshine on the roofs of the village, and on the pastures and larchwoods surrounding it. A little wind moved among the round white clouds on the shoulders of the hills, driving their shadows across the fields and down the grassy road that takes the name of street when it passes through North Dormer. The place lies high and in the open, and lacks the lavish shade of the more protected New England villages.
And a Vargas? Her sisters will never find out, and Jude can spot those flirty little Vargas tricks a mile away—no way would she fall for them. Then a betrayal changed her life, and knocked her dreams to the ground. So when things start looking up and she has another shot at her dreams, Hudson is equal parts hopeful and terrified. Of course, this is also the moment a cute, sweet guy walks into her life Because in a place where opportunities are fleeting, she knows this chance may very well be her last She used to be a good student, but she can't seem to keep it together anymore.
Her "boyfriend" isn't much of a boyfriend. And her mother refuses to discuss the fight that divided their family eight years ago. Falling apart, it seems, is a Hannaford tradition. Cry all his insecurities and fears and worries away. Then again, nothing has been worthy of his tears as of late. The bad days are just days that will go away at some point. The fear will fade, his worries will be dead and gone as time passes and his insecurities I gave it to you, remember?
He seems confused, head tilted to the side, eyebrows furrowed, cute. His eyes land on the three empty cups already littering the desk and he smiles to himself. Why are you showing up at my studio this late at night? Is that a good reason for me to be here this late at night? He never does and they both know it.
He looks amazing, Taehyung thinks, tired but handsome. Beautiful - yes that was a better description - he looks beautiful. His gaze follows Yoongi as he sits on his chair and takes off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes. I am doing nothing. Tae rolls his eyes at the over the top compliments but sighs to the feeling and closes his eyes, letting himself relax under long, cold fingers warming their way into his hair.
Letting me drink it up like honey. And this is it, this is what Taehyung craves more than anything when it comes to Yoongi. It is times like this that Yoongi is the most relaxed, captured by his younger lover, caged into a beautiful moment made of soft lips and long lashes, of brown eyes and tiny moles all over Tae's body.
Their lips become faster yet bold, crashing, mouths devouring hot breaths.
Tae feels at peace yet completely alarmed, lost in a sea of fire in which if he closes his eyes and dives in all he hears is a song made of Yoongi's name.
Taehyung does as such.
He lets himself feel. Be one with the voices in his mind, the ones that whisper to him how much he wants Yoongi. Not just now. Because the elder has him wrapped around his little finger and Taehyung is nothing but blessed that a man like the one under him is so in love with him. Tae forgets that Yoongi is just like himself. Forgets that both their hearts are made of the same material. When he forgets, Yoongi is there to make him remember. The way Yoongi touches him, caresses him whole with his large palms on Tae's ass cheeks that keep him grounded is exactly what Tae wants.
He is trapped in a maze that gets him excited due to some unknown cause. Then again Yoongi was always his cause; his unknown. A man of mystery. At least when they were like this, all tangled into each other, bodies merely inches apart and breaths mingling, becoming one. Taehyung is ready to move once again, get even closer than he was but Yoongi is pushing him to stay where he is, to behave.
Taehyung bites his lip hard enough to make blood come to the surface. He is so sensitive right now, all his senses awakened. He whimpers slowly, and it almost passes as a moan but Yoongi knows better. The contrast of being pushed and pulled at the same time makes Taehyung dizzy, almost lightheaded. He needs time to willingly let the control slip from his hands.
The time is not right, so he protests. Yoongi lets him go slowly, pecking his lips lightly once again and massaging the roots of his hair. Thing is, Yoongi is not good with words. Regardless of his job - his passion, as Taehyung likes to refer to it - the ability to be expressive in front of Tae is from minimum to none at all.
So, when moments like this one come by, where the older is expressive, letting his heart speak for him; Taehyung feels like he is flying on cloud nine.
The more Yoongi speaks, the less he is capable of thinking, talking, breathing. He is choking on beautiful words and he wants more.
His heart thumps in his chest, caged inside his torso, ready to break every bone that holds it and burst in front of Yoongi.
She herself had lived there since the age of five, and had long supposed it to be a place of some importance. But about a year before, Mr.
Miles, the new Episcopal clergyman at Hepburn, who drove over every other Sunday—when the roads were not ploughed up by hauling—to hold a service in the North Dormer church, had proposed, in a fit of missionary zeal, to take the young people down to Nettleton to hear an illustrated lecture on the Holy Land; and the dozen girls and boys who represented the future of North Dormer had been piled into a farm-waggon, driven over the hills to Hepburn, put into a way-train and carried to Nettleton.
In the course of that incredible day Charity Royall had, for the first and only time, experienced railway-travel, looked into shops with plate-glass fronts, tasted cocoanut pie, sat in a theatre, and listened to a gentleman saying unintelligible things before pictures that she would have enjoyed looking at if his explanations had not prevented her from understanding them.
This initiation had shown her that North Dormer was a small place, and developed in her a thirst for information that her position as custodian of the village library had previously failed to excite. For a month or two she dipped feverishly and disconnectedly into the dusty volumes of the Hatchard Memorial Library; then the impression of Nettleton began to fade, and she found it easier to take North Dormer as the norm of the universe than to go on reading.
The sight of the stranger once more revived memories of Nettleton, and North Dormer shrank to its real size.
As she looked up and down it, from lawyer Royall's faded red house at one end to the white church at the other, she pitilessly took its measure. There it lay, a weather-beaten sunburnt village of the hills, abandoned of men, left apart by railway, trolley, telegraph, and all the forces that link life to life in modern communities. It had no shops, no theatres, no lectures, no "business block"; only a church that was opened every other Sunday if the state of the roads permitted, and a library for which no new books had been bought for twenty years, and where the old ones mouldered undisturbed on the damp shelves.