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Quote by Alexandra Brown

“Don't I know you from somewhere?' Tom says, fixing his chocolate-brown eyes on mine as I fidget nervously from one foot to the other. 'Oh I'm not sure,' I reply in a breezy voice, wondering if he can tell that the memory of him appearing through the canteen doors has made its way into my dreams several times already this week. Only in the dream he's naked, drenched in massage oil accentuating a rock-hard muscular chest, and begging to take me there and then across the help-yourself salad bar. Naturally the canteen of my dreams is festooned with tea lights creating a sexy shimmery glow. And I look like a siren with really big hair.”

Quote by Alexandra Brown

Book:Cupcake's at Carrington's
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Cupcake's at Carrington's

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Alexandra Brown

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“Yes, they got along and maybe he was attracted to her. It was within the realm of possibility. And if he propositioned her, she'd sleep with him. She couldn't imagine him wanting more than that, but maybe he'd want to have some fun, and she trusted him to treat her well. Yep, she could have a little more fun before she tried to have a real relationship. She recalled seeing him with wet hair yesterday, and she pictured him wearing just a towel slung low on his hips, like in that one scene in That Kind of Wedding. And then he'd go to her. She'd be naked in a four-poster-bed----this was her imagination, after all----and he'd slip under the covers and slide his hand between her legs... No, she had to stop fantasizing before she got carried away. She'd leave that for later, for when she was in bed with one of her trusty toys.”

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“The director said wonderful things about you, that you're very talented," I say, and then smell the cardamom Garrance had given me, and I'm instantly put into a trance from green, earthy, and perfumed aromas. It's like all my troubles are gone. I'm in India, envisioning dances and beautiful saris and delicious naan bread baked on hot coals. Charles taps me on the shoulder. "Kate, where did you go?" I wobble. "I think I was in Mumbai for a second. Maybe Chennai? I don't know. I've never been to India. I've just seen pictures in magazines." He places his hands on my shoulders. "Spices transport you?" "Yes," I say, still a little bit out of it. "Hers do." He grips my shoulders, pulls me in closer. I smell his vanilla scent, and my knees turn to butter. "And I now know why my mother likes you. It makes perfect sense. She was right." "About what?" I ask, breathing him. "Working together and letting go of the bad energy. I know we can do this." His eyes spark with a passionate fire, and he smiles, his dimple puckering. I might melt like fondue. "Let's create a meal for her---the best one she's ever had." He leans against the stove, his sexy, smoldering hazel eyes meeting mine. My neck goes hot. I race over to the prep station and pick up the bag of cardamom, breathe it in---earthy, sweet, smoky, and nutty. Big mistake. Because I'm now licking his muscled chest in one of my deranged fantasies, which is so wrong. I throw the bag down, and the grains scatter on the countertop. Charles saunters over and places a hand on my shoulder. "Kate, everything okay?" "Cool, cool, cool," I say. I shrug off his touch, dip around his shoulder, noticing how V-shaped he is. "I was thinking we add this into the peanut sauce for the satay." "Good idea," he says. "Grind it. Nice and fine." Stop. Stop talking with your lilting English accent. Stop smiling. I'm staring at his hands, his lips, his eyelashes. My mind, my thoughts, and my body are about to explode. "Kate, can you pass me the chilis? My mother likes things spicy." "So do I," I say, reaching for it. Our hands touch as I hand him the spice. I shiver. "Me too," he says with a teasing growl. "And I know you added more pepper into my dish the other day. Good thing I can handle the heat." I can't. It's getting way too hot in here.”

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“He was probably just sleep-deprived and insatiably horny and it was messing with his head. "Was your head feeling particularly full of something?" she asked innocently. He couldn't help himself any longer. He looked down at Dina and, fuck, she was there, stark naked. His brain short-circuited; it was too much. Moonlight bounced off her deep honeyed skin. "Fuck, Dina. Look at you." Scott's voice was hoarse. She stared up at him with molten eyes. She was perfect, fuck, she was perfect. Just as he'd imagined--- no, better than he'd imagined. The curve of her hips, the softness of her belly and the swell of her breasts, her nipples stiff. For him. His eyes feasted their way down her body, to her inner thighs. If he kissed her there, would she be wet for him? Her face was only hunger, only lust. He needed to have her.”

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“It is notorious that the news of the Emancipation Proclamation was kept from the people of Texas and not celebrated until 'Juneteenth'. There may be those in Texas now who believe they can insulate their state—a state that had its own courageous revolution—from the news of evolution and from the writing in 1786 of a Constitution that refuses to mention religion except when demarcating and limiting its role in the public square. But we promise them today that they will join their fore-runners in the flat-earth community, and in the mad clerical clique of those who believed that the sun revolved around the earth. Yes, they will be in schoolbooks—as a joke on the epic scale of William Jennings Bryan. We shall be fair, and take care to ensure that their tale is told.”

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“In the old days, farmers would keep a little of their home-made opium for their families, to be used during illnesses, or at harvests and weddings; the rest they would sell to the local nobility, or to pykari merchants from Patna. Back then, a few clumps of poppy were enough to provide for a household's needs, leaving a little over, to be sold: no one was inclined to plant more because of all the work it took to grow poppies - fifteen ploughings of the land and every remaining clod to be built; purchases of manure and constant watering; and after all that, the frenzy of the harvest, each bulb having to be individually nicked, drained and scrapped. Such punishment was bearable when you had a patch or two of poppies - but what sane person would want to multiply these labours when there were better, more useful crops to grow, like wheat, dal, vegetables? But those toothsome winter crops were steadily shrinking in acreage: now the factory's appetite for opium seemed never to be seated. Come the cold weather, the English sahibs would allow little else to be planted; their agents would go from home to home, forcing cash advances on the farmers, making them sign /asámi/ contracts. It was impossible to say no to them: if you refused they would leave their silver hidden in your house, or throw it through a window. It was no use telling the white magistrate that you hadn't accepted the money and your thumbprint was forged: he earned commissions on the oppium adn would never let you off. And, at the end of it, your earnings would come to no more than three-and-a-half sicca rupees, just about enough to pay off your advance.”

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Book:Sea of Poppies
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