Romans & histoires Human Patrick Star

Juliet said, her voice lower now, as if trying to match the new tone of the moment. “Yeah… Scott Norman,” he replied calmly, hands casually tucked into his pockets. “Wow. For real?” she gasped, clearly star-struck now. Then Patrick walked into the room. He looked a little older than then the way he looks at work—more lines around his eyes, more grey in his hair— but his presence still commanded the room. He moved like a man who knew too much, carried too much, and had long stopped pretending otherwise. “To whom do I owe this visit?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as they landed on me.

Patrick retorted, and held on tighter to Sean. "Patrick Stuart!" "Threats won't work with me!" Patrick looked utterly dauntless. "You won't kill me and bury me in some unmarked grave, anyway." Sean told himself not to get petty with a drunk man, and quickly tried to get up. However, Patrick caught him again; he was very strong despite his somewhat delicate appearance. When Sean couldn’t move at all, Patrick bragged smugly, "Can't go anywhere now, can you?" "You better not regret this."

"Ugh, not only is he handsome and alluring, but he's also so debonair. I can feel my heart beating for him." "I have no idea what he's talking about, but that won't stop me from becoming his fan!" "Our meeting has never been written in the stars; we wouldn't have met if not for your good looks." "Hahaha! I have no idea what he's saying, either, but it sounds really classy." "I just searched for him online. His name is Patrick Horton, and he's a Marvonian. He's 28 this year and currently works at Vargam Pharmaceutical Research Lab, but his actual position is classified information.

"You have trespassed into the Valemont soil. You have taken my son. Tell me who ordered it, or I will peel the hide from your bones before the sun rises too high." The man chuckled, the deep phlegmy sound rattling in his broad chest. "Threaten me with your claws, boy. I hunted the abominations of your rejected mate’s bloodline when your father was just claiming his pack. I am Patrick. St. Patrick to those who consider me a savior of this world. Your fangs mean nothing to the man who has spent fifty years destroying the taint of the Nullifiers."

he snarled the words. “Rumors?” Heath lifted an eyebrow. “The Triquetra’s whore is how I heard it put,” Patrick responded. “Apparently you and your two friends have quite the reputation for seducing young girls.” “I am nineteen, Mr Carter,” Heath put his hands into his pockets and leaned back slightly on the car, at ease. His smile was rueful. “What were you doing when you were nineteen?” “Hmm,” Patrick was not impressed. “I did not have your reputation when I was nineteen.”

"I keep thinking if I work harder I can somehow bend time or clone myself or stop needing sleep altogether and apparently none of that is happening." My throat tightens. "Something’s going to crash and burn and I’m pretty sure it’s me.” I gesture at the puckered seam in my lap, my voice cracking embarrassingly on the last word. "Starting with this stupid zipper." He's quiet a second while I wait for him to give me the same speech everyone gives to someone they feel is drowning. He doesn't, I'll give him that. "Okay," he says. "So show me which ones are done and which ones aren't."

He wanted my father's son to play for his elite team in return. Only problem? My father didn't have a son. So here I was, dressed like a dude, skating among men. With a heavy tap on my shoulder, he walked out of the dressing room, leaving me with chaos erupting from the very muscular dudes who were already stripping down. One guy drew down his pants and bam... his pale ass came into view. I bit on my lips to stop myself from gasping as I glared at the roundness of his dangling testicles. Oh boy!

All of the international party set was here to celebrate Thalía’s twenty-ninth birthday, her third such party, if he recalled correctly. Suddenly, across the room, past the dancefloor and the colorfully painted wooden bar with Thalía’s hand-selected shirtless bartenders, Gabriel saw his rival—Mark Elderbrook. Gabriel glanced quickly at his wife, waiting for Calleigh to see the tall American tycoon. Instead, she was staring up at him with an angry frown, searing him with her violet-blue eyes. “Enjoying yourself?” she asked acidly. “Is this why you married me? So you could parade me at parties like your little doll?”

Tamera introduced them. "Nice to meet you." Paige and Brady both said. "Same here." Michael repeated. "Glad to finally meet you." Sheila said. "And this is Dax, my boyfriend." Tamera blushed and said awkwardly. "You look familiar. How do I know you?" Paige asked. "He plays on that TV series mom always watches." Brady responded. "Right! Omg mom! I need to know all about it!" Paige excitedly said. "Spare us." Brady laughed.

Today they flicked over me quickly — recognition, then something unreadable. “Lila.” His voice came out low, almost careful. Not the loud bark he used with the team. I pulled back, heat rushing to my face. “Sorry. I wasn’t watching.” He didn’t let go right away. His thumbs brushed my sleeves once, like an accident, before he dropped his hands. Behind him, a couple of teammates lingered, watching with matching smirks. Marcus called out, “Careful, Cap. Don’t want her cooties rubbing off on your stats.”