“I was just pulling your leg and it came off in my hand.”

“The mouthful of turkey sandwich I’d bitten off caught in my throat when Ren rested his hand on my leg, his fingers exploring the curve of my thigh. I coughed and snatched the bottle of water from his other hand, taking several desperate swallows before swatting his fingers from my leg. “Are you trying to kill me?” I choked the words out. “Keep your hands to yourself.”

“I slip her shirt over her head and she tries to cover herself, but I move her arms out of the way and kiss up her neck while I talk about all the things that are no longer just mine.'Will, stop.' She laughs and attempts to pull my hands away from her bra. 'You can't take off my bra, we're in our driveway. What if they come outside?''It's dark,' I whisper. 'And it's not your bra. It's our bra and I want it off.' I slip it off her, pulling her against me as I rub my hands down the length of her back, then around to the button on the front of her jeans. 'And I want to take off our pants.”

“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, Pigeon.”“Just remember that when I take all of your money in the next poker game,” I said, pulling off my shirt.”

“Oh, come off your perch!" said the other man, who wore glasses. "Your premises won't come out in the wash. You wind-jammers who apply bandy-legged theories to concrete categorical syllogisms send logical conclusions skallybootin' into the infinitesimal ragbag. You can't pull my leg with an old sophism with whiskers on it.”

“I type as fast as a ten-legged man who just had eight legs chopped off runs.”