Shaven Quotes

He leaned in even closer until she could count the bristles on his poorly shaven chin. "But you're pretty. You can stay. Turn around and spread your legs so I can fuck you up against the wire. I'll get my cock in you so deep it'll need a directory to find its way out."
"That sounds ... dangerous."
"I am," he rumbled sexily, like a waterfall that's had a dam collapse upstream and is about to flood and destroy the village of peasants further downstream ... many of whom are poor and in desperate need of medical attention. ~ Cari Silverwood

The shaven head and the man in white pants and the black woolen ~ William Peter Blatty

I have sensitive skin, so I don't use regular razors. The Yankees make us stay cleanly shaven! ~ Mark Teixeira

2 p.m. beer
nothing matters
but flopping on a mattress
with cheap dreams and a beer
as the leaves die and the horses die
and the landladies stare in the halls;
brisk the music of pulled shades,
a last man's cave
in an eternity of swarm
and explosion;
nothing but the dripping sink,
the empty bottle,
euphoria,
youth fenced in,
stabbed and shaven,
taught words
propped up
to die. ~ Charles Bukowski

With slouch and swing around the ring
We trod the Fools' Parade!
We did not care: we knew we were
The Devils' Own Brigade:
And shaven head and feet of lead
Make a merry masquerade. ~ Oscar Wilde

But clouds bellied out in the sultry heat, the sky cracked open with a crimson gash, spewed flame-and the ancient forest began to smoke. By morning there was a mass of booming, fiery tongues, a hissing, crashing, howling all around, half the sky black with smoke, and the bloodied sun just barely visible.

And what can little men do with their spades, ditches, and pails? The forest is no more, it was devoured by fire: stumps and ash. Perhaps illimitable fields will be plowed here one day, perhaps some new, unheard-of wheat will ripen here and men from Arkansas with shaven faces will weigh in their palms the heavy golden grain. Or perhaps a city will grow up-alive with ringing sound and motion, all stone and crystal and iron-and winged men will come here flying over seas and mountains from all ends of the world. But never again the forest, never again the blue winter silence and the golden silence of summer. And only the tellers of tales will speak in many-colored patterned words about what had been, about wolves and bears and stately green-coated century-old grandfathers, about old Russia; they will speak about all this to us who have seen it with our own eyes ten years - a hundred years! - ago, and to those others, the winged ones, who will come in a hundred years to listen and to marvel at it all as at a fairy tale. ("In Old Russia") ~ Yevgeny Zamyatin

What was it, she wondered, this need to brandish his shiny new metropolitan life at her? As soon as she'd met him at the arrivals gate on his return from Thailand, lithe and brown and shaven-headed, she knew that there was no chance of a relationship between them. Too much had happened to him, too little had happened to her. Even so this would be the third girlfriend, lover, whatever, that she had met in the last nine months, Dexter presenting them up to her like a dog with a fat pigeon in his mouth. Was it some kind of some sick revenge for something? Because she got a better degree than him? Didn't he know what this was doing to her, sat at table nine with their groins jammed in each other's faces? ~ David Nicholls

They had remained silent during the trial, their leader stating only that the disease was God's vengeance on sinners and the unclean. Lean men with shaven heads and blank, implacable eyes, they were God's gunmen, and would stare, as such, from all the tapes of history, forever. But ~ William Gibson

Don't turn around," she said, "but there's a gentleman who keeps stealing glances at you from across the room. I've never seen him before. I wonder if he's your Mr. Ravenel?"
"Good heavens, please don't call him my Mr. Ravenel. What does he look like?"
"Dark-haired, clean-shaven and quite sun-browned. Tall, with shoulders as broad as a plowman's. At the moment he's talking with a group of gentlemen, and- oh, my. He has a smile like a hot summer day."
"That would be Mr. Ravenel," Phoebe muttered.
"Well, I recall Henry describing him as pale and stout." Merritt's brows lifted slightly as she peeked over Phoebe's shoulder once more. "Someone had a growth spurt."
"Looks are irrelevant. It's the inner man that counts."
Laughter threaded through Merritt's voice. "I suppose you're right. But the inner Mr. Ravenel happens to be quite beautifully packaged. ~ Lisa Kleypas

Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe

I was proud of 'Robin Hood,' even though critics wrote negative things. But I had to laugh when this big, shaven-headed Hungarian stunt guy first saw me. He said, 'You Jonas? You playing Robin Hood? You need to go to the gym today.' So I thought, 'I'm going to show people.' ~ Jonas Armstrong

They prospect of seeing oneself in the mirror clean-shaven is too close to a Vincent Price film ... a prospect not to be contemplated, no matter the compensation. ~ Billy Gibbons

I have a beard,' Dr. Montague said, pleased, and looked around at them with a happy beam. 'My wife,' he told them, 'likes a man to wear a beard. Many women, on the other hand, find a beard distasteful. A clean-shaven man - you'll excuse me, my boy - never looks fully dressed, my wife tells me.' He held out his glass to Luke. ~ Shirley Jackson

With Zia's controversial demise in 1988, Jinnah was finally spared the false beard Zia kept pinning on the founder's otherwise clean-shaven face. ~ Nadeem Farooq Paracha

I hate being clean-shaven. My daughter gets very upset if I shave and says, 'Bring back the spikes, Dad.' ~ Eric Bana

Gathering her bags, Alani started around the side of her house to the front door.
She drew up short at the sight of Jackson sprawled on her porch steps, a cowboy hat on his head, mirrored sunglasses hiding his eyes.
He didn't move, and neither did she.
He had an utterly relaxed look about him. But then, Jackson had perfected a deceptively indolent pose that hid razor-sharp reflexes and phenomenal speed.
Last night, all night, he'd been far from indolent.
Breathing fast, Alani studied him. His continued stillness suggested sleep. Even when she inched closer, he didn't move.
He was now clean-shaven. A white T-shirt was pulled across his wide chest and shoulders, and hung looser around his taut abs.
Awareness stiffened her knees.
Memories of touching his body, tasting hit hot flesh, sent a tide of sensation through her veins. She swallowed audibly - and stared some more.
He sat with his long legs loose, one foot braced on a step, the other stretched out, his elbows back, his breathing deep and even.
Alani licked her lips and started to slowly, silently retreat.
"Don't make me chase you, darlin'."
Shock snapped her shoulders back. The big faker! He'd been watching her watch him. Teeth set, Alani asked, "What are you doing here?"
He gave a slow smile. "Whatever it takes . . . ~ Lori Foster

I believe the novella is the perfect form of prose fiction. It is the beautiful daughter of a rambling, bloated ill-shaven giant (but a giant who's a genius on his best days). ~ Ian McEwan

Her eyes slid to Daniel. His fingers did a fast hunt-and-peck across the keyboard as his brows furrowed. The glow of the screen lit his face in the inadequately lit room. He had a nice profile. Long dark lashes that swept up and down as he typed, the perfect sized nose, a strong jaw, freshly shaven. His lips were nice too. Gently rounded peaks, set far apart. His lower lip was generous. Good kissing lips. He pursed them now. Jade jerked her eyes away. What are you doing, Jade? That's Daniel. She'd never noticed his nose or his long lashes, to say nothing of his lips - or had thoughts of kissing them. It was the hormones. They were doing weird things to her. Making her think crazy thoughts. Thoughts ~ Denise Hunter

This was a war of attrition...A mug's game! A mug's game as far as killing men was concerned, but not an uninteresting occupation if you considered it as a struggle of various minds spread all over the broad landscape in the sunlight. They did not kill many men and they expended an infinite number of missiles and a vast amount of thought. If you took six million men armed with loaded canes and stockings containing bricks or knives and set them against another six million men similarly armed, at the end of three hours four million on the one side and the entire six million on the other would be dead. So, as far as killing went, it really was a mug's game. That was what happened if you let yourself get into the hands of the applied scientist. For all these things were the products not of the soldier but of hirsute bespectacled creatures who peer through magnifying glasses. Or of course, on our side, they would be shaven-cheeked and less abstracted. They were efficient as slaughterers in that they enabled the millions of men to be moved. When you had only knives you could not move very fast. On the other hand, your knife killed at every stroke: you would set a million men firing at each other with rifles from eighteen hundred yards. But few rifles ever registered a hit. So the invention was relatively inefficient. And it dragged things out!
And suddenly it had become boring. ~ Ford Madox Ford

He wore a white girdle that pulled in his waist just above the hips. He was, of necessity, slender. She believed men should take up as little space as possible. He wore his black hair long over his shoulders, tied once with a white ribbon. The men allowed to live were, of course, beautiful, far more beautiful than any of the women Zezili knew. Anavha was clean-shaven, as she wanted him, lightly powdered in gold, his eyes lined in kohl, eyes a stormy grey, set a bit too wide in a broad face whose jaw she has initially found almost vulgar in its squareness. He stood a hand shorter than she; she easily outweighed him by fifty pounds. She liked him just this way. ~ Kameron Hurley

The following afternoon, Rizq returned to our chambers. I was curious to find out how his experiment went (his foursome with Caroline, Gaston and Jacques). "Hi Rizq. It is good to see you; how did it go with your four-way?" Rizq looked at the floor, searching for words to describe his experience. "I found it hard to concentrate, as there were all these hands caressing me and everything happening all at once. I lost my concentration. Although I enjoyed the various interactions, I prefer to stick to one-on-one. "I did enjoy being inside Caroline with Gaston in me, from behind. This was very stimulating." I replied, "At least you tried and you can now best decide your preference." Andy asked, "Now, Rizq are you ready to be shaven?" "Yes, I am. ~ Young

I've met them down in the Cost and Accounting Department, clean-shaven and in white collars. They can't see a damn thing ridiculous about themselves ... only about you. ~ Jean Shepherd

I've had a beard a fair few times and, like most guys, when I shave the beard off I experiment with a few different facial hair styles on the way down to clean shaven. But I've never actually had a moustache for any longer than about 10-15 minutes - during the process of shaving off the beard. ~ James Magnussen

The greatest evil is not done in those sordid dens of evil that Dickens loved to paint ... but is conceived and ordered (moved, seconded, carried, and minuted) in clear, carpeted, warmed, well-lighted offices, by quiet men with white collars and cut fingernails and smooth-shaven cheeks who do not need to raise their voices. ~ C.S. Lewis

Sometimes I've gotten photographs back and people have literally shaven off pieces of me, and I tell them to put it back. ~ Alicia Keys

A clean-shaven man with a vocal tone reminiscent of post-coital whispers, that was Matyas Füst. The way he sings "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" is no joke. ~ Helen Oyeyemi

I think that one morning, the Papess woke in her tower, and her blankets were so warm, and the sun was so golden, she could not bear it. I think she woke, and dressed, and washed her face in cold water, and rubbed her shaven head. I think she walked among her sisters, and for the first time saw that they were so beautiful, and she loved them. I think she woke up one morning of all her mornings, and found that her heart was as white as a silkworm, and the sun was clear as glass on her brow, and she believed then that she could live, and hold peace in her hand like a pearl. ~ Catherynne M Valente

Clean-shaven and dressed in the conventional disguise with which Brooks Brothers cover the shame of American millionaires. ~ Ian Fleming

A beard well lathered is half shaven. ~ Oprah Winfrey

… when Michel came home from school, for example, and everything was as it should be. My own voice, above all, asking him what he wanted in his sandwich, also sounded as it should have. The larder was full, I had done all of the shopping that morning. I took care of myself as well, I looked in the mirror before leaving the house: I made sure my clothes were clean, that I had shaved, that my hair didn't look like the hair of someone who never looks in a mirror - the people in the supermarket would have noticed nothing unusual, I was no divorced father reeking of alcohol, no father who couldn't handle things. I clearly remembered the goal I had set for myself: I wanted to keep up the appearance of normality. As far as possible, everything had to remain the same for Michel as long as his mother wasn't around. A hot meal every day, for a start. But also in other aspects of our temporary single-parent family, there shouldn't be too many visible changes. Normally, it wasn't my habit to shave every day; I didn't mind walking around with stubble. Claire had never made a big deal out of that either, but during those weeks I shaved every morning. I felt that my son had a right to sit at the table with a clean-smelling, freshly shaven father. A freshly shaven and clean-smelling father would not prompt him to think the wrong things, would in any case not cause him to doubt the temporary character of our single-parent family. ~ Herman Koch

Men should either be clean shaven, mustached or wear full beards. "That little wisp looks like it was just the best he could do," she thought, ~ Margaret Mitchell

He looked just like himself. Didn't look like he was living in dark alleys. He was clean, fresh shaven. Didn't look hungry. Had on clean clothes. Seemed to be alone. Was a little, um, upset. Said I was a pain in the ass."
"No! You? A pain in the ass? I can't imagine why anyone would think that. ~ Janet Evanovich

He lay on the bed, freshly shaven and washed, legs crossed at the ankles and arms propped behind his head. His posture said, Yes, ladies. I truly am this handsome. And I don't even have to try. ~ Tessa Dare

Inexpensive Progress

Encase your legs in nylons,
Bestride your hills with pylons
O age without a soul;
Away with gentle willows
And all the elmy billows
That through your valleys roll.

Let's say goodbye to hedges
And roads with grassy edges
And winding country lanes;
Let all things travel faster
Where motor car is master
Till only Speed remains.

Destroy the ancient inn-signs
But strew the roads with tin signs
'Keep Left,' 'M4,' 'Keep Out!'
Command, instruction, warning,
Repetitive adorning
The rockeried roundabout;

For every raw obscenity
Must have its small 'amenity,'
Its patch of shaven green,
And hoardings look a wonder
In banks of floribunda
With floodlights in between.

Leave no old village standing
Which could provide a landing
For aeroplanes to roar,
But spare such cheap defacements
As huts with shattered casements
Unlived-in since the war.

Let no provincial High Street
Which might be your or my street
Look as it used to do,
But let the chain stores place here
Their miles of black glass facia
And traffic thunder through.

And if there is some scenery,
Some unpretentious greenery,
Surviving anywhere,
It does not need protecting
For soon we'll be erecting
A Power Station there.

When all our roads are lighted
B ~ John Betjeman

Back in the day, it was either both a mother and her daughter had pubic hair, or the daughter didn't. Today, in many a case, the mother is the one who doesn't. ~ Mokokoma Mokhonoana

It was the shaving that bothered me the most. I'm not a great fan of shaving and I had to be really clean-shaven, hands, head, hairline, all the fluff off my face, everything except my eyebrows, so this sheen, this kind of polish they used on me, would stick. ~ Jude Law

My Heart
I'm not going to cry all the time
nor shall I laugh all the time,
I don't prefer one "strain" to another.
I'd have the immediacy of a bad movie,
not just a sleeper, but also the big,
overproduced first-run kind.
I want to be at least as alive as the vulgar. And if some aficionado of my mess says "That's not like Frank!," all to the good! I don't wear brown and grey suits all the time, do I? No. I wear workshirts to the opera,
often. I want my feet to be bare,
I want my face to be shaven, and my heart
you can't plan on the heart, but
the better part of it, my poetry, is open. ~ Frank O'Hara

With few exceptions, those who dress outrageously are robust or even antifragile in reputation; those clean-shaven types who dress in suits and ties are fragile to information about them. ~ Nassim Nicholas Taleb

Far below, making their way through the swinging glass doors, a retinue of Buddhist monks entered the Shopping Center. They approached in single file, heads shaven, their robes flowing behind them like a flood of freshly squeezed Florida orange juice.

The crowd melted, parting like a biblical sea to allow them through. The guard abashedly lowered his nightstick and stepped hastily aside. And the monks, without pause or ceremony, simply mounted the escalator and rode it to the next level.
~ Jeff Greenwald

As soon as she'd met him at the arrivals gate on his return from Thailand, lithe and brown and shaven-headed, she knew that there was no chance of a relationship between them. Too much had happened to him, too little had happened to her. ~ David Nicholls

THIS ISN'T CHINA

Hold me close
and tell me what the world is like
I don't want to look outside
I want to depend on your eyes
and your lips
I don't want to feel anything
but your hand
on the old raw bumper
I don't want to feel anything else
If you love the dead rocks
and the huge rough pine trees
Ok I like them too
Tell me if the wind
makes a pretty sound
in the billion billion needles
I'll close my eyes and smile
Tell me if it's a good morning
or a clear morning
Tell me what the fuck kind of morning
it is
and I'll buy it
And get the dog
to stop whining and barking
This isn't China
nobody's going to eat it
It's just going to get fed and petted
Ok where were we?
Ok go if you must.
I'll create the cosmos
by myself
I'll let it all stick to me
every fucking pine needle
And I'll broadcast my affection
from this shaven dome
360 degrees
to all the dramatic vistas
to all the mists and snows
that moves across
the shining mountains
to the women bathing
in the stream
and combing their hair
on the roofs
to the voiceless ones
who have petitioned me
from their surprising silence
to the poor in the heart
(oh more and more to them)
to all the thought-forms
and leaking mental objects
that you get up here
at the end of your ghostly l ~ Leonard Cohen

Australia! Australians! Surely it's still full of Magwitch-types, lumbering oafs with shaven pates and broken noses on the run from whatever law there is, chucking kangaroo heads on the barbie as they read their awful bush poetry. ~ Dave Franklin

The first (barbers) that entered Italy came out of Sicily and it was in the 454 yeare after the foundation of Rome. Brought in they were by P. Ticinius Mena as Verra doth report for before that time they never cut their hair. The first that was shaven every day was Scipio Africanus, and after cometh Augustus the Emperor who evermore used the razor. ~ Pliny The Elder

Who are you?" Rosemary said in amazement. She had never seen men like these before. Cloaks of green and brown fell from their broad shoulders and every hand gripped a round shield an evil-looking spear. Beneath the thick yellow hair, eyes glinted hard and wild.
One of the men rode near and peered down at Rosemary. Unlike the rest, he was clean-shaven and pleasant-looking, and she was surprised to see that he was no older than herself. Nonetheless his blond-red hair was bound with golden circlet and he was obviously the leader. He suddenly smiled at her and his eyes were bright with humour and curiosity.
"It is hardly your place to question us, girl."
He reached out and touched her hair.
"Hair like the night...and such strange clothing. But you are fair-faced. Whose slave might you be? ~ O.R. Melling

Bearded peasant goes in one end of an alley, clean-shaven gentleman comes out the other? Really?" "It's a classic! ~ Scott Lynch

The breath had become as much a trick as breathing. Things were not dual merely, but multiple. I had become a cage of mirrors reflecting vacuity. But vacuity once stoutly posited I was at home and what is called creation was merely a job of filling up holes. The trolley conveniently carried me about from place to place and in each little side pocket of the great vacuum I dropped a ton of poems to wipe out the idea of annihilation. I had ever before me boundless vistas. I began to live in the vista, like a microscopic speck on the lens of a giant telescope. There was no night in which to rest. It was perpetual starlight on the arid surface of dead planets. Now and then a lake black as marble in which I saw myself walking amidst brilliant orbs of lights. So low hung the stars and so dazzling was the light they shed, that it seemed as if the universe were only about to be born. What rendered the impression stronger was that I was alone; not only were there no animals, no trees, no other beings, but there was not even a blade of grass, not even a dead root. In that violet incandescent light witihout even the suggestion of a shadow motion itself seemed to be absent. It was like a blaze of pure consciousness, thought become God. And God, for the first time in my knowledge, was dean-shaven. I was also clean-shaven, flawless, deadly accurate. I saw my image in the marble black lakes and it was diapered with stars. Stars, stars... like a clout between the eyes and all remembrance fast ~ Henry Miller

Tell me "The Subtle Briar" again,' she asked. She knew I would still know it by heart. I whispered to her in the dark.

'When you cut down the hybrid rose,
its blackened stump below the graft
spreads furtive fingers in the dirt.
It claws at life, weaving a raft
of suckering roots to pierce the earth.
The first thin shoot is fierce and green,
a pliant whip of furious briar
splitting the soil, gulping the light.
You hack it down. It skulks between
the flagstones of the garden path
to nurse a hungry spur in shade
against the porch. With iron spade
you dig and drag it from the gravel
and toss it living on the fire.

'It claws up towards the light again
hidden from view, avoiding battle
beyond the fence. Unnoticed, then,
unloved, unfed, it clings and grows
in the wild hedge. The subtle briar
armors itself with desperate thorns
and stubborn leaves – and struggling higher,
unquenchable, it now adorns
itself with blossom, till the stalk
is crowned with beauty, papery white
fine petals thin as chips of chalk
or shaven bone, drinking the light.

'Izabela, Aniela, Alicia, Eugenia,
Stefania, Rozalia, Pelagia, Irena,
Alfreda, Apolonia, Janina, Leonarda,
Czeslava, Stanislava, Vladyslava, Barbara,
Veronika, Vaclava, Bogumila, Anna,
Genovefa, Helena, Jadviga, Joanna,
Kazimiera, Ursula, Vojcziecha, Maria,
Elizabeth Wein

The laugh of Doctor Prunesquallor was part of his conversation and quite alarming when heard for the first time. It appeared to be out of control as though it were a part of his voice, a top-storey of his vocal range that only came into its own when the doctor laughed. There was something about it of wind whistling through high rafters and there was a good deal of the horse's whinny, with a touch of the curlew. When giving vent to it, the doctor's mouth would be practically immobile like the door of a cabinet left ajar. Between the laughs he would speak very rapidly, which made the sudden stillness of his beautifully shaven jaws at the time of laughter all the more extraordinary. The laugh was not necessarily connected with humour at all. It was simply a part of his conversation. ~ Mervyn Peake

I wanted a footman with twinkly eyes like Father Christmas, not the eyes of a Viking mercenary. Footmen are supposed to be clean-shaven and pleasant-looking, and have nice names like Peter or George. But mine is scowly and growly, and his name is Drago and he has a black beard. ~ Lisa Kleypas

The Legend of the Dragon Fairytales cleanse and sanitise what were once true stories. In fairytales, knights are chivalrous, clean-shaven and wear shining armour - when in truth they were swarthy, filthy rapists and thugs. Castles are bright and gay when in truth they were grim fortresses. If dragons were real, then in all likelihood they were not graceful, high-chested, noble creatures; rather they would have been dirty, ugly, reptilian and mean. From: The Power of Myth by Craig Ferguson (Momentum, Sydney, 2013) ~ Matthew Reilly

For the hair has grown on my upper lip
And the clergy are all clean-shaven ~ George Orwell

This was all very well: Columbanus's success indicates the appeal of his mission. But his activities, for the first time, brought the nature of Celtic monasticism firmly to the attention of the Church authorities
to western bishops in general, and to the Bishop of Rome in particular. The Irish monks were not heretical. But they were plainly unorthodox. They did not look right, to begin with. They had the wrong tonsure. Rome, as was natural, had 'the tonsure of St Peter', that is, a shaven crown. Easterners had the tonsure of St Paul, totally shaven; and if they wished to take up an appointment in the West they had to wait until their rim grew before being invested. But the Celts looked like nothing on earth: they had their hair long at the back and, on the shaven front part, a half-circle of hair from one ear to the other, leaving a band across the forehead. ~ Paul Johnson

The "through-and-through" universe seems to suffocate me with its infallible impeccable all-pervasiveness. Its necessity , with no possibilities; its relations, with no subjects, make me feel as if I had entered into a contract with no reserved rights ... It seems too buttoned-up and white-chokered and clean-shaven a thing to speak for the vast slow-breathing unconscious Kosmos with its dread abysses and its unknown tides. ~ William James

It was not death, for I stood up,
And all the dead lie down;
It was not night, for all the bells
Put out their tongues, for noon.

It was not frost, for on my flesh
I felt siroccos crawl,
Nor fire, for just my marble feet
Could keep a chancel cool.

And yet it tasted like them all;
The figures I have seen
Set orderly, for burial,
Reminded me of mine,

As if my life were shaven
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key;
And I was like midnight, some,

When everything that ticked has stopped,
And space stares, all around,
Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,
Repeal the beating ground.

But most like chaos,--stopless, cool,
Without a chance or spar,--
Or even a report of land
To justify despair. ~ Emily Dickinson

I've always been a stubble man; I don't do clean-shaven. ~ Jonas Armstrong

The room was small, lit by two naked bulbs in wall recesses, and bare of anything except for two solid wooden posts the height of a man and four feet apart. In each post, at just below shoulder height, was set a large iron ring. There were two other men already waiting, both leathermen. Len indicated each in turn. 'Rick and Sam.' The two men regarded Mike with arms folded.

Rick was in his late twenties, a tall, blond biker, his hair hanging down well past his shoulders. Under his leather waistcoat he was bare-chested, his spare, pale flesh covered with tattoos of skulls, burning angels and other biker motifs, the twining reds, blues and blacks extending along both arms as well. He was wearing black leather gloves and impenetrable black shades. Shaven-headed Sam was older, shorter and stockier, built like a rugby player. A leather harness stretched across the barrel of his chest, its steel circlet buried in wiry hair. Through his leather chaps Mike could see a sizeable pouch, heavy with its contents. ~ Jack Stevens

The immolation occurred late on a Friday morning. The lunchtime bustle was picking up as Paul descended from his office building onto the crowded street. He cut an imposing figure against the flow of pedestrians: six feet four inches, broad shouldered, clean-shaven, clothed in the matching black coat, vest, and long tie that was to be expected of New York's young professional men. His hair, perfectly parted on the left, had just begun to recede into a gentle widow's peak. He looked older than his twenty-six years. As ~ Graham Moore

She beckoned for him to come closer and he did. He crawled onto the bed from the bottom and worked his way up to her legs. His hands caressed the smoothness of her recently shaven legs. She moaned at his touch. He hovered over her and she pulled him closer. Their lips met, once more, and, somehow, it was even better than before. ~ Jason Medina

I don't beat around the bush. Especially since I like my women clean shaven. ~ Jarod Kintz

Turning her hand over, Gabriel kissed her palm and shaped her fingers against his cheek. his shaven skin was smooth in one direction and softly abrasive in the other, like a cat's tongue. The firelight had turned him golden everywhere except for those eyes, the clear blue of an arctic star. ~ Lisa Kleypas

Well, if you insist. But, my dearest flower, how ghastly to consider that such a mustache must shadow the clean-shaven grandeur of my domicile.' Lord Akeldama was rumored to insist that all his drones go without the dreaded lip skirt. The vampire had once had the vapors upon encountering an unexpected mustache around a corner of his hallway. Muttonchops were permitted in moderation, and only because they were currently all the rage among the most fashionable of London's gentlemen-about-town. Even so, they must be as well tended as the topiary of Hampton Court. ~ Gail Carriger

I hate shaving. It's much easier to just do a little stubble, but my wife and daughter like it when I'm clean-shaven. If you see me with a clean face, then you know I'm in the kissing mode! ~ Patrick Dempsey

Since this wedding that never happened is my fantasy, that boy is clean-­shaven on your special day, hair combed neatly, slightly nervous as he stands by the preacher, looking at you the way I always wanted a man to look at you: kind, loving, slightly in awe ~ Karin Slaughter

Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white moustache, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck of colour about him anywhere. He held in his hand an antique silver lamp, in which the flame burned without a chimney or globe of any kind, throwing long quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught of the open door ~ Bram Stoker

If you don't need my backsight," she said to Kaleb, "then why am I here?"
He rose to his feet and, placing his hands on the table, leaned toward her until she could've reached out and run her fingers along his freshly shaven jaw. "You are here," he said in a tone that made her heart thump wildly against her ribs, "because you belong to me. ~ Nalini Singh