conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first five paragraphs for a book with the title 'Sinners'?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Sinners
  Captain Leonard's query rattled through Connor's earpiece. The rough gravel in the man's voice came from a cigar habit he'd had instead of any defect in the equipment. Leonard's aggression boiled out through his voice, shotgunning his orders to the TAC team through a mic. A cancerous spot on his lung took him off the street, but he'd recovered more than enough to kick their asses. Leonard was also the first one to pull a rookie up and walk him gently through training.
  Connor'd been that rookie once, and while parts of his ass were still smarting from some of his fuck-ups, he had to admit Leonard knew what he was doing—especially when they were going in blind to a dilapidated RV doubling as a meth room.
  The early-morning hours brought in the fog, its misty air drawn toward the cooling city's hills. With the damp came a steep of smells unique to Chinatown. Somewhere close by, a small back-alley factory made li hing mui, and the wind carried the preserved plum's scent of anise and sugar through the area's tight weave of buildings. The light crackle of nightlife continued off behind them, hidden by the brick buildings surrounding the nearly empty parking lot they were about to descend upon.
  Its sole occupant, a swaybacked RV from the seventies, sat at the back of the lot, its tires flat and wispy grass growing up through the cracks in the asphalt around it. A couple of swap-meet tents provided a kind of lanai area, and someone'd set up a few mismatched plastic chairs around an upended wire spool, its flat surface marred with cigarette burns and candle wax. The RV's original door'd been torn out at some point, with a larger one framed in. Instead of the standard flimsy aluminum ladderlike steps leading up, a sturdy set of wooden stairs led up to the RV's front door.
  The wind picked up again, and Connor held his team in the shadows, waiting for Leonard to give him clearance so they could crack open the RV and find who they'd come for.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know four more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: That'd been a week or so ago, and Connor'd spent as much time coddling a sleepy Forest as he'd been down at the station, working his shift. The drummer insisted he'd be okay, and from what Connor could see, he'd been right. Still, it hadn't hurt to have Jules sit with him, although she'd informed him Forest mostly slept, and Connor needed new furniture for the family room because it was fucking shit on their backs.
  He'd arranged for something to be delivered that next day, a wide, comfortable L-shaped sectional with recliners built into it. The couch was a damned sight better to sleep on than the old one, and Connor had to admit, Jules'd been right. His back and shoulders felt much better after spending the night on it.
  His dick would have preferred to be lying in bed with Forest, but Connor knew the man'd needed time to heal. At least his brain had some common sense—even if it probably more than partially agreed with his cock—he fell asleep after only lying awake on the very comfortable couch for an hour or so, listening to the house rise and fall around him.
  They'd spent a lot of time on the new couch, watching movies or just talking. He'd licked butter from Forest's fingers after they'd eaten more than enough popcorn to make them sick, and he'd been fed mint chocolate chip ice cream from a spoon that tasted of the man's mouth. They'd explored each other's lips and gently spooned during flashes of storms moving over the neighborhood.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last four paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Unlike the other Morgan men, he let his hair grow to a wild mane down past his jaw. It curled a bit at his nape, thick black waves around his strong, lean face. There was something hypnotic about the man's dark green eyes and how they could stare right through a man.
  Rafe'd spent his teenaged years avoiding Quinn Morgan. The third Morgan son had been too young, too weird, but most of all too pretty. Of course, Connor and Kane would have beaten Rafe's face in with their meaty fists if he'd even lifted an eyebrow in the direction of their younger brother.
  Especially now, since the scrawny, bony boy'd grown up to be a hot, smoldering young man with graceful hands and a full mouth ripe for kissing.
  Rhys admits to sharing the house with three cats, a black Pomeranian puffball, a bonsai wolfhound, and a ginger cairn terrorist. Rhys is also enslaved to the upkeep of a 1979 Pontiac Firebird, a laptop, and a red Hamilton Beach coffeemaker.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first four paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Sinners
  Stripped of the cowboy hat and shrouded lies, Damien Mitchell was too much sex and sin for Sionn to take. His long-lashed eyes and strong cheekbones were no match for the man's sinful mouth. And when Damien's laugh exposed his broad white teeth, Sionn could only imagine what it would be like to have the man's canines sink into his nape while he was spread out under Damien's tall, muscular body.
  While the kirin appeared to emerge unscathed, the same couldn't be said about its wearer. Damien's scars were visible when he raked his fingers through his hair. They were angry looking, nearly ropy from long stitches, and scarlet pink. A thicker scar ran down his chest, the skin pulling in at the sides when he moved, the remnant of some surgery Damien couldn't remember. Patches of skin along the man's sides were marbled, as if he'd been burned or dragged across concrete, but Damien couldn't tell him much about those either.
  It was as if his entire life prior to Skywood had been shredded, and he was trying to piece together something solid out of the strands, taping things up in the hopes that something... anything... would eventually make sense. And then he could go back to being the man he thought he'd been in the past.
  The coffee did little to stave off Damien's exhaustion. One moment he was murmuring something about his band; then Sionn heard him snuffling, fast asleep in the curve of the couch.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Sinners
  Stripped of the cowboy hat and shrouded lies, Damien Mitchell was too much sex and sin for Sionn to take. His long-lashed eyes and strong cheekbones were no match for the man's sinful mouth. And when Damien's laugh exposed his broad white teeth, Sionn could only imagine what it would be like to have the man's canines sink into his nape while he was spread out under Damien's tall, muscular body.
  While the kirin appeared to emerge unscathed, the same couldn't be said about its wearer. Damien's scars were visible when he raked his fingers through his hair. They were angry looking, nearly ropy from long stitches, and scarlet pink. A thicker scar ran down his chest, the skin pulling in at the sides when he moved, the remnant of some surgery Damien couldn't remember. Patches of skin along the man's sides were marbled, as if he'd been burned or dragged across concrete, but Damien couldn't tell him much about those either.
  It was as if his entire life prior to Skywood had been shredded, and he was trying to piece together something solid out of the strands, taping things up in the hopes that something... anything... would eventually make sense. And then he could go back to being the man he thought he'd been in the past.
  The coffee did little to stave off Damien's exhaustion.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know another paragraph?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Framing the guitarist's face with his fingers, Sionn took small sips of the man's mouth, savoring the taste of cloves on his tongue. He licked at the seam of Damie's lips and slid his tongue through the tiny gap when Damien gasped in response to Sionn's thigh rubbing up against his crotch.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last three paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Connor took a deep breath and crossed a line he'd never thought he'd cross in his entire lifetime. "His name is Forest, Da. Forest Ackerman. I met him on a case and, well...."
  If he could find some sort of peace at the bottom of a glass, Connor would have taken it. Instead, the whiskey started to taste like dust, and he felt himself grow colder as every second ticked away in silence between them. An infinity of bone-chilling quiet stretched out, and just when Connor thought he couldn't stand it any longer, his father clapped him on the shoulder, shaking him firmly with a solid hand.
  Rhys admits to sharing the house with three cats, a black Pomeranian puffball, a bonsai wolfhound, and a ginger cairn terrorist. Rhys is also enslaved to the upkeep of a 1979 Pontiac Firebird, a Qosmio laptop, and a red Hamilton Beach coffeemaker.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first four paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Sinners
  Miki, turning over under the covers to face Kane: I think there's something wrong with you for even asking that. When are you going to let go of the Quinn you've got in your head and see the one that's in your heart?
  M: Hey, if ever you develop that kind of kink. You just let me know. There are times I really want to kick you in the balls.
  Despite the college's nest up against the hills, the cold wind coming up off the Bay snarled and bit at his face, playing with the soft black scarf he'd wrapped around his neck, and Quinn shivered, zipping his bomber jacket up to his chest. Next to him, Graham Merris, one of his older colleagues at the school's history department, flared his nostrils, a sneer working up from his tight lips to his narrowed black eyes.
  She exhaled, straining her thin T-shirt with the press of her large breasts and steaming up the air in front of her flushed face. Goose bumps carpeted her bare arms, undulating waves of prickled skin and raised hair. A slight dip in her skin, some remnant of a childhood injury, changed the flow of the wind, fluttering the hair along its ridge. She shifted, and the process began again, a full ripple of flowing hair, then a skittering, defiant broken line cutting the dynamics of the chilled wind.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Enough was enough, and Rafe was waiting for him to say something—anything—to the offer he'd made to give Quinn what he needed the most.
  The guitars on the walls, definitely Rafe. Their orderly march down toward the back of the penthouse, not so much. A yards-long view out through a wall of crystalline windows was fabulous, and Quinn caught a glimpse of the marble-and-steel patio outside, perfect for an elegant al fresco dinner or hot coffee and croissants during a clear-sky sunrise. The penthouse's warm colors were mostly Rafe, and the furniture looked comfortable, but as Quinn took in the sleek cabinets and pristine floors, he was amazed at how little the place looked like its owner.
  Sterile, Quinn thought. That's the word. And if there was one thing Rafe Andrade was not, it was sterile.
  There should have been more clutter, more vibrancy, more... everything in the space. Instead it was a pristine picture-perfect magazine spread with little to do with the hot-blooded, passionate man standing behind him.
  Rafe had no problem. He shimmied out of his leather jacket, draping it over the back of a couch when he got his arms free. Harley howled her displeasure from the safety of her kennel, a chittering yodel sharp enough to send shivers up Quinn's spine. Rafe merely laughed and patted the plastic cage as he went by.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: When his Uncle Mortimer died and left him Hoxne Grange, the family's Gilded Age mansion, Tristan Pryce became the second generation of Pryces to serve as a caretaker for the estate, a way station for spirits on their final steps to the afterlife. Tristan is prepared for challenges, though not necessarily from the ghosts he's seen since childhood. Determined to establish Tristan's insanity and gain access to his trust fund, his loving relatives hire Dr. Wolf Kincaid and his paranormal researchers, Hellsinger Investigations, to prove the Grange is not haunted.
  Skeptic Wolf Kincaid has made it his life's work to debunk the supernatural. After years of cons and fakes, he can't wait to reveal the Grange's ghostly activity is just badly leveled floorboards and a drafty old house. More than a few surprises await him at the Grange, including its prickly, reclusive owner. Tristan Pryce is much less insane and much more attractive than Wolf wants to admit, and when his team releases a ghostly serial killer on the Grange, Wolf is torn between his skepticism and protecting the man he's been sent to discredit.
  Mostly because he stuck it firmly in his mouth when his lover, Tristan Pryce, accidentally drugged him with a batch of psychotropic baklava. Needing to patch things up between them, Wolf drags Tristan to San Luis Obispo, hoping Tristan's medium ability can help evict a troublesome spirit haunting an old farmhouse.
  With Wolf's sister handling Hoxne Grange's spectral visitors, Tristan finds himself in the unique position of being able to leave home for the first time in forever, but Wolf's roughshod treatment is the least of his worries. Tristan's ad-hoc portal for passing spirits seems to be getting fewer and fewer guests, and despite his concern he's broken his home, Tristan agrees to help Wolf's cousin, Sey, kick her poltergeist to the proverbial curb.
  San Luis Obispo brings its own bushel of troubles. Tristan's ghost whispering skill is challenged not only by a terrorizing haunting but also by Wolf's skeptical older cousin, Cin. Bookended by a pair of aggressive Kincaids, Tristan soon finds himself in a spectral battle that threatens not only his sanity but also his relationship with Wolf, the first man he's ever loved.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Bookended by a pair of aggressive Kincaids, Tristan soon finds himself in a spectral battle that threatens not only his sanity but also his relationship with Wolf, the first man he's ever loved. Tristan is prepared for challenges, though not necessarily from the ghosts he's seen since childhood. Determined to establish Tristan's insanity and gain access to his trust fund, his loving relatives hire Dr. Wolf Kincaid and his paranormal researchers, Hellsinger Investigations, to prove the Grange is not haunted.
  Skeptic Wolf Kincaid has made it his life's work to debunk the supernatural. After years of cons and fakes, he can't wait to reveal the Grange's ghostly activity is just badly leveled floorboards and a drafty old house. More than a few surprises await him at the Grange, including its prickly, reclusive owner. Tristan Pryce is much less insane and much more attractive than Wolf wants to admit, and when his team releases a ghostly serial killer on the Grange, Wolf is torn between his skepticism and protecting the man he's been sent to discredit.
  Mostly because he stuck it firmly in his mouth when his lover, Tristan Pryce, accidentally drugged him with a batch of psychotropic baklava. Needing to patch things up between them, Wolf drags Tristan to San Luis Obispo, hoping Tristan's medium ability can help evict a troublesome spirit haunting an old farmhouse.
  With Wolf's sister handling Hoxne Grange's spectral visitors, Tristan finds himself in the unique position of being able to leave home for the first time in forever, but Wolf's roughshod treatment is the least of his worries. Tristan's ad-hoc portal for passing spirits seems to be getting fewer and fewer guests, and despite his concern he's broken his home, Tristan agrees to help Wolf's cousin, Sey, kick her poltergeist to the proverbial curb.
  San Luis Obispo brings its own bushel of troubles. Tristan's ghost whispering skill is challenged not only by a terrorizing haunting but also by Wolf's skeptical older cousin, Cin.When his Uncle Mortimer died and left him Hoxne Grange, the family's Gilded Age mansion, Tristan Pryce became the second generation of Pryces to serve as a caretaker for the estate, a way station for spirits on their final steps to the afterlife.