Quotes About Intimacy

Ill take my heart out and hand it to you.

She blowing me like a van horn.

When I came, she caught me like the common cold.

Ran into a super woman, turned her to a super bitch, hit her with that super d-ck, she be cumming super quick.

Jasper shook his head. "You're like Jekyll and Hyde." "A gentleman in the streets and a freak in the bed," Irina gasped through her laughter.

I guess since the groin is the center of a guy's world, he rarely guesses it isn't the center of yours.

He wiped away the tears, tenderly, and I forgot to weep as he told me silently everything I always wanted to hear.

But it's a whole lot easier to keep[secrets] when you've got someone else who knows breathing in the same room. Carrying them alone is like having a huge spiky weight digging into your shoulders and chest, a weight you can't shift even while you're sleeping.

His thumb stroked my cheek. My eyes half-closed. When he spoke next, it was very softly, his voice an almost-physical caress against my whole body. My flesh tightened like a harpstring. I swallowed hard against the wave of liquid heat. "How can I possibly be jealous when I know you spent your time grieving for me, Dante?

He'd pulled back a little, just with his lower half, and I was afraid the scorch in my cheeks would set fire to the rest of me, because I an idea why. Wow. Oh wow.

He is wine and bread and deep in my stomach.

We'd had some sort of sex, sex of the mind, sex of ideas, sex of words, hundreds of thousands of words.

I loved that Amy Lowell poem when I first read it, how her lover was like red wine at the beginning and then became bread. But that has not happened to me. My loves remain wine to me, yet I become too quickly bread to them.

It's a particular kind of pleasure, of intimacy, loving a book with someone.

I could not take my eyes off her. It was as if she were performing some trick, some sort of unfolding. There was something raw and exposed about her, as if many things had already happened between us, as if time had leapt ahead and we were already lovers.

For long stretches of time it felt like we were crawling around each other's brain.

She laughed. 'Was she wine or bread to you?' 'What do you mean?' 'It's from an Amy Lowell poem we all loved in college. Wine is sort of thrilling and sensual, and bread is familiar and essential.

That night at Gertie's when she asked me if I preferred to be the one who loved slightly more or loved slightly less. More, I said. Not this time, she said in my ear. I am the one who will always love more. I didn't say, But I love without needing to own. Because I didn't know the difference then.

Is it always that way with men, that first burst of love or sex the thing that binds you? Do you always have to harken back to those first weeks when just the way he walked across a room made you want to take off all your clothes?

I still have moments when I feel that, when it feels like she's inside me, and there's no difference between us or that the difference doesn't matter. I think it is all that love. All that love has to go somewhere.

She rested her head against his and felt, for the first time, what she would often feel with him: a self-affection. He made her like herself. With him, she was at ease: her skin felt as though it was her right size.

It was strong, whatever was between us, thick, like the wet air and the smell of every green thing ready to bloom. Maybe it was just spring. Maybe that's all it was.

Was it possible in any relationship to not disappoint, to do anything more than only briefly rekindle the initial fatal illusion?

He didn't answer, but I wasn't bothered. I was flattered that we'd gotten to this stage already, that our minds could wander without apology. We passed through a long swath of fireflies, thousands of them flashing all round us, and it felt like soaring through stars.