Quotes About Intimacy

Sean had to get out of the house or he was totally going to lose it. He wasn't sure if that meant punching a hole in the wall or tossing Emma over his shoulder and carrying her off to bed caveman-style, but either was a bad idea. Time to go for a ride and get some space, but first he stuck another sticky note to the mirror and uncapped the Sharpie. You can hold my hand or pat my head or scratch my belly but don't rub the back of my neck again unless you want to get naked.

Then he lifted his head and looked down into her face. "Before we go any further, one more thing." She groaned. "Seriously?" "One wisecrack about a magic penis," he warned, "and I don't care if I have to dump ice cubes down my pants, I'll walk away. Bowlegged, probably, but I'll walk." She laughed and slid her hands under her back to undo her bra. "I'll try to contain myself.

He'd just retrieved the stash of condoms from the bedside drawer and tossed them in the duffel because he'd be damned if he'd facilitate her sleeping with some other guy in the future, when Emma walked in.

That's the important stuff. I could write it on a sticky note, if you want, along with my favorite sexual position. Which isn't missionary, by the way." It was right there on the tip of her tongue—then what is your favorite sexual position?—but she bit it back.

It was time to go. But René didn't move. Instead he lifted the hand that still held his and kissed it, holding it close against his lips before he let it go.

She shook her head, but it was too late, and he was pulling her into his arms and bending his head to hers and she supposed that she could have stopped him. Should have stopped him. But no power in the world could have prevented her lips from parting in a sharp little gasp of remembered pleasure as he drove his mouth down like a man who had been starved of kisses.

The feeling which rocked him took him completely off-guard, and her own corresponding gasps of pleasure as she spasmed around him made him tip his head back in a disbelieving kind of wonder as he came and came and came, his seed spilling uselessly into the condom. And then he rolled off her and gazed unseeingly at the ceiling. He hadn't known it could feel quite like that.

You look like my every fantasy come to life,' he whispered, his voice deepening. 'How?' she whispered back. 'Wicked. Abandoned. And…' She heard his hesitation, was intrigued by it. 'And what?' 'Here,' he admitted. 'Now. On my bed after too long. Waiting for me to make love to you over and over again.

How do they do it, the ones who make love without love? How do they come to the come to the come to the God come to the still waters, and not love the one who came there with them, light rising slowly as steam off their joined skin?

Minute by minute, I do not get up and just go to him—

I can tell you we were right, our bodies were right, life was really going to be that good, that pleasurable in every cell. Suddenly I remember the exact look of your body, but better than that the bright corners of your eyes, or the light of your face, the rich Long Island puppy-fat of your thighs, or the slick chino of your pants bright in the corners of my eyes, I remember your extraordinary act of courage in loving me

It struck cold awe to my heart, now, to look at who I had been who had thought it was impossible that he or I could touch another.

If I could choose, a place to die," it would never have been in your arms, old darling, we figured I'd see you out, in mine

I think he loved being loved

Before I turned out the light, he touched my face, then turned away, then the dark.

the flesh no one seems now to care to touch.

and I could tell her the best of my poor, partial love, I could sing her out, with it, I saw the luck and the luxury of that hour.

I think he had come, in private, to feel he was dying, with me

We said, to each other, I think, whatever came into our minds—put there by what the other had just said—as if we dropped, one by one, taking turns, those intensely dried paper flowers of my childhood, into a glass of water, and watched them uncurl, fast, uneven, and bright—and tossed another.

I put my hand on the mastodon of his buoyant hand, which was resting, now, as a swimmer at the end of a stroke may glide, may glide, desire, desire, rest, desire.

I thought wherever we were, we were in lasting love— even in our separateness and loneliness, in love

I have eaten brains, my tongue loves to probe the delicate folds

in the body's mouth-to-mouth full-out duet

and some young men loved them the way one would want, oneself, to be loved.