Quotes About Sensuality

I could feel her soft shape, the heat of her, conducted with electric clarity through the wet of our clothes. I felt my body responding. I knew she felt it, too. Ah, shit.

Then she reached lower and started to ease my pants down. I stopped her so I could get my shoes and socks off first. Pants-pooled-at-the-ankles is too helpless a posture for me.

I shifted my head slightly. The corners of our mouths brushed together. I felt her breath on my cheek. Then we were kissing. Her mouth was warm and soft. Our tongues entwined and simultaneously I thought Oh, you fucking idiot and Oh, that feels so good.

I squeezed her hips, then ran my hands up and over the curve of her ribs to her breasts. Her nipples were hard under the wet fabric of her dress. Her body radiated heat. I heard myself groan. It sounded like capitulation.

I watched her, a tall girl with long hair so black that under the stage lighting it coruscated like moonlit liquid. It cascaded in waves around the smooth contours of her shoulders, past the alluring shadows of her waist, around the upturned curve of her ass. She was tall and fine-boned, with delicate white skin, high cheekbones, and small, high breasts. Put the hair up, add a little couture, and you'd have the world's classiest courtesan.

I looked at her. Why was it her question seemed suffused with double entendre? She was attractive, of course, more than attractive, but that wasn't all of it. She had a way of looking at me with a sort of confident sexual appreciation, that was it. As though she was seeing me just the way I might hope a desirable woman would see me. And she made it seem so natural, so real. I would have to be careful.

I heard footsteps on the tile, then saw his profile as he emerged from the bathroom, wearing only a white tee shirt and matching boxer shorts.

Want to see the rock? Want to lay on it naked, and feel me in you, beneath the pinwheel stars, while the grass sings our names?

A girl who is willing to give every ounce of herself to someone, who could never betray her lover, who never suspects maliciousness of anyone, and whose sexuality sleeps in her, waiting to be stirred.

Karen Abbott reports that the Everleigh also offered sexual delicacies that weren't available elsewhere—"French" style, for instance, commonly known today as oral sex.

I love deep cleavage on the foot. It reminds me of Berlin in 1930s, 'Cabaret.'

The truly erotic sensibility, in evoking the image of woman, never omits to clothe it. The robing and disrobing: that is the true traffic of love.

Words make love with one another.

In this world love has no color yet how deeply my body is stained by yours.

I love intimate details like lingerie, something like a gorgeous silk stocking or exquisite slipper.

I believe in running through the rain and crashing into the person you love and having your lips bleed on each other.

Love - bittersweet, irrepressible - loosens my limbs and I tremble.

You can't make love without art.

I Love your lips when they're wet with wine and red with wicked desire.

Painting is like making love. You cannot ask, 'How do you do it?' But, hopefully, it is beautiful.

I love black lingerie and white shoes, and I love knives.

his yellow eyes gazed at me possessively -- I wondered if he realized that the way he looked at me was far more intimate than copping a feel could ever be.

What do I wear in bed? Why, Chanel No. 5, of course.

Been making love for hours and, baby, we're still going strong. Girl, this night is ours and I swear I feel it coming on. All I know is when we get through, I ain't going to be able to move.