Quotes About Sensuality

He leaned down to her ear and purred. Damn but she loved when he purred.

And, sugar, if you're gonna sit out on that balcony at night, half-naked, smellin' so sweet and sighing like you just had the best fuck of your life, then you might as well put a leash around my neck and call me yours.

He had won. He could release her at any time. But her lips... those soft, sweet petals were parting tremulously at the touch of his tongue, and she was granting him entry to the warmth of her mouth. He thrust boldly inside, wanting but one taste of her. Only one.

She tilted her head back with a breathless moan, whispering his name, "Saxon." Then three more words tumbled from her lips in an aching, husky plea. "Do not stop.

His mouth captured hers with a strong, soft heat and Celine discovered something far sexier than this man's voice or his body. His kiss. She never had the chance to think of a protest. To think at all. She had been kissed before, but never like this. It was neither awkward and teasing nor forceful and overpowering, but long, slow, confident, and devastating. It was as if he were binding them together, deftly drawing her soul into his.

It had been so long since she had felt the touch of a man. Too long. She had almost forgotten that ripe, heavy throb of attraction and desire that could instantly drug her body and mind more thoroughly than any hard liquor.

What is it?" she mumbled. "Something that will make my kisses taste like chocolate.

At least once in his life, he would like for her to look at him as she would a morsel of fine French pastry. Or a slice of Victoria sandwich. Or even a humble piece of buttered bread.

Even now her body yearned to be closer to him. She wanted to press her nose into his skin and inhale hungrily—he always smelled as if he'd just taken a walk across a sunny meadow. She wanted to rub her palm against his jaw to feel the beginning of stubbles. She wanted to slide her hands underneath his shirt and learn every single shape and texture, with the fierce dedication she'd once put into mastering the Grandes Études.

He took a strand of hair that had fallen loose from her chignon between his fingers. The gesture shocked her, not because his self-control seemed to have snapped, but the exact opposite - it felt like a deliberate choice on his part.

But tonight, after the carriages left, there would be Millie, her scent like a breeze from their lavender field at the height of summer, her skin as smooth as the finest velvet. Their eyes met. She flushed. Desire tumbled through him.

Then he made love to her not only as if he had never experienced lovemaking before, but no one had.

He climbed into bed himself and kissed his way up her legs. Instincts she didn't even know she possessed made her clench her thighs together. Without any hesitation, he pushed them apart, exposing her to his gaze. "The doors of the temple, darling, never close to the devout acolyte.

She wanted to run her hands over him as he whispered the impassioned corollaries of non-Euclidean geometry.

Something that will make my kisses taste like chocolate.

He kissed her on her ear, a kiss with the barest hint of moisture to it. She could not breath for the electricity of it, a violent spark of pleasure that shook and scarred. His fingers caressed her shoulders. His lips pressed into her exposed nape. Dark, hot sensations spiked into her.

And in the depth of her eyes were all these years—seasons they'd known, paths they'd trod. Slowly he entered her again. Everything reflected in her gaze: shyness, yearning, ripples of pleasure. The pleasure turned fierce, then ferocious. He labored to draw breath. In the wash of her climax, she closed her eyes. He closed his own eyes and yielded to the moment.

His voice, however, was utterly velvety—if an upholstered wrecking ball could be called velvety. "I won't need to try, my dear. My touch will burn away his." She couldn't breathe. "You were always quiet in his bed," he went on, "but you won't be in mine. You will scream with pleasure—and you will do it again and again.

I won't bite, you know," he said. "I might lick, but I won't bite." "I don't want you to lick either." "I will lick only where you like, how is that?

You know what I think about when I'm alone and you are far away?" he murmured. "I think about you, naked, under the sun." He licked her nipple. She whimpered. "Not the English sun, mind you, because it is never adequate. But the sun over the Arabian sea. Or the sun of the south of France. Light brilliant enough to shatter mirrors. And you, naked, in that light, your thighs open this wide—

To understand desire, one needs language and flesh.

Swearing, he fisted a hand in her short hair, yanked her head back and slanted his mouth over hers. She opened for him, humming with delight and Law was cursing himself even as he gorged on her taste. Fuck, she was sweet—hot, sweet, and perfect.

She turned her face into my neck and brushed her lips over my skin. That soft touch sent a flood of sensation flying through me and I tightened my grip on her, aching. It was a gut-deep, visceral ache—a thirsting, the kind that might never been quenched, or eased.

When night falls, I ache for you.You are like a fever that has entered my brain and though i try to escape you, though I tell myself I am mad, that nothing good can come from it, that you are like all the others, that you will betray and cause me nothing but pain, in the end I am left with only a gnawing desire to have you in my arms,to kiss you...to make love to you." -Brett Dangermond