Quotes About Sensuality

He said he don't like em boney, he want something he can grab

Breath mints and Chapstick are key if you want to have a good kiss.

She had the kind of fingers you want to interlace with your own.

It wasn't a touch that said I need more. It was a touch that said I want this.

A sexy picture can come from anyone who forms an intimacy with their subject. You can take a sexy picture of your cat if you want to.

I want a woman to feel the cut of the scissors in the clothes.

I'm interested in loving, beautiful, sexy images... I also want the images to be a turn on, create an adrenaline high, a rush of desire so intense that the act of looking is sexual.

I wanted to drown inside a woman in the feeling and drooling of the love I could give her. I wanted her pulse to crush me with its intensity. That's what I wanted. That's what I wanted myself to be.

It didn't escape me that he couldn't seem to stop finding reasons to touch me. Nor did I miss that I didn't want him to stop.

I want you to play me like a cello.

I don't know what it is about accents that makes me want to get undressed and high-five myself.

I can show you who's the man Let me show you with my hands I just want you close to me I'll get you wet Just wait and see

Bodily functions are a wonderful, indeed sensual, thing. Why, the mere blowing clear of a nose is a potential source of ecstasy, once you grasp its phlegmatic allure.

To lie with a lover was to celebrate the creation of fire. From this in the flesh to the world beyond.

She felt his eyes exploring her like ghost hands.

There's no religion but sex and music.

She lay back against the trellis, her eyes turned up in her had, moaning softly. I took my time, but supped little. It was important she should find it pleasurable, this first time.

She had the appearance of a woman who'd just come from a lover's embrace herself.

He looked sleepy, sensual, dragged from a bed of lust, no doubt.

Sensuality oozed from her straining limbs.

Her white skin fairly glowed as if lit by some inner fire. Her lips were the colour of red wine, purple in the shadows, and her eyes, like a cat's, were oblique and dark.

How many times had she danced herself into a deliciously drunken frenzy around the edges of her smouldering offerings, breathing deeply the heady, powerful, almost frightening reek of smoke?

He wished Owen would move his hands. It was impossible to think when they lay upon his body.

To Othman, it was like a fine brandy, a perfect Armagnac, rolled around the tongue. Such fiery, yet delicate flavours. The garden of Low Mede was ancient, timeless. Hanging there, a ragged shadow some inches above the ground, hidden among the old-fashioned shrubs, the esctatic bouquets of flowers rooted in the earth, Othman vicariously enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh. Hadn't he primed Owen for this?