Quotes About Sensuality

Blood, flesh: what were these? Coarse, brutish victuals, the things that dogs ate. With his more refined palate, Peveral Othman could imbibe a more subtle substance.

Oh, Enniel, face reality. Shemyaza is no ordinary being. What would burn you or I might simply be the beat of a lover's body to him.

The Gelaming were sensualists, of course, as were the other tribes of their country. They enjoyed luxury, even of the simplest kind-and perhaps that was the best sort.

The flesh tingled only slightly. Louis was no voracious monster like Emilia Manden. A slight glow still played around Louis's lips, which were shuddering. Othman knew the ichor would have tasted wonderful, literally divine

Her gaze travelled down his chest to the dark coins of his nipples, which seemed to call for a halo of lips to encircle them, for eager teeth to bite them.

They danced together, bodies close, belly-grinding to the rhythm, invoking the demands of lust.

She visualised an image of dark, shady hallways, where fans turned slowly on the ceiling, parting the thick smoke of hashish; dark eyes behind a lattice, the low chuckle of feminine laughter, the swish of light cotton against polished floors. Such a strange summoning.

Melandra felt the moist heat of the woman's sweet, spicy breath upon her lips. Her whole body tingled as if it was being stroked by loving hands. Melandra closed her eyes. Her lips met those of the nameless woman and for a timeless, endless moment, they kissed like lovers.

He drifted into his memories then, and Sarpanita's mind was filled with dusty images, like ancient paintings hung too long in the light. She fell into the dream of them, lived them; saw Shemyaza as a young man, heard his laughter. He was beautiful in the alien way of the Annage, with the incredible height and in his long, serpent face. She knew that Penemue had loved him as more than a brother. He showed her their love-making and she could witness it without shyness.

I would honour you, young terranaut, so lie down passively while I acquaint myself with the exquisite contours of your flesh.

She has a hot, dark air about her. It's frustrated virginity, you know.

Wine flowed from fountains, down into the mouths of those who lay in the pools beneath them. Narcotic fumes oozed from cubes of incense that smouldered in human skulls. I saw men and women of incredible beauty, like glaciers or naked flames. All were dancing, dancing.

The kiss was an enchantment; oddly chaste, yet steaming with repressed desire.

If a woman knows secret richness touches her flesh, she walks taller.

There was nothing more to it than that; it was not erotic in any way, but art, purely that; living sculpture, their planes of vital marble catching the light, using it to create new forms.

We stripped the flower of its foilage and purred and rubbed our faces across its flesh.

Shiny, undulating forms wave between his legs, caressed his flanks, but neither bit nor constricted his limbs.

He burned with the proximity of her body. She smelled of soap and floral scent.

How much Tayven had been like good food: a delight to the senses. People had wanted to gorge on him and they had. But the flavors eventually had become bitter.

Girls sprawled on the floor and across the couches. A sickly scent of plundered fruit flesh filled the humid air. Wine had been drink and spilled; goblets stood upon the table and lay upon the floor. Young faces were flushed with pleasure and a vicarious excitement. Gowns were rumpled and stained, slippers cast off. The fire burned loudly and fiercely. Wood cracked in the flames. There was little other light, for the candles had burned nearly all away.

He didn't answer. Instead he cupped her face in his hands and drew her towards him. Then he kissed her lightly on the lips. Oh god, she wanted his head between her legs and she wanted it now.

that secret entrance deep between her thighs clenched like the mouth of a drawstring purse.

He wrapped his lips around her finger and sucked hard as he slowly pulled the digit free, and that secret entrance deep between her thighs clenched like the mouth of a drawstring purse.

I clench my fist around your stiffness, and your breathing quickens as I draw it back and forth. After your warm, sticky release, I lick my hand clean. Then I bury my face in your wild, stinking hair and hold you. To hold you is to be at one with you. To be at one with the starry cosmos of ancient gods above. As I hold you I will the night never to end. For our oneness fades with the disappearing stars. And by daylight you are other again.