Quotes About Sensuality

His hands still held the windbreaker, his knuckles resting lightly on my breasts. An act of intimate possession more than of sexual aggression.

Ranger stood and stretched, his black T-shirt rode up, and I caught a glimpse of two inches of brown skin and hard abs and almost had an orgasm. "Babe," he said. "Are you okay?" "Yep. Why?" "You sort of moaned." "Gas." "Understandable.

Ranger slipped an arm around me, leaned close, and kissed me. The kiss was a further indicator that he liked the dress. In fact, the kiss suggested that while he liked the dress a lot, he wouldn't mind getting me out of the dress as soon as possible.

Ranger is Cuban-American with skin the color of a mocha latte, heavy on the mocha, and a body that can best be described as yum.

The lights were low, and Ranger was naked and lounging on the bed, waiting for me to return. I did a slow scan of his perfect body.

Ranger's lips swept along my jawline to my ear. "I could make you forget the gown.

He lowered his mouth and kissed me. I know I should have kneed him in the groin, but the kiss was delicious. Joe Morelli still knew how to kiss.

He had his hand in your pants and he kissed you," Lula said. "I'm wetting myself.

And in an instant I was pinned beneath him, which was not an entirely unpleasant experience once I realized it was Ranger. We were groin to groin, chest to chest, with his hands locked around my wrists. A moment passed while we did nothing but breathe.

The other hand wanted to wrap itself around Ranger's most perfect body part and not let go.

Morelli was an amazing lover, but Ranger was magic.

You must find a boy your own age. Someone mild and beautiful to be your lover. Someone who will tremble for your touch, offer you a marguerite by its long stem with his eyes lowered. Someone whose fingers are a poem.

She kissed me on the mouth. Her mouth tasted like iced coffee and cardamom, and I was overwhelmed by the taste, her hot skin and the smell of unwashed hair. I was confused, but not unwilling. I would have let her do anything to me.

I emitted some civetlike female stink, a distinct perfume of sexual wanting, that he had followed to find me here in the dark.

They dream of men with gentle hands, eloquent with tenderness, fingers that brushed along a cheek, that outlined open lips in the lovers' braille. Hands that sculpted sweetness from sullen flesh, that traced breast and ignited hips, opening, kneading. Flesh becomes bread in the heat of those hands, braided and rising.

People want a little magic. Sex is its theater. There are sliding panels and trapdoors.

She was as lovely sleeping as she was dripping in sensuality at the fundraiser

I hope that the women who wear my perfume will have men all over them.

Paint is a very sensual material. It's lovely to work with and lovely to look at.

Money is a powerful aphrodisiac but flowers work almost as well.

I thought I should work more on the idea that you wear a suit or a jacket because of the fun it can provide, because it's a game, because it might even have a sexual quality.

I can't think. I can't work or sleep. My body aches for you. I can make you want me again. Let me try.

If I ever feel like I don't know what to do next, I always think about WWJD, like 'what would J-Lo do,' 'cause J-Lo for me is like the epitome of feminine sensuality, mixed with show stopping beauty.

Storms are sex. They exist alongside and are indifferent to words and description and dissection.