Quotes About Sensuality

hands, gently toying with her sensitive nipples. Gasping, she sagged against him, knowing he wouldn't let her fall. One strong hand slid down her side to her hip, where he grasped her possessively; then he pushed her back to lean against the wall. Kissing his way down her neck and nuzzling into the hollow of her throat, he murmured tender, sexy promises, the hunger in his voice making

Stacey stepped closer. Closer. Until the tips of her boot-clad feet touched his shoes and their clothes brushed. The place was wrong; the timing was even more wrong. But everything else about the moment

I remembered earlier in the summer I'd found her working in her garden, sweaty and flushed with heat. I laid her down in the grass nearby and pressed her body into the dirt with my hips and kissed her mouth until she made small sounds of desire I recognised.

Her white fox fur was coarse and smooth at the same time, and she made little yipping snarls every time he pushed himself deeper inside her. He never wanted to stop.

He slid down the stone bench to her end and kissed her and bit her lower lip until she gasped.

I like a guy who uses his hips when he's dancing.

There's this poet named Walter Benton, I really like his stuff. He always uses landscapes as a metaphor for the female body.

He filled the camp with fellow ecstasy fanatics, free spirits, and babes. There was more than enough sensuality to be had, but three guys in their sixties traveling with the wives of their close friends was like traveling with private detectives.

Fucking, drinking, smoking, loving, living, freebasing, spending, laughing, crying, working, falling apart, kissing, writing, blacking out.

It's a very long penis Johnny has, and a smooth one, smooth as ivory. She compliments him on it and he says thank you. But they have to hide it. It is too big to hide under the sheets, and it keeps getting bigger as she talks about it and touches it. It's so big that it disappears over the edge of the bed and out the window.

separating her thighs. The scent of her arousal hardened every muscle in his body. He moved his hand down her hip and then to her hot, warm core.

les beaux bras ronds des femmes, les lèvres qui s'appointent

Jondalar, you give me nothing but joy, nothing but pleasure. I love it when you want me, any time, any place. If you want me, there is no time I am not ready for you. I always want you. I love you.

I took the red dress down and put it against myself. 'Does it make me look intemperate and unchaste?' I said.

The sensuality of desperate lives. Only poets talk like that. But poetry has never had an answer for anything. All it does it bear witness. To despair. And desperate lives.

She arches her body like a cat on a stretch. She nuzzles her cunt into my face like a filly at the gate. She smells of the sea. She smells of rockpools when I was a child. She keeps a starfish in there. I crouch down to taste the salt, to run my fingers around the rim. She opens and shuts like a sea anemone. She's refilled each day with fresh tides of longing.

I would eat my way into perdition to taste you.

I felt like a seed in a pomegranate. Some say that the pomegranate was the real apple of Eve, fruit of the womb, I would eat my way into perdition to taste you.

You have a dress with a décolletage to emphasise your breasts. I suppose the cleavage is the proper focus but what I wanted to do was to fasten my index finger and thumb at the bolts of your collar bone, push out, spreading the web of my hand until it caught against your throat. You asked me if I wanted to strangle you. No, I wanted to fit you, not just in the obvious ways but in so many indentations.

Wallowing is sex for depressives.

I want to touch you.' 'And if you did touch me, what then?' 'I would find a language of beginning.

She wanted to kiss the hesitation of his throat.

Passion is sweeter split strand by strand.

How else can I know you but through the body you rent? Forgive me if I love it too much.