Quotes About Sensuality

Grace. Her name whispered through Jack's mind like the silken stroke of a hand. He'd never seen her look as pretty as she did tonight, the vibrant bronze hue of her gown lending her skin a creamy luminosity, her hair gleaming a rich, fiery red that reminded him of living flame. And passion. He wondered if that same intense fire lay hidden inside her, and he relished the idea of finding out.

He captured one of her legs, stilling her for a moment so he could fit his own between hers. Sliding upward, he insinuated his thigh against the part of her that ached the most, then rubbed, her nightgown bunched between her flesh in a way that only increased her craving.

Almost imperceptibly, he moved closer, the warmth of his body radiating outward, together with his own mesmerizing scent- clean and male and uniquely him. "What fragrance are you wearing?" he asked. "Nothing. I don't wear perfume, at least not often." He inched nearer still, his voice lowering to a murmur. "You're just naturally sweet then, are you? Exactly as I expected.

He spoke her name as though he held cinnamon in his mouth.

I could not think of anything but his fingers on my neck, his thumb on my lips.

Venice is like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go.

If God invented anything better than drunk sex with a hot girl, he kept it to himself.

You're better than this. Be with me. Be my wife, my love, my life. Share my wealth. Own my heart. Be my countess. You are tender, utterly sensuous, and in your own naughty way you are pure.

She carried a faint odor of cocktail sausages mingled with sweat. Like a fool I slipped my hand up the inside of her leg. I felt the roughness of her nylons.

With women, my wiring shorts out. My senses respond to the physical and the chemical, the scent and sheen of her. Evil could not possibly reside in the form of this angel. Or could it? Sure, I'm politically incorrect. I admit it; I confess; guilty as charged. I am, Your Honor, the lowest of the species, still wet from the swamp, webbed feet fossilized in the mud. I am a Man!

Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine.

All the mouths that had probed her mouth, all the hands that had seized her breasts and her belly, all the members that had been thrust into her and so perfectly provided the living proof that she was indeed prostituted, had at the same time provided the proof that she was worthy of being prostituted and had, so to speak, sanctified her.

He kissed her, laid her down on the bed, lay down beside her and, tenderly and slowly and gently, took her, alternating between the two tracks open to him, before finally spilling himself into her mouth, which he then kissed again.

It was not the caress of her lips the length of him was looking for, but the back of her throat.

without leaving his armchair, without even touching her with his fingertips, he ordered her to kneel down in front of him, take him and caress his sex until he discharged in her mouth.

Thus, he had thrust his hands and sex into her, ransacked and ravaged her mouth and rear, but condescended only to place his lips upon her fingertips.

Não é esquecendo as fontes ardentes do sangue que você vai secá-las.

All four of them had taken her, and she had not been able to distinguish him from the others. They

Haces mal en asombrarte. Considera mejor tu amor. Se horrorizaría si comprendiera durante un solo instante que soy mujer y que estoy viva. Y no es olvidando las fuentes ardientes de la sangre como vas a cegarlas

Anyone who is in love is making love the whole time, even when they're not. When two bodies meet, it is just the cup overflowing. They can stay together for hours, even days. They begin the dance one day and finish it the next, or--such is the pleasure they experience--they may never finish it. No eleven minutes for them.

Anyone who is observant, who discovers the person they have always dreamed of, knows that sexual energy comes into play before sex even takes place. The greatest pleasure isn't sex, but the passion with which it is practiced. When the passion is intense, then sex joins in to complete the dance, but it is never the principal aim.

She imagined herself both queen and slave, dominatrix and victim. In her imagination she was making love with men of all skin colors--white, black, yellow--with homosexuals and beggars. She was anyone's, and anyone could do anything to her. She had one, two, three orgasms, one after another. She imagined everything she had never imagined before, and she gave herself to all that was most base and most pure.

She asks him to touch her, to feel her with his hands, because bodies always understand each other, even when souls do not.

The art of sex is the art of controlled abandon.