Quotes About Sensuality

Marie se sentait bien, nue sous les draps a l'abri de l'orage, les sens exacerbes dans le noir, les yeux brillants dans les eclairs, savourant avec volupte la dimension erotique du plaisir qu'il y a de jouir de l'orage dans la chaleur d'un lit, la fenetre ouverte dans la nuit, quand le ciel se dechire et les elements se dechainent. La main et le regard, il n'est jamais question que de cela dans la vie, en amour, en art.

Didn't I tell you about her? She stuck her fingers in her vagina and then rubbed the stuff behind her ears. She said it made the men crazy." "That is so disgusting," Alice says. "I know." "God!" "I know." "Did you try it?" she asks. "Of course." "Did it work?" "Not for me.

had been a long time since he'd touched a woman like that It was that he'd never touched a woman like Claire at all. Not one who was all cool culture and calm comportment and classy custom.

Polly was the same age as Alma, but daintier and startlingly beautiful. She looked like a perfect figurine carved out of fine French soap, into which someone had inlaid a pair of glittering peacock-blue eyes. But it was the tiny pink pillow of her mouth that made this girl more than simply pretty; it made her an unsettling little voluptuary, a Bathsheba wrought in miniature.

What did I want to do with myself? I wanted to do this! I wanted to drink martinis with showgirls, and listen to Broadway business talk, and eavesdrop on the gossip of boys who looked like girls! I wanted to hear about people's big sex lives!

To get "good" at sex—which, for a woman, means learning how to enjoy and even orchestrate the act, to the point of her own climax—one needs time, patience, and an attentive lover.

apreciar o prazer pode ser a âncora de humanidade de uma pessoa.

Good." He straddled her, caging her with his body. "Were it up to me, all of London would know what we do here. -Griffin to Hero.

I would do violence for one glimpse of your naked breasts. Bleed for one taste of your nipple on my tongue. (Winter Makepeace)

I love you," he whispered as he thrust again. And again. Each movement controlled. Each small movement devastating in its effect. "I love you." She lost all concept of time. She lost her place and surroundings. She couldn't remember who he was—who she was. She lost her mind.

At her gesture Michael cursed and caught her hand, falling suddenly atop her. She stared up at him wondering what bedchamber faux pas she'd committed. He groaned at her look. "I'll let ye pet and play all ye want—after. Now I need"—he pushed her chemise to her waist, parted her thighs, and settled between them—"to be inside ye.

She took his length gently between her hands, her arms resting on his thighs, and looked up into his face. "I'm very, very angry with you." And she opened her mouth over him.

There was no sound, but she felt a movement, a shifting of the air in her room, the warmth of another presence. Isabel opened her eyes. He was there, at the foot of her bed, a single candle in his hand, dressed only in shirtsleeves, waistcoat, and breeches. "Forgive me," he whispered as he set the candle down. "I could not stay away.

She caught his wrist, stilling the hand on her thigh. Her eyes were a little desperate. What do you mean to do? I'd like to show you my way of making love, he said gently.

She moaned, long and low, wanting to arch, to thrash, to scream. Instead she opened her mouth and bit his shoulder, tasting salt. Tasting want. Then she gasped. Please. What do you want? he whispered in her ear, an incubus, dark and alive and in her. Tell me. What do you need? I... Her mouth opened, wordless. Tell me, his smoky voice curled around her. You. He chuckled, dark and low.

No one could hear them over the carriage wheels, yet somehow it felt right to whisper. His eyes dropped to her gaping bodice. One nipple was reddened and still moist. He averted his eyes, swallowing. His erection, silly thing, didn't know the show was over.

Oh, Séraphine, he purred, pushing his nose close to her jaw to inhale her righteous scent. Who do you suppose sits in Parliament? Who makes the laws, runs the government of this great and lofty nation, hmm? She hadn't bathed this morning, he could tell, and she smelled of herself: woman, sweat, sex. He licked across her cheek, tasting salt and pure saint, to her mouth. He bit her lips. Once, twice, a third time, wanting, craving .

And she arched, screaming, the lightning blazing from her center, sparking through her limbs, flying out her fingertips. She was incandescent. He fell atop her, heavy and male, pulling her legs up around his narrow hips, and ground down into her, once, twice. His cock jerked within her and she could feel every muscle in his body tense. He groaned into her ear like a man dying and then fell senseless and limp. And as she followed him into exhausted slumber she heard his single word: Mine .

He was like a young tiger, all muscle and passion, and she wanted to ride him--not to tame the beast, but to feel for a small moment all of his vitality.

He attacked her throat and she was so startled by the sudden move that she squeaked. He was laving her with his tongue, openmouthed, and she moaned, arching, wondering wildly if this was the same man who wore pink silk coats and black velvet bows. This seemed so base , so animal. Not at all like the effete aristocrat she thought she knew.

The duke brought her hand to his mouth and, his azure eyes glittering in the candlelight, pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. And then the edge of his teeth. She felt the warm softness of his lips, the prickle of against tender skin, and a sort of shock seemed to go straight through the center of her body. He let her go and her wrist felt the cold of night. Séraphine. The burning one. I should've known.

He was covered, of course, but she knew what lay beneath the sheets- she'd seen him entirely nude at the Lords' revels. She had the image burned into her memory: a proud, thick penis, heavy sac, and curling midnight hair. If the coverlet slipped just a little bit downward, she would see the upper edge of that nest of black hair. The thought made her press her thighs together under her dress. Did he know how his body affected her?

ARTEMIS WOKE TO the feel of strong arms grasping her tight and lifting her from her bed. She should've been alarmed, but all she felt was a strange rightness. She looked up as Maximus carried her into the corridor outside her room. His face was set in grim lines, his eyes drawn and old, his mouth flat. He wore his banyan, its silk smooth beneath her cheek. She could hear his heart beating, strong and steady.

The sight of her was like a swift, cool wind through his frame, quickening his body, alerting all his senses, making him completely aware he was a male and she a female.