Quotes About Sensuality

bordello tokens

I have been thinking about the girl I met last night in the mirror: dark on the marble-ivory white: glossy black hair: deep suspiring eyes in which one's glances sink because they are nervous, curious, turned to sexual curiosity.

Keep it simple, keep it sexy, keep it sad.

Cinema, heir of alchemy, last of an erotic science.

She waits for his reprimand or words of disapproval.He kisses her instead. Hard. Lips demanding, fingers tightening on her chin. He consumes her with this single act.

'You're like starlight, ' Cam whispered, and his teeth scraped up my jaw. I shivered. 'I could lose myself in you.'

When somebody gives you a sexy look, you know they're trying. It's terrible! But when you smile, it's so much sexier!

Caelen?" "Aye, lass?" "You were right." "What was I right about?" "Kissing. 'Tis a most wondrous thing." She could sense his smile.

Those lips had curved into a knowing half smile that did funny things to her insides. And like a match tossed to gasoline, her body sparked alive and flames licked every inch of her.

The only place men want depth in their women is in their décolletage

It strikes me that the physical details of the dying body are as intimate and predictable as those of the body making love.

I wanted to tell her I loved her. I wanted to tell her things would be simple. I wanted to tell her the soft animal of my body wanted only the soft animal of hers. But instead, I let myself succumb to the warmth of her skin and the rhythm of her breath, slipping back into a half-sleep.

But what I kept wondering about is this: that first second when she felt her skirt burning, what did she think? Before she knew it was candles, did she think she'd done it herself? With the amazing turns of her hips, and the warmth of the music inside her, did she believe, for even one glorious second, that her passion had arrived?

He moved his fingers down her whole spine, one by one by one, and during the time it took to do that, his brain remained absolutely quiet. It is these empty spaces you have to watch out for, as they flood up with feeling before you even realize what's happened; before you find yourself, at the base of her spine, different.

I wanted to bathe in plum juice, rediscover my body and adorn it in kiwi circles.

In those days, she let her hair loose, down to her waist, and whenever I met old friends of hers, they would describe my mother as having resembled a mermaid with legs. With a sheerness to her skin that people wanted to shield.

She is walking around the living room naked and

We end up kissing her for an hour, and her lips are so soft they are almost like a joke.

And you you bitch no irritating questions re love and permanence only an unrolling lifetime here between your rocking thighs and the semblance of motion

Nothing is erotic that isn't also, with the wrong person, revolting, which is precisely what makes erotic moments so intense: at the precise juncture where disgust could be at its height, we find only welcome and permission.

Eroticism is therefore seemingly most clearly manifest at the intersection between the formal and the intimate.

É impossível continuar a fazer amor se a carpete for sempre a mesma.

It's more than mere coyness to refer to what they have done as "making love." They haven't just had sex; they have translated their feelings—appreciation, tenderness, gratitude, and surrender—into a physical act.

In the Proustian scheme, it is impossible to love someone physically.