Quotes About Sensory

Baines came up behind him, a hulking form, breathing softly. He smelled of soap and wine and rosewater and lightly of fresh sweat.

Abby Irene ran both hands through her hair, strands pulling between the fingers, the insides of her wrist pale as skimmed milk and veined with blue.

The blood in Matthew's mouth was sweet as his brother's eyes flickered, cleared, focused on his own.

She smelled of clotted blood: iron and salt. I thought about iron and salt, and bindings and chains.

Dripping water freckled his shoulders and tapped against his hair.

Jane pivoted in her desinger shoes and pressed one side of the double doors open with her fingertips; solid oak swung away from her touch, hung so perfectly it moved like rice paper.

He held the book close to his face, open, cupped in the palm of his hands, inhaling the oak-leaf scent of the pages.

This is as close to an act of love as thou wilt ever taste.

Somehow, Kit got the cup to his mouth. Perhaps even the steam was fortifying. It tasted of bitter earth and summer sun and the unshed tears still clogging his throat.

Shared breath brought tumbling memories, salty bittersweet jewels.

He closed his eyes and leaned into the poetry as he leaned into the cloths that bound him, and his lips moved slightly.

Her scent wreathes round my head. Musk, and a field of pungent flowers. Heady, not sweet.

Red ran through my fingers, dripping to the white, white stone.

Carel stood under the crimson and bone-white shower of the rambling roses, breathing deeply.

My hand, innocent of its glove, catches hers. I move her fingertip from my face, but still we are skin to skin.

Michelangelo's thumb moved across his wrist, giving Vincent a sympathetic shiver at the imagined texture of the skin.

Selene smelled the old woman's flesh, acrid electronics, and consistency, and it helped drive the dangerous musk from her nostrils.

His breath smelled faintly of blood, as from a bitten cheek. His handshake was quite firm, masculine, but not so the delicate squeeze before he disengaged. Meant to be shocking-or alluring-but Sebastien was too old to be shocked and he had already been allured. After a fashion.

A Gallic-nosed fellow, slight with silver-shot dark curls and dark eyes, brushed rudely past them just as Jack returned from the top of the plank. He reeked of vertiver and musk; Jack's nose wrinkled as he passed, and he half-smiled at himself to realize how accustomed he'd become to the Puritan cleanliness of American colonials, and their aversion to heavy perfumes.

The coffee's good, dark, redolent. The surface is clotted with broken rainbows. I raise it to my mouth, pause breathing in the steam. Just the smell of it is energy.

Mallory reached across Perceval's lap and stroked Rien's sweat-cold cheek. This touch, Rien did not flinch from. Perceval swallowed, an acrid pain of jealousy.

Kit reached up and over, felt down the spring plane of his shoulder blade. His left arm with its old injury wouldn't flex so far; he reached with the right. Blood-gorged flesh heated his fingertips. He could feel, almost, the outline of each tooth, the roughness of a seeking tongue. Right where someone might bite a lover take from behind- Right where a wing would take root, if he had wings.

What settled over him felt like the brush of a silk sheet down his skin. What followed that touch was blackness, utter and complete.

Open the book. (The gilt rubs off the edges of the pages and pollinates the fingertips.)