Quotes About Lust

I could see the rage of insatiable uninvited lust in every line of that dark, stoic face that had once been too subtly etched for me to read.I wasn't the only one lying awake at night, fevered with memories, tossing, turning, soaking my sheets, burning up--not for Fae sex, but him, damn it all to hell, him.

When he'd pushed inside me and I'd feel him begin to penetrate, it had turned me into a wild thing-hot, wet, and desperate for more of him. With every kiss, every caress, every thrust, I'd just needed more. He'd touched me, I went nuts. The world dwindled down to one thing: him.

I want to drop to all fours and bay like a wild thing drunk on being hungry and strong, a beast that could fuck for days without cease if I could only find someone that could take it as hard and long a I can give it.

As his other hand began to slip around her waist, his body brushed against hers, and there was no mistaking the thick, hard ridge grazing her jean-clad bottom. Heavens, did that thing never subside? The rest of him might be mortal, but his immortal erection certainly didn't scan to have gotten the memo.

He would be, she now knew, a whole lot dominant in bed and a little bit dirty. -Gabrielle about Adam

Master to slave: when he says "Fuck me," my body softens and I get wet. It's visceral. Inescapable. I love the way he says "Fuck me," as if his body will explode if I don't touch him, slam down on him and take him inside me, meld our flesh together in that place we both find the only peace we ever know. Out of bed, we're a storm. In bed, we find the eye.

Lust is absurd. It strikes in the strangest places at the oddest times. She doesn't even realize she's feeling it. She's erected a barricade of propriety and lies between us. I despise the type of woman she is. I loathe her soft pink innocence. My body doesn't concur. I wonder why her?

He bristles with impatience. I feel the lust rolling off him, the violence beneath it. "You said you wanted something. What is it, Ms. Lane?" I smile coolly. "The deed to my bookstore, Barrons. What else?

I have no desire to sleep with you. I want to fuck you. And there is no such thing as perfectly good sex. If it's 'perfectly good,' 

I inhaled his scent. He was near, a few feet away. Lust nearly buckled my knees. He was a tireless lover. There was nothing off-limits with him.

I stare at him through the dim light as instant lust eclipses anger, will, time, place.

Sex. Hunger. Rage. Hunger. Sex. Hunger. Rage. Hunger.

lust, greed, desire, and supremacy;

He had a way of making a woman feel, with a mere glance, as if she were the most desirable woman in the world. How was a woman to stare into the face of such lust, and not feel lust in response?

Picture this: Two people are in a room. One's a sociopath, one's not. Who has the advantage? The sociopath. Because it knows it's a sociopath. The empath doesn't. The empath thinks they're playing by the same rules. They aren't. They aren't even playing the same game. There are no rules with a sociopath. There's only— DESIRE, LUST, GREED, AND THE PATH WE CHOOSE TO SUPREMACY.

For something so soft, she takes her fucking hard, with a twist. I taste her. I could eat her alive. She closes her mouth on my dick. I close my hands on her head. I might not let her go. Slick with sweat, I defile her with reverence. Or revere her with defilement. Every. Inch. Of. Her. Motherfuckingfinebody.

You look beautiful sitting there spitting at me like a she-cat. All I have to do is look at you, and I lust. I'm going to take you back to the hotel and take off that delectable dress and make love to you until you don't have the energy to be mad at me anymore." Ian Connelly, Marquis of Derne

People think of the green pastoral when they think of lovers in nature. Those English poets used the vales and streams to douse their lusts into verse. But the desert offers something that no forest brook or valley ever can: distance. A cloudless rooming house for couples. Skies that will host any visitors' dreams with the bald hospitality of pure space.

Precisely who are you,Captain Sharpe?" He looked into that beautiful, treacherous face and a sweep of lust rushed through him. "You want to know who I am? Well, I am the devil incarnate and you,my sweet, are about to pay the devil's due.

It's the ones who can't let go - of fear or anger, lust or greed, vanity or pride or power - who are most at risk of becoming corrupted.

The reality of life with children is that there is rarely enough privacy, energy or time for the rampant lust couples feel they ought to be having, and men often feel sidelined.

Lust was a weed, a nightshade vine, a nettle, impossible to uproot as the mugwort I pulled in the fields of Illinois, so while in the daylight I was a flower of virtuous resolution, at night I was motherless in a cold kitchen, starved for the warm arms of a sweetheart and pretty words of approval.

John Wesley once boldly proclaimed that it is not possible for a man to be happy who is not also holy, and the way he explains it makes much sense. Who can be truly "happy" while filled with anger, rage, and malice? Who can be happy while nursing resentment or envy? Who can be honestly happy while caught in the sticky compulsion of an insatiable lust or incessant materialism

You won't want what you cannot have