Quotes About Passion

Not willing to deny himself a modest sample of the shattering excess, he spun her and propped her against the bedpost. Her thighs were spread wide and, though many layers of fabric separated them, his cock was wedged against her mound, her searing heat coaxing him, urging him on and in. Matching the thrust of his tongue, he flexed against her, slowly and meticulously, letting her savor his aroused condition, allowing her to distinguish his decadent invitation.

What man had ever been presented such an enticing feast? She was a mature virgin, primed and ready for sexual initiation. If he acceded, he could excite and stimulate her, teach and disclose to her the sexual methods he enjoyed. A devoted, zealous pupil, she would wield her distinct skills with lethal precision for his exclusive benefit and delectation.

Not willing to deny himself a modest sample of the shattering excess, he sun her and propped her agains the bedpost. Her thighs were spread wide and, though many layers of fabric separated them, his cock was wedged against her mound, her searing heat coaxing him, urging him on and in. Matching the thrust of his tongue, he flexed against her, slowly and meticulously, letting her savor his aroused condition, allowing her to distinguish his decadent invitation.

Fastidiously, she investigated, learning his shape, awed by the variations of velvet over steel. She pampered and played, altering the pressure, the speed, the length of her caress. Amazingly, with the slightest modification, he reacted accordingly.

Her breathing hitched. Too much was happening too fast. The wanton episode was so inconceivable that it played out like a fantasy---except that he was really present, arousing and addictive. Her mind wailed for her to call a halt, but her body wouldn't obey. 'I'd planned to have you on your bed the first time"---his assertion brushed against her ear---"but maybe I should take you here, by the mirror, so you can see how splendid we are together.

Two things I take very seriously in life. My golf game and my relationship with God. Neither one is simple.

I managed to persevere partly because not everyone responded with that stare; there was enthusiasm as well. And I was struck that no one responded with bored indifference. The topic was clearly hot—too hot for some people to handle, heartwarming to others.

He kissed me hard and I kissed him back harder, like it was the end of an era that had lasted all of my life.

I know it's hard to write, darling. But it's harder not to. The only way you'll find out if you "have it in you" is to get to work and see if you do.

It's folly to measure your success in money or fame. Success is measured only by your ability to say yes to these two questions: Did I do the work I needed to do? Did I give it everything I had?

You go on by finding a channel for your love and another for your rage.

The best thing you can possibly do with your life is to tackle the motherfucking shit out of love.

I'd entered the city the way one enters any grand love affair: with no exit plan.

I chose Van Gogh.

Jump high and hard with intention and heart.

Write so blazingly good that you can't be framed... Write like a motherfucker.

I hope when people ask what you're going to do with your English and/or creative writing degree you'll say: ... Carry it with me, as I do everything that matters.

They're tortured by indecision and guilt and lust. They love X but want to fuck Z. It is the plight of almost every monogamous person at one time or another. We all love X but want to fuck Z.

all the things I'd done in my life, of all the versions of myself I'd lived out, there was one that had never changed: I was a writer.

And now it was official: I loved REI more than I loved the people behind Snapple lemonade.

Rise to the occasion of your one and only heart.

Don't lament so much about how your career is going to turn out. You don't have a career. You have a life. Do the work. Keep the faith.

That you're so bound up about writing tells me that writing is what you're here to do. And when people are here to do that, they almost always tell us something we need to hear. I want to know what you have inside you. I want to see the contours of your second beating heart. So write, Elissa Bassist. Not like a girl. Not like a boy. Write like a motherfucker. Yours,

Her love was full-throated and all-encompassing and unadorned. Every day she blew through her entire reserve.