Quotes About Seduction

you have to hold your teeth clamped around Hollywood to keep from chewing on stray blondes.

She approached me with enough sex appeal to stampede a businessmen's lunch

I went down to the lobby and slipped the catch and then took a shower and put my pajamas on and lay down on the bed. I could have slept for a week. I dragged myself up off the bed again and set the catch on the door, which I had forgotten to do, and walked through a deep hard snowdrift out to the kitchenette and laid out glasses and a bottle of liqueur Scotch I had been saving for a really high-class seduction.

I bet she snaps a mean garter.

Then she lowered her lashes until they almost cuddled her cheeks and slowly raised them again, like a theater curtain. I was to get to know that trick. That was supposed to make me roll over on my back with all four paws in the air.

Sit down and rest your sex appeal.

I sat down on the edge of a deep soft chair and looked at Mrs. Regan. She was worth a stare. She was trouble. She was stretched out on a modernistic chaise-longue with her slippers off, so I stared at her legs in the sheerest silk stockings. They seemed to be arranged to stare at. They were visible to the knee and one of them well beyond. The knees were dimpled, not bony and sharp. The calves were beautiful, the ankles long and slim and with enough melodic line for a tone poem.

It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window. She was wearing street clothes that looked black and white, and a hat to match and she was a little haughty, but not too much. Whatever you needed, wherever you happened to be—she had it.

Don't kid yourself. You're a dirty low-down detective. Kiss me.

the colour of her hair was dusky red, like a fire under control but still dangerous.

El alcohol es como el amor —expresó—. El primer beso es magia; el segundo, intimidad; el tercero, rutina. Después de eso lo que hacemos es desvestir a la muchacha.

Era rubia. Pero qué rubia. Cualquier obispo haría un agujero en una vidriera para verla

You're as cold-blooded a beast as I ever met, Marlowe. Or can I call you Phil?" "Sure." "You can call me Vivian." "Thanks, Mrs. Regan." "Oh, go to hell, Marlowe." She went on out and didn't look back.

She leaned back and a pulse beat in her throat. She was exquisite, she was dark, she was deadly. And nothing would ever touch her, not even the law.

Men love their fears. That is why they hold on to them so tightly. You've learned something very young, Prince, something that even older men rarely understand. You've learned that fear isn't a terrible-looking thing but something lovely and seductive.

Such speech aims to tranquilize and disempower the populace, to keep us isolated and at home, seduced into helplessness, just as more direct tyrannies seek to terrify citizens into isolation.

When I looked at the curve of her hips and thighs on the window shelf, I could feel the way she had writhed back against me so clearly it was almost virtual.

But cockteasing is also a metaphor: she is someone who will manipulate your inner self while holding hers back from you.

I was deeply misled by Lady Chatterley's Lover, which seemed to insist that running naked through damp undergrowth with wild flowers entwined in your pubic hair was just about the closest thing to heaven.

He regarded her thoughtfully, and something about that look traveled up her spine like a trailed finger.

The duke was sitting silently in the corner, long legs casually outstretched, arms loosely crossed over him, surveying the room with ironic eyes. They lingered on her; he gave her the faintest of smiles. It was almost impossible to believe that this was the man who had said to her 'I want you naked beneath me.' Apart from the rush of blood to various places in her body when she thought it, she could almost imagine it hadn't happened at all.

Her heart was walloping away in her throat, and she was certain he could feel it, as his fingers lingered there. Nearly everything on her body that could stand erect was erect now, clamoring for his touch. The hair on the back of her neck, her arms. Her nipples. Are you afraid, Genevieve? No. You do enjoy saying my name. It has a lilt. I see. Her voice was faint. Because you should consider being a little afraid.

He reached out and drew his finger lightly from her ankle right up the curve of her calf. When his finger reached the crook of her knee, he stopped. Astonished to see it there. Silently, a little frantically, he considered excuses: An insect was crawling up your stocking, Susannah. I was checking to see if you were injured, Susannah. I was--- Don't stop. It was her voice. Husky, abstracted. And the words roared like a brushfire over his senses.

She slid her arms