A Quote by Drake
Holding her hand in public is just another way of saying you're proud to have her.
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Holding Eleanor’s hand was like holding a butterfly. Or a heartbeat. Like holding something complete, and completely alive. As soon as he touched her, he wondered how he’d gone this long without doing it. He rubbed his thumb through her palm and up her fingers, and was aware of her every breath.
You could be a gambler. A thief, for all I know. Besides—” He captured her hand and stopped her from walking on, holding her in place. “Besides what, you insufferable prude?” “Prude, eh? Do you need another kiss to remind you what a prude I am?” “Don’t you dare.” “Then don’t call me names.” “You started it.
I believe in the Yves Saint Laurent woman who either has her hands in the pockets of her pantsuit or is holding her lover's hand. She doesn't need a bag.
He leans over and takes her hand. With the other he touches her face. ‘You your best thing, Sethe. You are.’ His holding fingers are holding hers. ‘Me? Me?
Then she fell on her knees, saying: 'I beg thee!' 'Nay, lady,' he said, and taking her by the hand he raised her. The he kissed her hand, and sprang into the saddle, and rode away, and did not look back; and only those who knew him well and were near to him saw the pain that he bore.
When Marlee [Matlin] won her Oscar, she said, "and I just want to thank my parents." When I was saying those words for her, I knew my parents were in the audience. I was saying it for her and a little bit for myself, even though I wasn't saying it in sign language and they didn't understand what I was saying.
She looked at her hand: Just some hand, holding a cheap pen. Some girls’ hand. She had nothing to do with that hand. Let that hand do whatever it wanted to.
Taking a deep breath that smelled of rain, she was poised to move when a hand clasped her elbow. Memories of another hand grabbing her sent panic shooting through her veins. She swung around. "Whoa. You okay?" Lucas lightened his clasp around her arm. Kylie caught her breath and stared up at the werewolf's blue eyes. "Yeah. You just...surprised me. You need to whistle when you come up on me.
He inhaled her scent, uncaring of the blood and dirt and grime that permeated her hair and clothing. He was holding her. Finally holding her. “You’re real. You’re real.” She pulled away, looked up at him, the same answering emotion shining in her blue eyes. With a groan, he lowered his mouth to hers. He couldn’t hold back. Nothing in the world would have kept him from kissing her in that moment. He was overcome.
Jacks stood beside her. Instead of saying anything, she felt his fingers trace up her palm and then lace into hers. He had taken her hand before, quickly and for functional reasons—usually to drag her off to someplace she didn’t want to go—but he had never held her hand. Not the way couples did in parks or lovers did in old movies. Maddy stood there and felt the heat of his grip. It made her think of that first night in the diner, when they had talked about pretend memories and she had felt so connected to him.
Meeting Marta, who she is as a person, and hanging out with her, seeing her watch my fight, screaming and cheering for me, being proud of me the same way I am proud of her, that's priceless. It was really cool. I never imagined that.
I say seduce her, seduce her tonight. Break the door down if you have to. Tell her all those things you said to me about her. You will love her more tomorrow than today and how you want to die with her hand in yours–which is an excellent line, by the way, that I fully intend to borrow when the time comes.
It was reported that Anna Kournikova is coming out with her own brand of deodorant. Apparently, the ads show Kournikova holding up her deodorant and saying now only her tennis game stinks.
Moving between her thighs, he stretched out above her, then thrust into her. Once. Because, as he did everything, he acted without hesitation or apology to claim her entirely. Her eyes went wide and her breath caught. Holding her gaze, he pressed himself deeper, barely easing back before pressing deep again.
She put her hand on her hip. "Where are you going?" "To the boat. You called me Lord Bill again. That means we're cool." Cerise slapped her forehead with the heel of her hand and followed him.
When someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time—the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the parts of her that are gone. Just when the day comes—when there's a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she's gone, forever—there comes another day, and another specifically missing part.
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