A Quote by Sylvia Day
I own your pleasure," I whispered into his mouth. "I'll take it if you won't give it to me.
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I’m so sorry to disappoint you,” she said, breathing hard. “But it would take far more than that to scare me.” A quick flex of his arms, and their bodies collided. And he whispered, just as his mouth fell on hers, “God, I was hoping you’d say that.
You have a freckle here," he whispered, sweeping his tongue over a spot just under my jaw. "It drives me crazy every time you 're above me. I just want to do this..." The jentle draw of his mouth pushed me over the edge, and my knees tightened around his hips as i rocked against him.
Are you OK?" I asked. "I think so." Logan stared at me, and a smile pulled up his lips. "But maybe you should give me mouth-to-mouth, just to make sure.
He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her full on the mouth. His skin was wet with rain. When she didn't pull away, he took her face between his hands and kissed her again, on her forehead, on her nose, on her mouth once more. "You will come, won't you? Promisse!" he whispered.
It's a mystery of parenthood that your son can give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to a stray, worm-riddled dog, share a piece of re-chewed gum from a kid with bronchitis and pick his nose and eat it on a regular basis, yet won't sit next to his sister because of 'Girl Germs'.
I dont crave companionship. It stands in my way. I live for pleasure. There are few persons who can give me as much pleasure as those acts I perform myself. I would rather create pleasure according to my own whim than be subjected to the whims of others.
She froze. He reached up and took her hand in his, pulling the knife away, making her drop it on the floor. "Show me how much you hate me," he whispered against her mouth. "Prove it to me.
Reyes, what happened?” He‘d been busy nibbling his way to my collarbone, his hot mouth evoking seismic activity at each point of contact. I really hated to interrupt, but … “Reyes, are you listening to me?” He raised his head, a sensual grin playing at the corners of his mouth, and said, “I‘m listening.” “To what? The sound of blood rushing to your nether regions?” “No,” he said with a husky chuckle that made me tingle everywhere. “To your heartbeat.
I always catch and release and don't even eat trout. I think they are so majestic. I won't eat a trout even in a restaurant. They are beautiful and so much fun, and they give me such joy to catch them that it is my pleasure to take a picture with them, give them a kiss, sign a laminated autographed picture and put it in their mouth.
Griffin, please,” she whispered. “Do you want me?” he asked. “Yes!” She tossed her head restlessly. She’d explode if he didn’t give her release soon. “Do you need me?” He kissed her nipple too gently. “Please, please, please.” “Do you love me?” And somehow, despite her extremis, she saw the gaping hole of the trap. She peered up at him blindly in the dark. She couldn’t see his face, his expression. “Griffin,” she sighed hopelessly. “You can’t say it, can you?” he whispered. “Can’t admit it either.
In the spiritual lore of India there is a story that the Lord whispered only one word in our ears when he sent us into the world: 'Give.' Give freely of your time, your talent, your resources; give without asking for anything in return. This is the secret of living in joy and security.
It is pleasure that lurks in the practice of every one of your virtues. Man performs actions because they are good for him, and when they are good for other people as well they are thought virtuous: if he finds pleasure in helping others he is benevolent; if he finds pleasure in working for society he is public-spirited; but it is for your private pleasure that you give twopence to a beggar as much as it is for my private pleasure that I drink another whiskey and soda. I, less of a humbug than you, neither applaud myself for my pleasure nor demand your admiration.
Manet wanted one day to paint my wife and children. Renoir was there. He took a canvas and began painting them, too. After a while, Manet took me aside and whispered, 'You're on very good terms with Renoir and take an interest in his future - do advise him to give up painting! You can see for yourself that it's not his metier at all.
I have been right, Basil, haven’t I, to take my love out of poetry, and to find my wife in Shakespeare’s plays? Lips that Shakespeare taught to speak have whispered their secret in my ear. I have had the arms of Rosalind around me, and kissed Juliet on the mouth.
The humble, simple souls, who are little enough to see the bigness of God in the littleness of a Babe, are therefore the only ones who will ever understand the reason of His visitation. He came to this poor earth of ours to carry on an exchange; to say to us, as only the Good God could say: 'you give me your humanity, and I will give you my Divinity; you give me your time, and I will give you My eternity; you give me your broken heart, and I will give you Love; you give me your nothingness, and I will give you My all.
If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde, will you let me hold your hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me more courage." As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in them, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young fingers, and touched his lips. "Are you dying for him?" she whispered. "And his wife and child. Hush! Yes." "Oh, you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?" "Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last.
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