He wanted to taste nothing unless it was the sweetness of her mouth, the musk of her arousal, the salt of her tears, wanted to touch nothing unless it was the silk of her hair, her soft curves, wanted to breathe nothing unless it had come from her lu...
He leaned down and kissed my forehead. The soft melody of his lips was calming. I closed my eyes. I could smell his human skin, his human breath, his human hair, and for the first time, I would give anything to be human too.
Harold had become, over the past week, a connoisseur of silences. He was an expert at differentiating the particulars; was this a Tranquil Silence, marked by slow sighs and peaceful smiles? Or was it a Tired Silence, marked by ornery chair shifting? ...
Curiosity is a good thing, like onion soup. But too much onion soup makes your breath smell terrible. And too much curiosity can make your whole body smell terrible, if it causes you to be dead.
But Paris was a very old city and we were young and nothing was simple there, not even poverty, nor sudden money, nor the moonlight, nor right and wrong nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight.
He stood with his two frail hands on his cane and his eyes closed, and breathed in deeply the scent of the past. "Sometimes," he sighed, "I think the things I remember are more real than the things I see.
He quickly left the room, and when he shut the door behind him he leaned his back against it, tilted his head back, and put his palms to his eyes before bowing his head. "....That was too close," he murmured under his breath..
Things must be done, life must go on. Life would go on, even if every breath she took hurt, even if her joints ached when she moved. Sorry and loneliness were an insidious evil, for they lived in the mind. One could not take a tonic and see them diss...
There will be the IV poles, the divorce papers, the sound of dirt hitting a casket. We will have moments where we can't catch our breath and all the world seems wrong, and we can't help but wonder if He even cares.
Most of the soil we walk on once grew and breathed, and once it had the shape of the living, long ago. One day someone who doesn’t remember us will walk on our skin and flesh and bones, on the dust that remains of us.
Emma, I will love you with every breath in my body and beyond my own death. I swear to be your shield, your protector, your worshipper. There is nothing I will deny you. I am yours
Why do you think we are the only animal that kisses? She was near again. Because the area in front of our faces is our most intimate zone. She drew a breath. This is why humans are the only romantic animal!
I listen to silence. And you have a lot to say. Although I haven't quite figured out what it is yet....I promise not to delve into what makes your silence so loud, if you promise not to walk out on me.
Is he about to kiss me? Did he eat garlic too or was I the only one? 'Cause if Ric didn't eat garlic then my breath's gonna stink and he'll think... Oh for fuck sake, shut up internal dialogue!
He kissed her. Without warning, without permission. Without even deciding to do it, but simply because he couldn't have done anything else. He needed that breath she was holding. It belonged to him, and he wanted it back.
I do hope nobody else here has any other surprises planned, because if you so much as think about harming one another, I will oblige them. This is neutral ground. Violators will be gruesomely and violently shown the error of their ways. Clear?
If you accept others as equals, you embrace them unconditionally, now and forever. But if you let them know that you tolerate them, you suggest in the same breath that they are actually an inconvenience, like a nagging pain or an unpleasant odour you...
There is the truth of history, and there is the truth of what a person remembers. As {she} sat at the edge of {the lake}, memory blossoms floated unbounded, as though breathed, no words spoken. Like birds that fly across national borders, between cou...
Her breathing hitched and his all but seized in his lungs for the want of her, the taste of her, the feel of her under his hands. His lips whispered against the curve of hers, where her cheek ended and her very sexy mouth began.
Why, what is to live? Not to eat and drink and breathe,—but to feel the life in you down all the fibres of being, passionately and joyfully.
She spoke under her breath to Nick. "Is there a reason he's only wearing one sock?" "He puked on his foot." "Oh." She turned back to Huxley. "Can we get you another sock? Maybe a blanket or something?
