He kissed her temple, her hair, and then her mouth again, with great passion and heartbreaking tenderness. "My Love... from the beginning of time until the end. Always and forever. You'll always be my love. Always.
A spark of fiery hunger shot through her as he took over, completely dominating the kiss, his tongue invading her mouth. His hand slid back and cupped her head in that way she loved. Craved.
Shining with craving, his emerald gaze penetrated her soul. "I desire you so much". His whisper melted her heart. His soft touch set her ablaze.
Yet how bored they both looked, and how wearily Ethel regarded Jim sometimes, as if she wondered why she had trained the vines of her affection on such a wind-shaken poplar.
Christ, she was like his own personal drug, and he’d been jonesing for more of her since November. And now that he’d had her again, he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to quit her. Yeah. He was in trouble.
She flew into his arms. Held on tight as he swung her off her feet and hugged her so hard it hurt. She didn't care. She didn't want him to ever let go.
And for a moment there, despite the bruising, despite the snarled dirty hair, despite her sunburned skin and the suffering in her eyes that she refused to let defeat her, she was one of the prettiest things he'd ever seen. ~Dallas and Amy~
And when she [her daughter] one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.
Rosa Hubermann was sitting on the edge of the bed with her husband's accordion tied to her chest. Her fingers hovered above the keys. She did not move. She didn't ever appear to be breathing.
I'm 36 and if I met a woman of my own age and married her, I'd also be marrying her former life, her past. It might be OK for some people - I don't want to judge it or anything - but it's not for me. It would destroy my creativity.
I have a photograph of myself when I was 2 years of age, and I don't recognize the person in the photograph. She doesn't look anything like me, and I can't find any trace of her in me physically. And yet I remember her very, very well - even her anxi...
I'd love to look like my mum when I am her age. She taught ballet for years, and my attitude to exercise and fitness has definitely been influenced by her. She's 84 now, and I've watched how well she has aged, and a lot of that is to do with her fant...
It was really cool to work with Dakota Fanning. I've watched her grow up and I've always loved her films, loved her. It was amazing working with someone who was American as well, because obviously it's going to be a different energy straightaway. We ...
I’m sure I look memorable in my tuxedo, and she looks gorgeous in her wedding gown. I’ve wanted to marry her since I first met her. And being the best man doesn’t make me feel better.
A ball feels different off every player's racket-there are minute but concrete subtleties of force and spin. Now, hitting with her (Steffi Graf), I feel her subtleties. It's like touching her, though we're forty feet apart. Every forehand is foreplay...
She realized that she had naïvely believed that the workings of the world revolved around her and her family. Never before had she acknowledged that somebody else’s life might alter hers.
He told her the flowers in her painting contained exactly the purple substance of the flowers on the desk in front of her [...] Let us open the window and see if your painting can entice the butterflies.
Her blonde tresses now lay unbound and flowing in comely waves down her back, like pale serpents against the blue sea of her costume.
She could sense the desire pouring off the man in front of her, and to be wanted so obviously, so fiercely, went to her head like moonshine. He made her feel like a goddess. Provided goddesses got this horny.
The pale whiteness of her upturned face as she choked on the smoke; the tangled length of her hair as she tried to shake the flames from it; the beauty of her cherry-blossom robe as it burst into flame: it was all so cruel, so terrible!
Her name was Ashley, but I called her Ash, because she looked like the burnt remains of a cigarette. But she smelled like coffee, and I thirsted for her affection.
