The longer I lived, the longer it would be until I saw him alive again, until I could taste his new lips and run my fingers through his new hair. We could be young and beautiful again . . .
You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts; And when you can no longer dwell in the solitude of your heart you live in your lips, and sound is a diversion and a pastime. And in much of your talking, thinking is half murdered.
For the lips of an immoral woman drip honey, and her mouth is smoother than oil; but in the end she is as bitter as wormword, sharp as a two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death, her steps lay hold of hell
Kiss someone like kissing is the only way you have to communicate. There is no conversation. There is no sex. There are only two sets of lips that are ravenous to be recognized and treasured.
He leaned toward me and delicately grazed my lips with his. The tease left me breathless, burning for more. “I keep having to remind myself that I can do that,” he smirked.
So is this being in love? I stay with the moment, waiting to find out, the space between us fluctuating with uncertainty. The only thing I am sure of is that each time his lips leave mine they are right back again.
I just realized my lips are inside out. They should be turned inwards, because I spend most of my time talking to myself.
...I want those perfect eyes and lips, and for everyone to look at me and gasp. And for everyone who sees me to think Who's that? and want to get to know me, and listen to what I say." "I'd rather have something to say.
He found himself fighting the urge to reach out and take her chin between his thumb and forefinger. To tilt her head so that she had to look at him. So that her lips were so close to his a slight movement would—
Her lips found his and a stab of exquisite desire shot through him. This is what he's been waiting for all this time. Not a stolen embrace. A gift, freely given. One that he would keep forever in some small part of his soul.
It's unclear who moves first. We're in each other's arms, lips locked, melded, hotly fused. Our hands drag over each other, reacquainting, remembering, almost as if we're both verifying the other one is real flesh and blood.
I look up to say something but he puts his finger to my lips and whispers, “Don’t talk. You’ll just spoil my fantasy of rescuing an innocent damsel in distress as soon as you open your mouth.
My lips and eyes and heart were stinging when you kissed me in the dark. — Jack Garton to Jennifer Hammer, 2008 (age 24)
Don't tempt fate.’ ‘My fate? I already know it and I have it in front of me.’ He put an arm around me and pulled me to his lips. ‘I haven't said “yes” yet.’ ‘No need. I know what the answer is.
His lips so soft, yet so stern, he pressed his mouth to mine. "I will have both of you," he said. "My Sentinel and my city. And the GP will learn exactly how stubborn we both can be.
Not a word had dropped from my lips, or from hers, that could unsettle either of us—and yet the same unacknowledged sense of embarrassment made us shrink alike from meeting one another alone
I started picturing Rens smiling face, the warmth of his touch, the slight curl of his lip before he kissed me. Every happy memory came rushing back through the blackness illuminating it in brilliant color.
He dipped her low and kissed her fiercely, as if he were angry, and each time his lips left hers, even just for half a second, the most parching thirst ran through her, making her cry out.
Then he leaned forward and rested his cheek against mine. Hot tingles spread through me as his lips moved against my ear. "You should tell me to stop." I didn't say a word.
When I die, I want to be buried in a long long-sleeve black Ralph Lauren dress and brown chunky boots. I want my hair styled like his models, long hair that flows. I also want natural makeup with a light pink lip.
Rough palms cradled my face while my fingers gripped the pillow on either side of his. Lips, teeth, tongue, mingled together. I ate him up and didn’t let go until I had to come up for air.
