He shivered beneath her touch, and his jaw clenched. It pleased her. Her longing rose to the surface, and an unfamiliar emotion overcame her. It swam beneath her skin, lighting little flickers of recognition. It was the same heat—the same feeling—that had made her run the night before. Not this time, though. This time she would own it. Embrace it. Ride it. Enjoy it.
We are together. That means I don’t look at another woman the way I look at you. I don’t touch another woman the way I touch you. I don’t feel about any woman the way I feel about you. Got it? Don’t ever think I’d throw away what we have for a cheap, meaningless fuck. You either trust me, or you don’t. So what’s it going to be? -Ronin Black
We’re just…,” those blue eyes blaze at me and steal my breath, drawing me in, “just different people on different paths.”He comes closer, until he’s standing a centimeter away from me. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want me,” he dares.“Jesus. Are you really that confident?”“I’m really that interested.
If you stand right at the edge of the night sky, some place where one o’clock leaves to meet two, the breeze will carry your words up to the stars. And they’ll swallow your secrets until its time to hand them over to the truths in the sky- the ones that draw maps in the black. They carve their answers into the backs of my hands, the grooves of the words running deep in my palms.
Special Logan Kiss...Yeah, but you didn't know that I'd recited how i felt for you right then, in that moment, in my mins. The words flowed silently, so easily. There's no mistaking them. When I gave you those kisses, I was telling myself and you....He peck my nose "I..."He kisses my forehead "..LOVE.."My heart swells asHe presses his lips to my chin, then he whispers " YOU...
What if love is this fun game that started from heaven with you and I, perfectly together. And then, at some point, we agreed to play a game, to be tossed into a world in which we would spend the rest of our lives trying to find each other.Wouldn't it be fun to know that no matter what, no matter when, no matter how, and no matter where, at some point I'd find you, and say ... "Hello.
Because what is more like love than the ocean? You can play in it, drown in it. It can be clear and bright enough to hurt your eyes, or covered in fog; hidden behind a curve of road, and then suddenly there in full glory. Its waves come like breaths, in and out, in and out, body stretched to forever in its possibilities, and yet its heart lies deep, not fully knowable, inconceivably majestic.
What’s going to happen,” he breathes, “is that I’m going to carry you through this door. I’m going to draw out every single moment until you’re exhausted. And I’m going to move so slow that three months ago will feel like yesterday. And tomorrow will feel like today, and no one in this fucking universe will be able to say your name without saying mine.
When you do fall in love with me, Eena, I don’t want it to be because I gave into your demands, but because your heart gave into its desire to truly be loved.” With an injured frown he uttered goodnight and left the room.She stood alone, chastised and bruised. It seemed right to apologize for her insensitive words, but not now. Not while a room full of people remained out there.
مشكلة الحب الكبير هو أن أصحابه يبدأون بشكل جميل و ينتهون في الفجيعة
I've seen so much and lived it all. I wanted to bite the earth and taste it. It is both bitter and sweet, and if I had my time to live over again, I wouldn’t change a damn thing — Reg Spiers
As an artist in the 1960s, Norman Sunshine was able to maintain a moderately out lifestyle. But when the first exhibition of his paintings in New York brought on a profile in The New York Times in 1968, he was photographed in the apartment that he admitted sharing with Shayne. At both his advertising agency and Shayne’s television production company, the article was met with absolute silence.
Little girl, little boyIf love has a wayFill their fields with laughterAnd scatter the sun on their dayAnd if it should happen to rainMake their raindrops kissesStraight from heaven aboveThat touch their hands and facesAnd that fill them with loveAnd make the moon reflect their smilesAnd their stars plentyAnd, above all, keep them togetherAnd hold them as you mayForever and everUntil their last day.
It was her. No one had eyes like that. Eyes as pure as the sky on a fresh, wintery morning. Ones that sucked him in and refused to let go. No one had her touch. Feather light and warm. A touch that sizzled his insides and brought him to his knees.And no one had that pure, simple, cherry-vanilla scent. The sweetness that was only her, like she was a dessert made just for him. To lick, nibble, and enjoy.
I love trash. I have never believed that kitsch kills. I tell you this, so you will understand that my antipathy toward 'Love Story' is not because I am immune to either sentimentality or garbage, two qualities the book possesses in abundance. When I read 'Love Story', and I cried, in much the same way that I cry from onions, involuntarily and with great irritation, I was deeply offended...
