Best 33 quotes of Charlotte Stein on MyQuotes

All that matters is the way he’s angling my face up to his, thumb and forefinger still on my jaw and my chin. It makes me think of someone taking a drink, only the drink in question is my lips. He wants to taste me there, and oh, that’s exactly what it feels like. He doesn’t press his mouth to mine, too hard and too frantic. He just dips in, getting a little of me on his lips before going back for something deeper and sweeter. It’s so much sweeter I could cry. I feel like I’ve been waiting for this for a thousand years, and, if his reaction is anything to go by, so has he.

Are you fucking kidding me? How do you get this wet? Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. I don’t even…ohhhhh God. It’s all over your legs. Oh baby, I’m gonna fuck you so hard.

Because you are already sure everything is a lie. My only defence is the absolute truth. My only power over you is the truth. And if I keep telling it, eventually you'll believe.

Certainly seems it when she half-turns in his arms and he just leans right down into her and kisses and kisses. Oh, how syrupy-slow his kisses are. She could live in those warm, wet pulls.

Did you just have an orgasm, after hearing me talk about giving you an orgasm?” All I can do is sob helplessly in answer. “I think you did. I think you just came ’cause I’m fingering your sweet pussy and talking dirty to you – you know why?” I don’t, I don’t. “Because you’re so nuts for this. Aren’t you, huh? You’re so primed. I can feel that hot little pussy clenching around me every time I move a muscle or say a word – ohhhh, yeah. Yeah, arch your back so I can look at you going nice and tight around my fingers. Yeah. Yeah. You gonna do that around my cock?

He had lovely eyes, really—not assessing, at all, but big and dark and…waiting.

He kisses me until my mouth is sore from his stubble, and most likely cherry red. Then, when he sees its ripe colour, he kisses me more to make up for it. He kisses me between courses and in the middle of them too, licking chocolate from my lips when I accidentally make a mess – so uncaring of whatever anyone in here might think.

His head went back, on the stroke up, again. When he finally looked back at her hands still on him, and his cock all neatly wrapped, his words came out gravelly, and wondering. “What a strange notion.” “You won’t miss too much of the sensation. It’s really not that bad.” His mouth quirked up at the corner. “Why would I miss any sensation? The whole of our bodies are going to be touching. Are you going to encase the rest of me in a stocking?” Laughter, again. It felt good, so good. “I guess not—now get down here and fuck me.

Hope isn't poison, Lissa. Hope is the thing that keeps you going when everything is awful and dark and you don't know which way to turn.

If it's so easy -- if it only takes a day, a moment, a new dress, and some shoes and a hairstyle that didn't quite suit you -- to transform someone into something that fits into my world, why on earth would it matter to me at all?

I hate him. Except for all the places where I love him half to death.

I know,” he says, and it’s the strangest thing. I can tell he’s smiling, slow and syrupy, when he says it.

I made that happen to you, Letty. I made you take the road marked FOREVER WARY OF OTHER HUMAN BEINGS, instead of the one you should have taken.

I'm still doing it. I'm still doing the thing I never do. I'm hoping. Or at least I'm trying on hope for size.

I want to kiss you. I want to so badly I can barely think of anything else. When you enter a room it’s my only thought, and it torments me night and day.

Jesus Christ, you’re soaking wet. Seriously, have you been going around with all this between your legs? I can feel it through fucking flannel, honey. Oh my God, I can feel it through flannel,” he said, the first words almost steady and sure and the last ones like nothing she’d ever heard before.

Mostly because Lydia said after a long silence, "Holy shit. We are living in a Nicholas Sparks novel." "Exactly," she said from between her knees. "And I'm so not okay with that.

Ohhhh are you coming?” he asks me. “Oh God Mallory, I can feel you doing it around my cock. I can feel you – that’s it, baby. Fuck yourself on me.

Oh my God, I’d forgotten what this felt like.” “Not a lot of huggers in Hollywood, huh?” “None like this—holy shit. Okay, I’m just going to kind of slump into you now. So if you’re averse to that, say before I’m swamping your helpless body.” “I don’t mind if you swamp.” “Are you sure? Because I think I’m a fumbling virgin at this.” “You’re doing fine. In fact I think I’m close to a cuddling orgasm.

OK, so … hugging. How does that go? You sort of … stretch your arms out …” He does so too robotically, too broadly. It looks kind of like he’s trying to find a boulder to slot into the space he’s made between his chest and his hands. He looks like Donkey Kong, I think, and then I giggle. “What? I’m getting this soooo right. I just have to clamp these things around you, now …

Our lives are forever changed because I was too much of a coward to really go for...to really..to really be who I wanted to be.

See, I thought I had figured out what I could do to make this whole thing right. ... But then I got to the end of your street, head all fucking full of how forgiving you would be, and it just hit me hard in the gut. I was doing all that shit for me. So that I could be a different person, a better person, a person worthy of someone like you. I wasn't thinking about you. I've never thought about you. ... I want you to make things okay for me. When I need to think about what would make things okay for you.

She heard something crack and splinter the second he got to that last word. But it took her a second to realize the cracking and splintering came from somewhere inside herself. That thick layer of granite she had carved around her heart had just developed a fissure, and things were starting to leak through. Bad things, like hopes and dreams.

She’s so elderly that I’m sure she was alive before sex was invented. She conceived Mick’s Dad by shaking hands with a stork.

Sometimes I’m so afraid of making the wrong choice that I just don’t make any choice at all.

That is fucked up. That fuck is so upped it might never get down again.

That there should be no punishment for kindness. No toll to pay because you wanted to reach out or wear a nice dress or see if the guy across the street is really sleepwalking and maybe help him out of it.

There’s just the memory of that time he walked in on her while she was dressing, and afterward couldn’t string a sentence together. And not only that, but she hadn’t even made fun of him for it. She hadn’t! Oh no, why not? Also…had the sight of her boobs possibly sort of made him fall in love with her? It had to be the boobs.

When she finally pulled away from him—much to Aley’s stuttering forward reluctance—he wanted only to echo Aley’s words: “Oh! Do it again.

You don't owe me your love. You didn't owe me a polite yes. It was not on you to let me down gently and somehow ward off punishment I was fucking stupid enough to think you deserved.

You don’t really have idea about any of that olden-days stuff, do you?” He’s sure he can feel her smiling against his shoulder. “Busted,” she says. “Ah, it’s some nice talk, though, Sol. You make it all sound real nice.” “That’s the beauty of it. Just dreaming thoughts on once-was things. Animals and helping people and one place you could always call home.” “The Horizon is my home,” he says, and it strikes him for the first time how much that is true. A sudden keen longing for its shapes and spaces goes through him, and he hugs Sol to him tighter. “You are my home,” she says, real sudden. So sudden he’s sure she’s about to take it back any second—or at least wants to. But no taking back comes. He clings to the words so tightly he doesn’t think she could take them back even if she tried. Oh Sol, he thinks. God, please don’t let us die now. Not now. Not now that he realizes The Horizon isn’t his home at all. That he thinks like her. That she is his home, too.

You know it feels good. I can hardly geta…I don’t even…” There was something amusing about watching him trying to form a coherent sen-tence. Amusing, but arousing at the sametime.

You’re being deliberately cruel, now.” “No – I think deliberately cruel would be if I told you something rude, like: I’d love to see you stroking your stiff dick until you came all over yourself.” I pause again, but this time it’s not to eat his expression. This time I’m employing a bit of dramatic license, I think. “Or until you came all over me – because you know, you could do that if you wanted to. I could undo my nightie, and then you could just … spurt all over my tits.” He makes the following sound: “Hoh.