Best 15 quotes of Brandon Shire on MyQuotes

Don’t even talk to me about being a mother. You were never a mother! Just the psychotic twat I lived with for the first fourteen years.

Even now I can feel the heat from your palm as you cupped the back of my head and pulled my lips those last few inches, how you opened your body and begged me with your soul.

Dillon went so still it was like Hunter was alone in the apartment again. He emitted no breath, no whisper of movement, nothing. He was just a blank space, an absence in the middle of the room. Hunter started to reach for him but froze his hand when Dillon spoke. (…)

(...)"He said we all have this different idea of what love is and that's what makes our circle. The more ideas and misconceptions you throw in, the larger the diameter and the harder it is to connect with someone. We," he said, squeezing Hunter's hand and signaling Margie and everyone around them, "all sit around the edge looking at everyone else around the circle. Sometimes we just settle for the person next to us because it's easy or convenient and we skip our way around its circumference, never really knowing what love is all about." He took a sip of his Coke and kept his eyes on Margie. "But other times, you see that person across from you, staring back at you, and you fight like hell trying to get across while he does the same. If you're lucky, there's a rope you can toss over and help draw each other in, never looking away, never worrying about those still on the circumference; just you and him, pulling each other in, deeper and deeper."

Hunter turned and kissed Dillon deeply before he rinsed off. He had never wished for his sight before, but he would have given anything at that moment to be able to turn and witness the beauty of the man that had just made love to him. He'd literally felt the change in Dillon's grip as he made love. The very first time they were together, Dillon's hold was uncertain, a tentative embrace that held no absolutes, no dreams, but just now it was different; it was a grip that sat right on the edge of possession, a possession Hunter would willingly give, if asked. But would Dillon ask, and would he be able to accept?

I had these made special. The design is raised instead of carved in. Can you feel it?" Dillon asked. Hunter ran his fingertip over the outside of the ring. He nodded as a tear formed in the corner of his eye. "Can you tell me what it is?" Dillon asked quietly. Hunter nodded and his voice choked. "Two people…" "Two men," Dillon corrected. "Two men," Hunter said, "pulling each other into the center of a circle." Dillon watched his single tear slip and start sliding down his cheek. "Would you step into that circle with me, Hunter?" Hunter nodded, a small sound escaping him. "Yes.

…It's breadth, and the strength between us to know that we're ready for the next step. I want to do it this way so it lasts, and I need you to understand that for me." "I understand." "Do you?" Hunter asked him closely. "Then why do I still hear rejection in your voice?" "Because I'm impulsive, and immature, and…in love with you.

It was the way you touched me. How you explored every single inch of me before you really put your hands on me," Dillon admitted. "That first time we were in bed you searched out all the erogenous zones with your fingers, probably without even realizing it. It was subtle but very…tactile. It made me feel wanted, I mean more than just physically.

Listen to the breath of the rain." They were silent for a minute. Dillon closed his eyes and tried to grasp at what Hunter experienced. Hunter moved closer and put the heat of his breath in Dillon's ear. "I want you to make love to me by the rhythm of the rain," he whispered.

Snow is kind of weird," Dillon said. "It's so slow, drifts a little here and there, and it doesn't make much noise," he said as he looked at Hunter. "I think I want to skip the symphony," he added as he untied Hunter's tie and slipped it from around his neck. " I would like very much for us to stay in and see if you can match its rhythm. What do you think?

They had f@@@ed the night before, and then again this morning, but that had been hard lust. Now Hunter wanted passion and slow, smooth rhythm. He wanted to feel the security of Dillon's embrace, the solid unfettered motion of their lovemaking, and he wanted to make Dillon understand that he no longer had to prove anything. He moved away and set his head on his own pillow, waiting for Dillon to find the rain's pulse.

This was to be man sex.

Over the years Breece had lectured that truth was liquid. That it evaporated in the heat of passion, froze in the cold of fear, and bent itself around virginous, unpurposeful fibs. It could churn and pull you under, drown you in itself, or let you ride upon it like a surf. But truth was always relfective. It showed blackheads and blemishes, fat rolls and sags, scabs and scars. Truth was fearful, angry and dangerous, and that was why so many people did their utmost to avoid it.

The desperate resilience,the annoyed flamboyance;his personable passivity and his phobic aggressiveness; all trapped in the clever wrinkles of his fingers, the hard unsociable cast of his knuckles, the safe hopelessness of the pads.

You’re telling me I'm being attacked by a bunch of goddamned queers?