Best 69 quotes in «love making quotes» category

I also learned that I love making money. Anyone who is not afraid of work will be happy with the money they make.

I blow up fireworks all the time, and I love making milkshakes and banana splits.

I can get a script and go, "Well, I'd rather do stand-up." I don't hold movies in higher regard. I love making videos and posting. I love TV.

I am curious, I love making discoveries, travelling, speaking with people, go shopping.

I just love making music. I always stay in the studio. Making music is my main focus.

I go to the studio every day, but I dont paint every day. I love playing with my architectural models. I love making plans. I could spend my life arranging things.

I love making music so its important for me to keep doing that even if the schedule is busy.

I love making films, but the best roles are hard to come by.

I love making Italian food. And coconut chicken.

I love making films more than anything, but it's tough.

I love making movies, I love the differentness of it, I love writing. But I've always liked television. I grew up on television.

I love making people laugh. And I love laughing.

I love making movies and hope to write my own screenplay someday and do some producing and be behind-the-scenes as well.

I love making music. I never stop. I want to keep it moving forward. I like to go into the studio and make hits. It makes me feel good.

I love making videos on my couch. You can put those on the Internet fast. I can express myself.

I love my squirrel and dumplings, but you can make it with chicken and dumplings. I love making the dumplings. I think I just like to roll out dough.

I love making people laugh.

I'm uncomfortable with being famous. I hate it. But I love making music. I love getting paid to do it, and I love getting on my boat after I get paid to do it.

I've always loved the showmanship of professional wrestling. While I love making movies, I love that platform, too.

I have fun making films. I love making films. It's the only thing I know how to do. And I do it well.

The right-wing just loves making a big entrance.

Discipline your sexuality for it has the proclivity to cause a productivity that can influence now and posterity.

A man who wakes up to a pair of double D breasts of his wife every morning, is neurologically destined to get used to them, regardless of their size. This is called “Habituation”. But this process of habituation does not say anything about the love and care between two persons in a committed relationship. Love is not the primeval surge of libidinal lust that a person receives when meeting a suitable partner for the first time. Love in the truest sense of the term is born much later in a relationship, when both sides get to the know the truest selves of each other. And when love is born out of the pyre of commitment and attachment, it is no longer about having sex, it is about making love and becoming one with each other in every manner possible.

The fact is that gardening, more than most of our other activities except sometimes love-making, confronts us with the inexplicable.

All that two lovers want, is to be one with the other in a moment of ecstasy.

As he seemed to be losing control, Hope licked the palm of her left hand, slid it into his already unbuttoned pants, and reached for his soul.

I smile at you, hinting at the pleasures ahead, and silently point to the zip at the back of my dress…

Endless love and voluptuous appetite pervaded this stifling nave in which settled the ardent sap of the tropics. Renée was wrapped in the powerful bridals of the earth that gave birth to these dark growths, these colossal stamina; and the acrid birth-throes of this hotbed, of this forest growth, of this mass of vegetation aglow with the entrails that nourished it, surrounded her with disturbing odours. At her feet was the steaming tank, its tepid water thickened by the sap from the floating roots, enveloping her shoulders with a mantle of heavy vapours, forming a mist that warmed her skin like the touch of a hand moist with desire. Overhead she could smell the palm trees, whose tall leaves shook down their aroma. And more than the stifling heat, more than the brilliant light, more than the great dazzling flowers, like faces laughing or grimacing between the leaves, it was the odours that overwhelmed her. An indescribable perfume, potent, exciting, composed of a thousand different perfumes, hung about her; human exudation, the breath of women, the scent of hair; and breezes sweet and swooningly faint were blended with breezes coarse and pestilential, laden with poison. But amid this strange music of odours, the dominant melody that constantly returned, stifling the sweetness of the vanilla and the orchids' pungency, was the penetrating, sensual smell of flesh, the smell of lovemaking escaping in the early morning from the bedroom of newlyweds.

If I were born a woman, my clothes would be for any man with rough hands to tear down and my body to be made love to by any heart lost enough to love

Dropping to his knees before her, he loved her, worshiped her with his mouth, kissing her stomach, her hips, her thighs, and finally reaching her moist, intimate center. She cried out his name and he knew she was shocked at his behavior, but he didn't care. He devoured her, holding her tightly against his mouth as he drank her. Alternating between swirls of his tongue and long, languid licks, he let her moans and sighs be his guide to pleasuring her. Her body shook and he knew she was close. He quickened his movements. He slid his hands from her bottom around to her waist, and to her rib cage. Reaching her breasts, he plucked at her nipples while he suckled the tiny nubbin of flesh hidden in her folds. She screamed. And he continued his sweet torture until her knees buckled. He caught her to him. Holding her close he carried her to his bed, his cock so fiendishly hard he thought he'd go mad if he didn't take her at that moment. In a stunningly short amount of time, he rid himself of his clothes and joined her on the bed. Her legs spread for him and he sank himself between her thighs. Her limbs shaking, Charlotte wrapped her legs around his waist and eagerly met her husband's lips for a kiss. His body was simply magnificent, she thought, running her hands down his muscled back, over the hard muscles of his arms and chest.

First law of pleasurable love-making in the long run, is that you don't keep naked pictures of your partner on your phone.

For what it's worth, I think perfect love stories have perfect disasters hidden somewhere. If a genuine relationship comes out of two people screwing before they saw the potential of the 'relationship'? Its perfect, beautiful, a work of art in fact.. Normal is overrated.

Governance is different from Politics as is love-making and getting laid

I believed that no man in this world deserves me until I met you.

Just sex without love will leave you unfulfilled. Sleeping around with multiple partners will not fulfill the need of love-making or the lack of loving touch you have since childhood.

Lovemaking is a big grammatical error, i think it should be, LustMaking.

Making love is not magical, if there is no love.

Just sex without love will leave you unfulfilled.

Make love to me and calm my demons.

Making love is not necessary to make love.

No words. Just my finger pointing in silence. My finger silently saying, ’Unwrap me, darling.

Ô, Muse of the Heart’s Passion, let me relive my Love’s memory, to remember her body, so brave and so free, and the sound of my Dreameress singing to me, and the scent of my Dreameress sleeping by me, Ô, sing, sweet Muse, my soliloquy!

No one knows we're there, no one sees us. We never leave the room. I think about the secret voice you use when you make love. No one but that person will ever hear it. And here, we listen to each other, but we lock it in with touch, and the room vacuum seals it to stay fresh until we can breathe together again. When he breaks the silence it is to say, "I want you to know that, when you get pregnant, nothing is going to change except your dress size.

Our eyes will know the heavens if our lips stay for each other.

Our lips were for each other and our eyes were full of dreams. We knew nothing of travel and we knew nothing of loss. Ours was a world of eternal spring, until the summer came.

Not to waste the spring I threw down everything, And ran into the open world To sing what I could sing... To dance what I could dance! And join with everyone! I wandered with a reckless heart beneath the newborn sun. First stepping through the blushing dawn, I crossed beneath a garden bower, counting every hermit thrush, counting every hour. When morning's light was ripe at last, I stumbled on with reckless feet; and found two nymphs engaged in play, approaching them stirred no retreat. With naked skin, their weaving hands, in form akin to Calliope's maids, shook winter currents from their hair to weave within them vernal braids. I grabbed the first, who seemed the stronger by her soft and dewy leg, and swore blind eyes, Lest I find I, before Diana, a hunted stag. But the nymphs they laughed, and shook their heads. and begged I drop beseeching hands. For one was no goddess, the other no huntress, merely two girls at play in the early day. "Please come to us, with unblinded eyes, and raise your ready lips. We will wash your mouth with watery sighs, weave you springtime with our fingertips." So the nymphs they spoke, we kissed and laid, by noontime's hour, our love was made, Like braided chains of crocus stems, We lay entwined, I laid with them, Our breath, one glassy, tideless sea, Our bodies draping wearily. We slept, I slept so lucidly, with hopes to stay this memory. I woke in dusty afternoon, Alone, the nymphs had left too soon, I searched where perched upon my knees Heard only larks' songs in the trees. "Be you, the larks, my far-flung maids? With lilac feet and branchlike braids... Who sing sweet odes to my elation, in your larking exaltation!" With these, my clumsy, carefree words, The birds they stirred and flew away, "Be I, poor Actaeon," I cried, "Be dead… Before they, like Hippodamia, be gone astray!" Yet these words, too late, remained unheard, By lark, that parting, morning bird. I looked upon its parting flight, and smelled the coming of the night; desirous, I gazed upon its jaunt, as Leander gazes Hellespont. Now the hour was ripe and dark, sensuous memories of sunlight past, I stood alone in garden bowers and asked the value of my hours. Time was spent or time was tossed, Life was loved and life was lost. I kissed the flesh of tender girls, I heard the songs of vernal birds. I gazed upon the blushing light, aware of day before the night. So let me ask and hear a thought: Did I live the spring I’d sought? It's true in joy, I walked along, took part in dance, and sang the song. and never tried to bind an hour to my borrowed garden bower; nor did I once entreat a day to slumber at my feet. Yet days aren't lulled by lyric song, like morning birds they pass along, o'er crests of trees, to none belong; o'er crests of trees of drying dew, their larking flight, my hands, eschew Thus I'll say it once and true… From all that I saw, and everywhere I wandered, I learned that time cannot be spent, It only can be squandered.

Ô, Wanderess, Wanderess When did you feel your most euphoric kiss? Was I the source of your greatest bliss?

Sexual intimacy is not the destination, it is the path - the path that leads to mental union.

She'll be really impressed if you take control and let her follow your lead.

She seemed fixed into a trance when he laid her down, his hand bracing her head as he smothered her in kisses.