Best 69 quotes in «love making quotes» category

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    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.

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

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    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.

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

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    The right-wing just loves making a big entrance.

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

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    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.

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    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.

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    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

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

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    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.

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

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

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    Just sex without love will leave you unfulfilled.

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    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.

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

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    Making love is not necessary to make love.

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

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    Make love to me and calm my demons.

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

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

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    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.

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    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.

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

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    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!

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    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.

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    Take control from the moment you step in her place. She'll be pleasantly surprised and impressed.

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

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    Sex is not just about going in or letting in, it is really about welcoming your dearly beloved into the deepest regions of your psyche which are inaccessible to anybody else.

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

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    Sometimes you look around the world, to see the dazzling walls and showering fountains of it, and feel like that today is the end and beginning at the same time. That's the moment you discover something new of yourself. That's love, cause and life.

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

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

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    She takes my hand, kissing each finger, each knuckle and my pulse throbs inside my wrist. “Please. We already know each other, so well. I’m ready to give the last part of myself to you.

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    That night they made love, the kind of love-making that is another country, a country of its own, not yours or mine.

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    When the humours were handed out, Ankh-Morpork got the one for joking and Quirm had to do make do with their expertise in fine dining and love-making.

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    The brain appears to possess a special area which we might call poetic memory and which records everything that charms or touches us, that makes our lives beautiful. From the time he met Tereza, no woman had the right to leave the slightest impression on that part of his brain. Tereza occupied his poetic memory like a despot and exterminated all other trace of other women. That was unfair, because the young woman he made love to on the rug during the storm was not a bit less worthy of poetry than Tereza. She shouted, ‘Close your eyes! Squeeze my hips! Hold me tight!; she could not stand it that when Tomas made love he kept his eyes open, focused and observant, his body ever so slightly arched above her, never pressing against her skin. She did now want him to study her. She wanted to draw him into the magic stream that may be entered only with closed eyes. [..] She wanted to merge with him. [..] 'It’s not sensual pleasure I’m after,’ she would say, 'it’s happiness. And pleasure without happiness is not pleasure.’ In other words, she was pounding on the gate of his poetic memory. But the gate was shut. There was no room for her in his poetic memory. There was room for her only on the rug.

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    The hour of spring was dark at last, 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.

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    There is no such thing as “vaginal orgasm” vs. “clitoral orgasm”. The entire ring of tissues that surrounds the vaginal opening is connected to the clitoris by nerves and blood vessels. Ultimately all these tissues together are responsible for the female orgasm. This entire erogenous zone is often referred to as the “ring of fire”.

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    Through sexual intimacy, two human beings become one mind, body and soul wrapped up in the cocoon of their skin.

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    To a woman sexual intimacy is more a tool to get mentally close to her partner than merely a means to physical pleasure.

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    Vikrant : "I want to taste honey pot, You are shy, free yourself, like an animal, feel like an animal, they don't know sin. Do they?

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    ...we've let go of so many things, but never each other's hand ...

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    The only self control I have when I am with you is that I am with you.

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    Through memory to knowledge on the way to stars that are stepping down to the stuffy rooms of modern bureaucrats, illuminating their ceilings, their horizons where everything is easily resolved by the piles of paper and recipes for how to live, create, run, eat, breathe, learn how to love, how to make love, how to sleep, how to dream, how happiness is achieved under the artificial stars of the new sky that emerged from the bureaucratic rooms of aspiring and impotent minds, unable to love, even though they had all their life to learn what they preach.

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    Even in the midst of love-making, writers are working on the description.

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    You may be theoretically rich but practically poor.

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

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    For me there is a reluctance to be in front of cameras. I love making music but with that comes a lot of responsibility and you have to put yourself out there more.

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