Best 875 quotes in «kiss quotes» category

The familiarity of his kiss breathes me back to life.

The fantasized kiss was stolen time from the dreams…

The first thing I needed, possibly the only thing, was to kiss her and I did, for as long as I could. I let us both breathe for a minute, and I perched her on a counter so I could touch the face I’d missed so much. I poured every bit of frustration, anger, sadness, and worry into that kiss. Meg understood and received it all, pushing her fingers into my hair and giggling against my lips. I didn’t care that anybody passing by could be watching us through the window, or that I could fall right there and sleep for a week.

The flirty old moon eased his way across the warped and sooty floorboards and kissed my bare toes, turning my feet as luminous as the skin of cinema stars.

The forecast is we kiss goodbye and never hello all kisses are then parting kisses

The heart you kiss today, the lips you kiss tomorrow.

Their cool cheeks and warm lips met in the crisp darkness, and, watching the icy moon over his shoulder, Annie knew that she was his surely and, pulling his face down, kissed him again, trembling with emotion.

Their lips brushed like young wild flowers in the wind.

Their lips met with a tenderness Kate had not dreamed possible. The weeks of heart-break and uncertainty, the pain of wasted days, and the despair of unfulfilled dreams released her like winter surrenders its ruthless grip on the frozen earth in early spring. Did every kiss hold such promise?

Their lips touched now, mouths pursed tight, their eyes open, both of them stock still. The moment held, a kind of such glorious confusion.

Their faces were inches apart now, and he traced her lips with one finger, lightly, lightly, then placed his lips there as if he’d drawn them into being.

Their long overdue kiss was interrupted far too soon for either of their likings. “Well, it be about time!” Nothing on God’s earth can douse a man’s ardor like the sound of his mother’s voice.

The kiss is a ritual that we do to get our faces used to love our neighbor as ourselves.

The kiss is different than I expected. It’s slow and tender, his lips soft and warm against mine. He tastes sweet, like the powdered sugar I spilt and the coffee with chicory he’s always drinking. It’s a perfect first kiss.

The kiss intimately relates to the most primitive kind of human contact, which can satisfy all of our needs, like: feeding, enjoying pleasure, tasting, wanting, rejecting, everything we associate with love.

The kiss is neither returned nor exchanged, because it's free. (Le baiser n'est ni repris - Ni échangé, car gratuit.)

The kiss is the greatest of gifts, a miracle, uniquely human. A kiss beneath the mistletoe. A kiss after midnight. A kiss before dying. The devil's kiss. As a picture tells a thousand words, so a kiss says everything that's important. I am told prostitutes never kiss their clients. It is too personal, too human. We kiss to say I love you. We kiss the rings of the self-important. The feet of conquerors. The rich dark earth when we reach the promised land. We kiss our hands and wave as loved ones begin a journey. We kiss strangers before dawn in the first hours of a New Year because our wintry lips are incomplete until they are oiled by a kiss.

The kiss stayed there with no place to go, no sensory reserve that could absorb it and file it away as a common act of intimacy, a thousand times received. He knew what Anna was asking: whether you could love someone without habits.

The late-night backyard encounter and kiss induced insomnia.

The kiss surrounded her like air, held her up like water, supported her like the earth and burned her like fire.

... the kiss, the bodily surrender which would seem natural and but moderately attractive...

The moment Noah came up behind me and kissed the side of my neck, I was torn between leaning into him and skirting away. Every muscle in my body screamed to fall into him.

The lover steals a kiss. He incurs life imprisonment. (L'amoureux vole un baiser. - Il encourt perpétuité.)

The news networks and the local TV stations all led with the same footage. An obviously moved, very pretty young woman with blond hair and alert blue eyes looking up. Eyes widening. Stumbling a little as she pushed back her chair and went around the table. Shaky cameras turning too fast, following her as she ran to a boy at the back of the room who pushed through the press of people to reach her. The embrace. The kiss that went on for a very long time.

The mouth is a magnificent tool to communicate intimacy – kissing, licking, sucking, nipping – it's screaming, I'm so fucking into you, without saying a word.

Then come here," he said, a bit redundantly, as he had already pulled her with him into an armchair and curled her up in his arms. "Tell me what I can do to help you feel better." Fire looked into his quiet eyes, touched his dear, familiar face, and considered the question. Well. I always like when you kiss me. "Do you?" You're good at it. "Well," he said. "That's lucky, because I'll always be kissing you.

The more opportunity I have to treat people the way I wished I myself had been treated, the better I feel.

Then he kissed her without breathing, without thinking. He kissed her until his entire body was tingling from the taste of her.

The one kiss that was stolen, was given in a lie.

The path to marital bliss is to begin each day with a kiss.

The only reaction Alexis could express to his response was: Mine. She pulled his neck lower, eager to feel his lips on hers, his warm mouth entwined with hers. He stroked her hunger with each brush of their lips, his body now laying on hers, kissing her until she wasn’t sure which way was up or down. Only, it didn’t stop with a kiss. Alexis knew it would never again stop with just a kiss.

The promise of a kiss will carry us forward.

There are as many kinds of kisses as there are people on earth, as there are permutations and combinations of those people. No two people kiss alike—no two people fuck alike—but somehow the kiss is more personal, more individualized than the fuck.

The rain always reminds me of our kisses.

there have been mornings so quiet and tender like a poem, on Thursday's lips that I wondered if I'd been kissed at all...

There are myriad kisses in a relationship: desperate ones as involuntary as breathing, stolen ones on crowded trains, ceremonial ones at the front door, routine ones as dispassionate as licking an envelope. It takes two to kiss, but does it take two to hold the memory?

There is no better taste than this: someone else's laughter in your mouth.

There is no dark, darker than the distorted great light.

There is strange, and yet not strange, is the kiss. It is strange because it mixes silliness with tragedy, and yet not strange because there is good reason for it. There is shaking by the hand. That should be enough. Yet a shaking of hands is not enough to give a vent to all kinds of feeling. The hand is too hard and too used to doing all things, with too little feeling and too far from the organs of taste and smell, and far from the brain, and the length of an arm from the heart. To rub a nose like the blacks, that we think is so silly, is better, but there is nothing good to the taste about the nose, only a piece of old bone pushing out of the face, and a nuisance in winter, but a friend before meals and in a garden, indeed. With the eyes we can do nothing, for if we come too near, they go crossed and everything comes twice to the sight without good from one or other. There is nothing to be done with the ear, so back we come to the mouth, and we kiss with the mouth because it is part of the head and of the organs of taste and smell. It is temple of the voice, keeper of breath and its giving out, treasurer of tastes and succulences, and home of the noble tongue. And its portals are firm, yet soft, with a warmth, of a ripeness, unlike the rest of the face, rosy, and in women with a crinkling of red tenderness, to the taste not in compare with the wild strawberry, yet if the taste of kisses went , and strawberries came the year round, half of joy would be gone from the world. There is no wonder to me that we kiss, for when mouth comes to mouth, in all its stillness, breath joins breath, and taste joins taste, warmth is enwarmed, and tongues commune in a soundless language, and those things are said that cannot find a shape, have a name, or know a life in the pitiful faults of speech.

There is nothing more lethal than a kiss at stopping words dead in their track.

There it was again, that strange sensation. Sort of floaty. Completely lovely. “Why aren’t we kissing yet?” “The same question had crossed my mind.” He leaned closer and pressed his lips to mine. I could never get enough of this sweet, crazy kissing. How did anyone ever get anything done when they were falling in love?

There's something special about her. When she helped me with her touch-" "Exactly what was she touching that was so memorable for you?" "Watch your mouth.

There’s a pause so yawning I can’t help but think about what it would be like to lean in and kiss her, but if I’m getting the signals wrong then I’m about to destroy the best run we’ve had all evening. It’s been at least ten minutes since I’ve done or said anything stupid.

There's no good reason why I shouldn't kiss you right now.

There’s something familiar about the curve of her lower lip. The weight cradled by a soft, slender chin. The bow of her top lip sweeps across it in a way that makes me think of the sun setting on the horizon. A perfect paint stroke of pink to light the sky. -Excerpt from Born Wicked ©2014 A.D. Evans

There should always be another kiss And another after that

There was a lot of pain in that kiss. There was so much hurt and so much fear in it. I felt tears rolling down the both of our faces. But, in that kiss, there was even more want. We both wanted to smother out that pain, to not have so many horrible things in the all too recent past, to just be normal, to do the types of things we were supposed to be dealing with besides death and disability.

There was no slow build. No peaceful meander to the summit. It was like sheet lighting stretching across a stormy sky—beautiful and blinding. I leaned forward and seized his mouth with mine.

There was no way to kiss her like a good boy. You could start out that way, but you always ended up on the other side of the tracks. If you hated her, it didn’t make any difference; it worked just the same.

There were so many different versions of him. It was countless versions of a song, and they were all original, and they were all true, and they were all right. It should have been impossible. Was I supposed to love them all?