No subscription or hidden extras
Read through the most famous quotes by topic #seduction
Whatever may have been said of the satiety of pleasure and of the disgust which usually follows passion, any man who has anything of a heart and who is not wretchedly and hopelessly blasé feels his love increased by his happiness, and very often the best way to retain a lover ready to leave is to give one's self up to him without reserve. ↗
Her fingers clenched against his shoulder blades. “You don’t know what you’re asking.” “Do I not?” He threaded his hands gently around her neck. “I’m asking you to make love with me.” That word again. She opened her eyes. “Gareth,” she whispered. “Please. Don’t. This is hard enough—” She stopped speaking as his gaze pierced her. Incredible. Last night had seemed so intimate. And yet it had been so dark that she had not been able to see anything other than flashes of light, reflecting off the surface of his skin. Now she could look into his eyes. They were golden-brown. They were not cutting or dismissive. And even though she could see the desire smolder inside them, there was something else in them that turned her belly to liquid. ↗
[Mr. Jones] was uncommonly bad at seduction if he though talk of common capital and incorporation would do the trick, but she could think of no other reason he would lavish her with such time and care. Except the impossible one: No motive but to help her. Such purity didn’t exist, though. If it did … If it did, he’d be a dangerously good seducer. ↗
I mean, what does Éloa mean?” He narrowed his gaze, answered her literally. “It’s the name of an angel.” Penelope tilted her head, thinking. “I’ve never heard of him.” “You wouldn’t have.” “Was he a fallen angel?” “She was, yes.” He hesitated, not wanting to tell her the story, but unable to stop himself. “Lucifer tricked her into falling from heaven.” “Tricked her how?” He met her gaze. “She fell in love with him.” Penelope’s eyes widened. “Did he love her?” Like an addict loves his addiction. “The only way he knew how.” She shook her head. “How could he trick her?” “He never told her his name. ↗
Then I speak to her in a language she has never heard, I speak to her in Spanish, in the tongue of the long, crepuscular verses of Díaz Casanueva; in that language in which Joaquín Edwards preaches nationalism. My discourse is profound; I speak with eloquence and seduction; my words, more than from me, issue from the warm nights, from the many solitary nights on the Red Sea, and when the tiny dancer puts her arm around my neck, I understand that she understands. Magnificent language! ↗