Best You Make Me So Wet Quotes & Sayings
Dinner is just the beginning. I want to touch you, he says, his voice low and commanding. I want to run my hands over every inch of you. I want you wet for me. I want to finish what we started, Ms. Fairchild. I want to make you come. – Author: J. Kenner
Parade my trouble in front of you guys? Make you realize that my heart is broken … that as long as I live I’ll have chains dragging me down to the oceans of sad tears that my feet are wet in already. — Jack Kerouac
Ride me. You’re so tight and wet. I’m going to fill up that pretty little pu*sy and make it mine. In you. So that the whole god damn world knows you’re mine. — Vi Keeland
When the beer came, I dipped a finger in it and wet down each corner of the paper napkin to anchor it, so it would not come up with the mug each time and make me appear ridiculous. I — Charles Portis
Shit! Raine, if you do that again, I’m going to come all over you.
Don’t be, I growled, nuzzling against her n*pple with my lips. It feels so good … your little hand trying to hold on to me.
I still don’t know how you’re going to fit, she whispered, stroking me slowly again.
I’m going to make you come, I told her. Then you are going to be so wet and ready for me, I’m going to just slide right into you. — Shay Savage
Our one employee came warily out of the back. He was always skittish with me, and if Lizzy wasn’t around, h made a point of keeping his distance. I think he was expecting me to make a pass at him. He was seventeen, had stringy black hair,bad skin, and probably weighed a buck five soaked wet. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he wasn’t my type. — Marie Sexton
But I would make it through Death Valley. Lee, Thurston, and I, and then just the two of us, stood there. My about-to-be-ex husband and I faced that ma*s of bobbing wet Brazilians, our voices together spell-checking the old words, and for me it was a staccato soundtrack of surreal raw energy and anger and pain: Hit it. Hit it. Hit it. I don’t think I had ever felt so alone in my whole life. — Kim Gordon
There’s something simmering inside of me. Something I’ve never dared to tap into, something I’m afraid to acknowledge. There’s a part of me clawing to break free from the cage I’ve trapped it in, banging on the doors of my heart, begging to be free. Begging to let go. Every day I feel like I’m reliving the same nightmare. I open my mouth to shout, to fight, to swing my fists, but my vocal cords are cut, my arms are heavy and weighted down as if trapped in wet cement and I’m screaming but no one can hear me, no one can reach me and I’m caught. And it’s killing me. I’ve always had to make myself submissive, subservient, twisted into a pleading, passive mop just to make everyone else feel safe and comfortable. My existence has become a fight to prove I’m harmless, and I’m not a threat, that I’m capable of living among other human beings without hurting them. And I’m so tired I’m so tire I’m so tired I’m so tired and sometimes I get so angry. I don’t know what’s happening to me. — Tahereh Mafi
The Fire Bug flared up at that. You want to know what bugs me? it said indignantly. Nobodaddy’s friendly about fire. Oh, it’s fine in its place, people say, it makes a nice glow in a room, but keep an eye on it in case it gets out of control, and always put it out before you leave. Never mind how much it’s needed; a few forests burned by wildfires, the occasional volcanic eruption, and there goes our reputation. Water, on the other hand! – hah! – there’s no limit to the praise Water gets. Floods, rains, burst pipes, they make no difference. Water is everyone’s favorite. And when they call it the Fountain of Life! – bah! – well, that just bugs me to bits. The Fire Bug dissolved briefly into a little cloud of angry, buzzing sparks, then came together again. Fountain of Life, indeed, it hissed. What an idea. Life is not a drip. Life is a flame. What do you imagine the sun is made of? Raindrops? I don’t think so. Life is not wet, young man. Life burns. — Salman Rushdie.
First round, wet shower sex, after we scrape off a few layers of the Alaskan tundra, then a short and satisfying lunch break. Then a second round of make-the-mattress-sing sex.
The next man I was involved with lived in Boston. He taught me to cook mushrooms. He taught me that if you heat the bu*ter very hot and put just a very few mushrooms into the frying pan, they come out nice and brown and crispy, whereas if the bu*ter is only moderately hot and you crowd the mushrooms, they get all mushy and wet. Every time I make mushrooms I think of him. There was another man in my life when I was younger who taught me to put sour cream into scrambled eggs, and since I never ever put sour cream into scrambled eggs I never really think of him at all. — Nora Ephron
Yes, but I’ve already made my fortune in other things. (Solin)
Such as? (Geary)
Viagra. My brother learned to take a personal problem and profit by it. (Arik)
It’s true. It pained me to see a man as young as Arik stricken with impotency. Therefore I had to do something to help the poor soul. But alas, there’s nothing to be done for it. He’s as flaccid as a wet noodle. (Solin)
How creative of you to project your problem onto me. But then, they say celibacy is enough to make a man lose all reason. Guess you’re living proof, huh? (Arik) — Sherrilyn Kenyon
I missed you. A humorless laugh closed his eyes. When he opened them, the redness had turned them deep mossy green.
Sorry. Trip’s own eyes welled up.
Not like, gosh-I-wonder-what-Trip-is-doing missed you. I meant I actually started to feel like I’d survived some horrible amputation and part of me had been hacked off and lost in a haunted warzone being gnawed by the walking dead. I missed you because you were missing. I actually spent weeks trying to imagine what you were doing at any given Moment … obsessing, really. He didn’t wipe his wet cheeks. Trip must be seeing the new Superman this weekend. I wonder if Trip’s asleep. I wish I could swallow Trip’s load right this second. Trip needs to stop and eat now, something not dyed or in plastic. I even went to watch the Big Dog office doors a couple of times, like the Little Match Queer, when I knew you had pages due, just to make sure, you were okay, but then you … I dunno: vanished. — Damon Suede
Best Flirty You Make Me So Wet Quotes
Blue was standing over her, shaking out his wet hair like an annoying blue dog. Beads of water clung to the muscle of his chest. He was wiry, not buff like Henley, but his body made up for size with definition.
Nothing could make up for his personality.
Stop dripping on me, Mira snapped. — Sarah Cross
The moon was full, shining enough light down for Scarlet to make out the hundreds of gravestones lined up in the wet gra*s and the dozens of standing tombs that rose up in various places throughout the yard.
Giant trees swayed in the winter wind, throwing shadows across the grounds and making it look like the darkness was alive.
Graveyards were much more frightening at night than they were during the day.
An owl hooted.
A wolf howled.
A bat flapped across the night sky before her, wings silhouetted by the giant moon.
Are you kidding me?
It was like the graveyard knew Scarlet had entered and wanted to make it the creepiest experience ever. — Chelsea Fine
I feel a tear of gratitude and awe forming in the corner of my eyes. Don’t think less of me. — Nora Roberts
Make Me Wet Quotes
Do you have any idea how much it turns me on, knowing something of mine has been cradling your sweet pu*sy all day long? Without warning, he thrust two thick fingers inside her with just enough force to make her cry out, bring her up on her toes. He didn’t move them, only held them there, high and tight inside her. Ruby’s head fell forward on a moan that was equal parts frustrated and relieved. He’d finally filled her. But she needed so much more from him, and he seemed determined to take his time. You walked around with your naughty secret all day, didn’t you? Did you think of me while you sat in class wearing my underwear? Did the thought of me get you all wet, baby? His thrust his fingers deeper. Answer me or you’ll get no more. — Tessa Bailey
We are hard on each other
and call it honesty,
choosing our jagged truths
with care and aiming them across
the neutral table.
The things we say are
true; it is our crooked
aims, our choices
turn them criminal.
Of course your lies
are more amusing:
you make them new each time.
Your truths, painful and boring
repeat themselves over & over
perhaps because you own
so few of them
A truth should exist,
it should not be used
like this. If I love you
is that a fact or a weapon?
Does the body lie
moving like this, are these
touches, hairs, wet
soft marble my tongue runs over
lies you are telling me?
Your body is not a word,
it does not lie or
speak truth either.
It is only
here or not here. — Margaret Atwood
Apparently she was beyond words so she pushed the card into his hands. He looked down. Blinked. Blinked again before stumbling back into a chair. Did he just wet himself? Ah, who cared? He was holding four tickets to the Yankees vs. Red Sox at Yankee Stadium for this Friday and they were without a doubt the best seats in the stadium.
His eyes shifted from Haley to the tickets and back again before he made a split second decision and made a run for it. He didn’t make it five feet before his little gra*shopper tackled him to the ground and ripped the card from his hands.
He spit gra*s out of his mouth. Fine. You can come with me I guess, he said, earning a knee to the ribs. — R.L. Mathewson
Tell me not to kiss you, Jessica. Tell me right now. And best you make me believe you mean it, he warned softly, a breath from her lips. Don’t kiss me. She wet her lips. Try again, he said flatly. Don’t kiss me. She swayed toward his body, a magnet to steel. Try again, he hissed. And best ‘ware, woman, ’tis your last chance. Jessi took a deep breath. Don’t. Another deep breath. Kiss me? He laughed, a c*cky, rich purr of a sound. — Karen Marie Moning
I didn’t wake from these dreams crying. I woke shrieking. Paul grabbed me and held me until I was quiet. He wetted a washcloth with cool water and put it over my face. But those wet washcloths couldn’t wash the dreams of my mother away. Nothing did. Nothing would. Nothing could ever bring my mother back or make it okay that she was gone. Nothing would put me beside her the moment she died. It broke me up. It cut me off. It tumbled me end over end. — Cheryl Strayed
I want to stick my c*ck into your pu*sy. Don’t worry – I’ll get you nice and ready first. Open you up with my fingers, make sure you’re so wet and hot that when you wrap around me, it’ll feel like I’m fu*king a goddess because you’re goddamn perfect, London. I can’t wait to feel your cunt squeezing me. Lick your clit, taste you . . . It’ll be good between us. You know it will. — Joanna Wylde
I’m scanning the sky for doo-doo missiles, when there’s a bloodcurdling scream. An ugly thing with a human body, ears like a rabbit and a face so grotesque it would make gladiators wet their pants leaps off the roof of the houseboat. It lands right in front of me. — J.E. Fison
How many rooms does it have?
Five hundred eighty-seven, not including the staff bedrooms. He leans up and licks the shell of my ear, making the wet and quivering plan come to fruition. His next words almost make me come on the spot. And I want to fu*k you in every one of them by the end of the summer.
I want lots and lots of sex.
Best Sexy You Make Me Wet Quotes
That’s ambitious, I tease, nuzzling him. Do you plan on stopping to feed me?
His hand skims down my back, cradling my a*s. You’ll be well taken care of, I promise.
I promise. You know what that is? Yep – Famous. Last. Words. — Emma Chase
But…a vibrator can’t hold you in its arms or give you the full-body experience.
Em clamped down on the wicked surge of heat between her legs, thinking about a full-body experience with Lincoln Quinn. It’s not going to make me lie in the wet spot, either.
It can’t snuggle with you after, he countered with another laugh.
Em snorted. And that’s your specialty, is it? Hanging around for pillow talk?
I’ll have you know I give very good pillow talk.
Sure. And Elvis was alive and living at Henley Stadium. Right, she muttered. Of course you do.
I really do. He nodded. Most women seem to be more interested in me giving them good head, but hey, I’m a full service kinda guy. — Amy Andrews
Just after midnight, I text my parents who live in Florida: Please tell me you didn’t help elect him.
The next morning, New York City wakes up with a wet, gray yawn. The air is thick with mist. The city moves at a slower, muffled pace. New Yorkers rarely make eye contact; today isn’t much different, except when eyes meet, they lock for a moment in shared grief. Everyone’s shoulders bend forward, the world weighing heavier on them than it did yesterday.
The sidewalks and the coffee shops are quiet. Even the subway paces through its underground veins in somber silence. My husband tells me: The city hasn’t been this quiet since 9/11.- Melissa Lirtsman — Erin Passons
He stepped close to her; she could feel his breath on her neck. Eve, you make me not want to die.
She turned to see his face. I didn’t want to be this, and now it’s all I am.
He put his hands on her cheeks. The look on his face did her in. He was kind, caring, and mourning her losses. Tears wet his cheeks. Eve felt a very deep sob choke her. If he was mourning, so could she.
He pulled her into his arms. Cry. It’s okay. Cry.
Eve felt her knees give. He caught her and carried her to his couch. He petted her hair and let her empty her pain and guilt onto his chest. He kissed the top of her head. For the first time, his actions toward her seemed to have no sexual intent whatsoever.
Eve let go of a rope she’d clung to for too long. And she fell. She fell right into him. Wrong or right, she gave up judging. Her lips found his, and he kissed her gently, not demanding any more than she was willing to offer. — Debra Anastasia
And wasn’t my mind also like another crib in the depths of which I felt I remained ensconced, even in order to watch what was happening outside? When I saw an external object, my awareness that I was seeing it would remain between me and it, lining it with a thin spiritual border that prevented me from ever directly touching its substance; it would volatize in some way before I could make contact with it, just as an incandescent body brought near a wet object never touches its moisture because it is always preceded by a zone of evaporation. — Marcel Proust
Dinner is just the beginning. I want to touch you, he says, his voice low and commanding. I want to run my hands over every inch of you. I want you wet for me. I want to finish what we started, Ms. Fairchild. I want to make you come. — J. Kenner
God, I love your skin.
My skin? She glanced uncomprehendingly at her own arm when he rose from nibbling at her. It’s brown.
It’s melted chocolate and coffee with cream, exotic as the fu*king desert, and so damn erotic. I have wet dreams about you n*ked on my sheets, your skin smooth and hot from the sun’s rays.
She swallowed, chest heaving. You make me sound edible.
He purred. You are. — Nalini Singh
He opens his window and motions for me to open mine. When I do, he tries to say something. His voice barely carries through the sound of the rain coming down hard between us.
I lean out the car window. What?
He leans out his window, meeting me halfway. We’re both wet and soaked, but neither of us seems to care. Don’t run away from me when I need to tell you somethin’ important.
What? I say, hoping he doesn’t notice the tears running down my face, and praying they’re getting mixed up with the rain.
Tonight was … well, it was perfect for me, too. You’ve turned my world upside down. I’ve fallen in love with you, chica, and it scares the fu*kin’ shit outta me. I’ve been shakin’ all night, because I knew it. I’ve tried to deny it, to make you think I wanted you as a fake girlfriend, but that was a lie.
I love you, Kiara, he says before his lips move forward and meet mine. — Simone Elkeles
She glanced at the bathroom door once more, her cheeks growing warm as the glass door slid open and Kane emerged from the steamy shower stall.
She swallowed, unable to tear her eyes away from his n*de, dripping-wet body. He had the kind of rock-hard physique that would make other women drool. His broad chest tapered to a trim waist, and his legs were thick and dusted with golden hair. He was lean, not bulky, with perfectly sculpted muscles that looked like they’d been carved out of marble. He was hard. Everywhere.
I’m afraid it’s too late for you to join me in the shower, he said in a silky voice. Though we could still make good use of the bed. — Elle Kennedy
You really are the woman of my dreams.
When it’s the two of us and that pu*sy of yours is soft, swollen, and wet, I’ll be the one in control. I’ll have you wherever and whenever I want – in my bed, on my desk, on the floor right now if I want to. I’m going to own that sexy body of yours so thoroughly that you’re going to beg for my c*ck, because it’s going to be the only thing in the world that you want. And once I’m buried balls deep in you and you are filled with me, I’m going to make you come apart in the best way possible. Do you understand? — Avery Flynn
I’m not asking you to describe the rain falling the night the archangel arrived; I’m demanding that you get me wet. Make up your mind, Mr. Writer, and for once in your life be the flower that smells rather than the chronicler of the aroma. There’s not much pleasure in writing what you live. The challenge is to live what you write. — Eduardo Galeano
I’m standing by the cereal, reaching for a box of Honey Nut Cheerios, when I feel my chest clenching but not unclenching. It clenches tighter and tighter, like someone has wrapped a corset around it. My palms are wet. My head is compressing, growing and shrinking at the same time. I can hear my breathing, and it’s so amplified that, to my own ears, I sound like Darth Vader. A woman at the end of the aisle is frozen as she watches me. She looks scared…My breathing is getting louder, and I cover my ears to block it out. And that’s when the ceiling starts to spin and the air disappears and my lungs won’t stop working and I can’t breathe at all. I drop everything and run away from the cart and all that food until I’m out the door. I stand in the parking lot, bent over at the waist, breathing in the fresh night air, and then I lie flat on the ground, as if this will open my lungs wider and make them work again, only the breath won’t come. — Jennifer Niven
And your words …
Tell me about my words.
They make me crazy.
Which ones, specifically?
All of them. Any of them.
So mostly ‘and’, and ‘when’, and ‘if’.
It’s another challenge, ten hurdles high. I can clear it, though. I can.
No. Mostly ‘sex’ and ‘pleasure’ and the way you just said ‘wet’.
Like it excites me.
Yes. Exactly, yes.
Like I want you to tell me all about that slippery seam between your legs, and how eager you must be to have someone lick their way over it.
Oh, God, yes.
And how I would, if I were there. I’d kiss your pu*sy until you forgot every little sliver of that restraint, play with your n*pples to make them so pretty and stiff, slide my fingers inside you just as I think you might be doing now. Are you? — Charlotte Stein
Very sorry. I’m wet. I mean, you made me wet. Nope, not any better. Now, he sounded like a pervert. You didn’t make me wet. — L.L. Bucknor
I grew up watching my father make plates that featured p*nises as centerpieces. Pink, proud, and stiff, encircled by cerulean Greek key, Dad’s creations made me feel scared and small. I saw a private part of the man I could not measure up to. At six years old, I lived in a world shaded by his ceramic glazes. There was love and color, but anger, too, in the way he kneaded his clay, palms pounding the rich, wet earth into shapes of his choosing. — Royal Young
There’s only one thing you can say when you come up against magic like this, and Mitch waited a long moment in silence to find the right words, to make them good and true and real.
Not tomorrow, he said. Because it’s Sunday and it’s Christmas Day. And not Monday, because it’s a federal holiday, but Tuesday. Will you marry me on Tuesday?
She looked up and her lashes were wet as though she’d been crying too, dawning belief in her eyes. Yes. — Jo Graham
Kyrie … you taste so good, Kyrie. I’m going to lick your sweet, perfect pu*sy until you beg me stop, but I won’t stop. I’ll keep licking you until you can’t take it anymore, and then, when you’ve come so hard and so many times that you think you’re about to die, I’ll make you come again. Have you ever come so many times you passed out, Kyrie? That’s what I’m going to do to you. Right now. Tonight. I’m going to eat your sweet wet little pu*sy until you pass out. — Jasinda Wilder
These days, it feels to me like you make a devil’s pact when you walk into this country. You hand over your passport at the check-in, you get stamped, you want to make a little money, get yourself started … but you mean to go back! Who would want to stay? Cold, wet, miserable; terrible food, dreadful newspapers – who would want to stay? In a place where you are never welcomed, only tolerated. Just tolerated. Like you are an animal finally house-trained. — Zadie Smith
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