Intimate Quotes

“To allow yourself to play with another person is no small risk. It means allowing yourself to be open, to be exposed, to be hurt. It is the human equivalent of the dog rolling on its back---I know you won't hurt me, even though you can. It is the dog putting its mouth around your hand and never biting down. To play requires trust and love. Many years later, as Sam would controversially say in an interview with the gaming website Kotaku, "There is no more intimate act than play, even sex." The internet responded: no one who had had good sex would ever say that, and there must be something seriously wrong with Sam.”
― Gabrielle Zevin, Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow

“The scientist does not study nature because it is useful to do so. He studies it because he takes pleasure in it, and he takes pleasure in it because it is beautiful. If nature were not beautiful it would not be worth knowing, and life would not be worth living. I am not speaking, of course, of the beauty which strikes the senses, of the beauty of qualities and appearances. I am far from despising this, but it has nothing to do with science. What I mean is that more intimate beauty which comes from the harmonious order of its parts, and which a pure intelligence can grasp.”
― Henri Poincaré, Science and Method

“When one loses the deep intimate relationship with nature, then temples, mosques and churches become important.”
― Jiddu Krishnamurti

“I had a dream about you. It's been a while since I could remember any of my dreams, and still, this one has left me with such strong impression. Even now, when I am fully awake, your face flashes before my eyes. It's a face I can totally relate to, as if it wasn't any more yours than it is mine. Terrifying thing, you know? I can't say I've felt that sort of intimacy with anyone. For a moment you knew all my secrets, without me even having to tell them. For a moment I even knew them myself…

While I was looking into your eyes, I suddenly started to realize things about myself that were unspoken for years, like fragments of my inner life that were deeply repressed. It’s hard to distinguish if they were buried inside because dealing with them was such a dirty work, or if leaving them unnamed meant that it was not possible to define them precisely enough, so they would keep their true meaning. Perhaps, all this life that I've known so far was in fact no more but a dream about living. The only thing that has kept me in touch with reality was you…

I know it comes as a surprise, and you may be wondering why it took me so long to come clean. You also may be wondering how come you've never noticed before. I've tricked you on purpose, yes, and you must realize it really has nothing to do with you. It’s always been me. This is why, seeing you in my dream like that, came out as a shock. You also must forgive me. You must forgive me because I know how it looks like, that everything we ever shared was a lie, and it wasn't…

I am more of an illusionist that a deceiver, but it all comes from being in fact, a very private person. Even if it was true that you knew me better than anyone, I’d never admit it. I’d rather dig my own heart out, with a rotten spoon, than admitting it. I may let people in my own little world occasionally, but I would never let them be aware of it. I don’t throw my intimacy in front of others, especially when I care. The more I care, the less I give away, and this is something for you to understand, and grant me your forgiveness. I didn't play my tricks on you in order to deceive you, but rather to save myself, and maybe even deceive myself as well. I’ve had hidden my feelings for you so deeply that I've learned to live with them, as if any other casualty. I have done wrong to myself as much as I did to you, and I don’t know if I can forgive myself. So now I wonder, could you forgive me without feeling sorry for me? I certainly don’t deserve your pity. Especially not now that I am awake.”
― Aleksandra Ninkovic, Dreaming is for lovers

“For you
i have saved poems
under my skin.”
― Sanober Khan

“You live by yourself for a stretch of time and you get to staring at different objects. Sometimes you talk to yourself. You take meals in crowded joints. You develop an intimate relationship with your used Subaru. You slowly but surely become a has-been.”
― Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance

“His hand lay across my stomach as he slept soundly. I entwined my fingers with his and breathed through the warmth that seeped through my chest. Such a simple, sweet thing to do, yet holding hands in bed was incredibly intimate.”
― N.R. Walker, Spencer Cohen, Book Three

“As an introvert, you crave intimate moments and deep connections--and those usually aren't found in a crowd.”
― Jenn Granneman, The Secret Lives of Introverts: Inside Our Hidden World

“I knew that I couldn't lie beside her, without wanting to touch her. I couldn't have felt her breath come upon my mouth, without wanting to kiss her. And I couldn't have kissed her, without wanting to save her.”
― Sarah Waters

“The soul speaks only through love on different levels of vibration. Love is its root of existence, the living energy that is felt but not seen.”
― Raz Mihal, Just Love Her

“The only thing needed is to be in love with someone else. Because you can search for love and still can’t find it, it knocks you unexpectedly and without warning.”
― Raz Mihal, Just Love Her

“We had carved out these small, intimate spaces for each other in our lives, and by some miracle of human denial, neither of us had thought about what that would inevitably mean. Now, for the first time, I realized the breadth of the gaping absence we would leave in each other.”
― Carissa Broadbent, Daughter of No Worlds

“Forget about that and kiss me," I say.
I weave my hands in her hair. She wraps her arms around my neck as I trace the valley between her lips with my tongue. Parting her lips, I deepen the kiss. It's like a tango, first moving slow and rhythmic and then, when we're both panting and our tongues collide, the kiss turns into a hot, fast dance I never want to end. Carmen's kisses may have been hot, but Brittany's are more sensual, sexy, and extremely addictive.
We're still in the car, but it's cramped and the front seats don't give us enough room. Before I know it, we've moved to the backseat. Still not ideal, but I hardly notice.
I'm so getting into her moans and kisses and hands in my hair. And the smell of vanilla cookies. I'm not going to push her too far tonight. But without thinking, my hand slowly moves up her bare thigh.
"It feels so good," she says breathlessly.
I lean her back while my hands explore on their own. My lips caress the hollow of her neck as I ease down the strap to her dress and bra. In response, she unbuttons my shirt. When it's open, her fingers roam over my chest and shoulders, searing my skin.
"You're . . . perfect," she pants.
Right now I'm not gonna argue with her. Moving lower, my tongue follows a path down to her silky skin exposed to the night air. She grabs the back of my hair, urging me on. She tastes so damn good. Too good. !Caramelo!
I pull away a few inches and capture her gaze with mine, those shining sapphires glowing with desire. Talk about perfect.
"I want you, chula," I say, my voice hoarse.”
― Simone Elkeles, Perfect Chemistry

“I lay my fantasy in the backseat of Isa's car and slide in next to her. She snuggles up, using me as her personal pillow, her blond curls sprawled over my crotch. I close my eyes for a second, trying to get the image out of my head. And I don't know what to do with my hands. My right one is on the door armrest. My left one hovers over Brittany.
I hesitate. Who am I kidding? I'm not a virgin. I'm an eighteen-year-old guy who can deal with having a hot, passed-out girl next to me. Why am I afraid of putting my arm where it's comfortable, right over her midsection?
I hold my breath as I settle my arm on her. She cuddles closer and I'm feeling weird and light-headed. Either it's the aftereffects from the joint or . . . I don't want to think about the "or." Her long hair is wrapped around my thigh. Without thinking, I weave my hands in her hair and watch as the silky strands slowly fall through the V's between my fingers.”
― Simone Elkeles, Perfect Chemistry

“When it is time to sleep, Tiernan and Oak wrap themselves in bearskins. Oak drapes one over my shoulders. I say nothing to indicate that I don't need it, that I am never too cold. When we lie down by the fire, he watches me. The light dances in his eyes.

'Come here,' he says, beckoning with a hand.

I am not sure I know the me who moves, who shifts so that I am resting my head against his shoulder. The me who feels his breath against my hair and the pressure of his splayed fingers at the small of my back. His feet tangle with mine, my toes brushing against the fur just above his hooves. My fingers are resting against his stomach, and I cannot help feeling the hard planes of him, the muscles and the scars. When I move my hand, his breath catches.

We both go still. Tiernan, close to the fire, turns in his sleep.

In the firelight, the prince's amber eyes are molten gold.

I am aware of my skin in a way I have never been before, of the slight movements of my limbs, of the rise and fall of my chest. I can hear the beat of his heart against my cheek. I feel as though I am shouting kiss me with every restless shift of my body. But he does not, and I am too much of a coward to do more than lie there and yearn until my eyes drift closed at last.”
― Holly Black, The Stolen Heir

“His lips parted under hers, damp and soft and warm, and she forgot all of that. Her entire life focused in on the sensations, the gentle pressure that grew more intense the longer the kiss went on.
Chaste kisses, then dirtier ones, and man, those tasted good. They tasted better the wider her mouth opened, and especially after his tongue touched hers.
She could have done a whole semester of kissing with Shane. Intense personal study. With lab classes.
Time really wasn’t happening for her, but eventually Claire realized that there was a soft glow coming from the windows, and she was numb and sore from sitting on the floor. She winced as a muscle in her back protested, and Shane reached out, pulled her up, and settled himself on the couch.
He stretched out, and extended a hand to her. She stared, tingling and confused. “There’s no room.’”
“Plenty of room,’” he said.
She felt breathless and kind of wild, stretching out on the tiny area of sofa cushion available next to him, and then smothered a yelp as Shane picked her up and draped her over his chest and, oh my God, over all the rest of him, too.
“Better?’” he asked, and raised his eyebrows. It was a real question, and he was looking for a real answer. Claire felt a blush building a fire in her cheeks, but she didn’t look away from his gaze.
“Perfect,’” she said.”
― Rachel Caine, The Dead Girls' Dance

“I slip in to Cardan's room. Though it is not yet dawn, I am lucky. The room is empty of revelry. No courtiers doze on the cushions or in his bed. I walk to where he sleeps and press my hand over his mouth.

He wakes, fighting against my grip. I press down hard enough that I can feel his teeth against my skin.

He grabs for my throat, and for a moment, I am scared that I'm not strong enough, that my training isn't good enough. Then his body relaxes utterly, as though realizing who I am.

He shouldn't relax like that. 'He sent me to kill you,' I whisper against his ear.

A shiver goes through his body, and his hand goes to my waist, but instead of pushing me away, he pulls me in to the bed with him, rolling my body across him on to the heavily embroidered coverlets.

My hand slips from his mouth, and I am unnerved to find myself here, in the new High King's new bed- one I am still too human to lie in, beside someone who terrifies me the more I feel for him.

'Balekin and Orlagh are planning your murder,' I say, flustered.

'Yes,' He says lazily. 'So why did I wake up at all?'

I am awkwardly conscious of his physicality, of the moment when he was half awake and pulled me against him. 'Because I am difficult to charm,' I say.

That makes him give a soft laugh. He reaches out and touches my hair, traces the hollow of my cheekbone. 'I could have told my brother that,' he says, with a softness in his voice I am utterly unprepared for.”
― Holly Black, The Wicked King

“He said my name with such... intimacy. As if he weren't a creature capable of killing monsters made from nightmares.”
― Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Thorns and Roses

“His lips brushed over the delicate underside of her wrist. Once. Twice. Three times. It was barely a touch, and yet there was something incredibly intimate about it. It made her think of the other stories that said his kisses might have been fatal, but they were worth dying for. Jacks' cool mouth dragged intentionally back and forth over her racing pulse, velvety and gentle and- his sharp teeth dug in to her skin.

She cried out, 'You bit me!'

'Relax, pet. I didn't draw any blood.' His eyes shone brighter as he dropped her arm.

She ran a finger over the tender skin he'd just sunk his teeth into. Three thin white scars, shaped like tiny broken hearts, lined the underside of her wrist. One for each kiss.”
― Stephanie Garber, Once Upon a Broken Heart

“You're fully ruined now," he murmureed, smiling wryly.
"No," she breathed. "I was rurined the moment I laid eyes on you. Uttterly ruined for everything else, evermore."
"Told you so."
"Fiend." She frowned with mock severity.
"Rake?" he suggested.
"Oh yes, please.”
― India Holton, The Wisteria Society of Lady Scoundrels

“Vulnerability is our relationship to our weaknesses, not our weaknesses themselves.

It's the feeling we have when confronted with our imperfections. The image of being vulnerable is that of taking off our armor, making ourselves available to be intimate, to be touchable. To own your vulnerabilities is a move of trust, a move of solidarity.”
― Scott Erickson, Say Yes: Discover the Surprising Life Beyond the Death of a Dream

“Books feel more intimate. And the people who go out of their way to read your writings, are initially more open to what you have to say.”
― Robin S. Baker

“He smiled at me, and I found myself smiling back. I didn't need to pretend, didn't need to be anything but what I was right then, being twirled about the meadow, the will-o'-the-wisps dancing around us like dozens of moons.

Our dancing slowed and we stood there, holding each other as we swayed to the songs of the spirits. He rested his chin upon my head and stroked my hair, his fingers grazing the bare skin of m neck.

'Feyre,' he whispered onto my head. He made my name sound beautiful. 'Feyre,' he whispered again- not in question, but simply as if he enjoyed saying it.”
― Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Thorns and Roses

“Like most normal people, I didn't have any M.F.K Fisher quotes memorized. So I selected one of her books at random---well, not random, the one that looked the least valuable---and flipped to a random page. Hoping I'd find something beautiful but decidedly unsexy, maybe about the smell of a mushroom farm or boxes of durian.
Where my eyes landed: Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly.
Thanks a lot, Mary Frances Kennedy.”
― Amanda Elliot, Best Served Hot

“His hand beneath mine was warm, large enough where mine didn't cover nearly all of it, his skin soft and his bones hard ridges that tensed at the touch of my skin.
What are you doing? I thought furiously at it. My lips opened to say sorry, and I went to pull my hand away, but before I could do either of those things, his hand flipped over, our palms meeting as he threaded his fingers through mine.
It was like when I was a freshman in high school and held a boy's hand for the very first time. The touch of his skin on mine made me tingle all the way up my arm, and the way he squeezed my hand, reassuringly but also firmly, as if to say, this is the way I'd squeeze around your nipple or cup your ass to press you up against me.”
― Amanda Elliot, Best Served Hot

“I put my hand against his cheek, the first intimate touch we'd had all day. His skin was chilled, his eyes bleak as they slid to me. 'I don't walk away- not from you,' I swore quietly.

His gaze softened. 'Feyre-”
― Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Mist and Fury

“Kit swiftly lifted Susannah up into his arms as it whipped past; she ducked her head in his chest.
Fortunately the adder's retreat was hasty and complete.
"It's all right," he said softly. "You're all right. It's gone."
Susannah said nothing for a time; just breathed swiftly in and out. She was warm and lithe in his arms; the faintest scent of lavender, and that mysterious sweetness of her own, the scent he'd discovered at the nape of her neck the day he'd caught her spying on him, rose up to him, released by the heat of her skin.
"It was a snake." Her voice, a trifle unsteady, was muffled against his shirt.
"It was, indeed," he said softly. Her breath had found a gap between the buttons of his shirt; it washed over his skin in a very nearly hypnotic rhythm. In... and out. In... and out. In... and---”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“A minute, perhaps more, passed before she became aware she'd stopped swabbing altogether, and had been standing very still instead, watching the fair, fernlike trail that traveled from his flat belly up between his ribs rise and fall, rise and fall, with his quickening breath.
He turned his head, slowly, slowly lifted his eyes up to hers.
This... this was desire. Not the near-chaste kiss pressed upon her earlier today by another man, but this thing that made a tyrant of her senses, that made it seem absurd to stand this close to him and not taste the smooth curve of his shoulder, not trail a finger along the hair that began between his ribs and disappeared into his trousers. This thing that sealed the two of them in heated, fraught silence; that suddenly made thought seem pointless, even frivolous beyond words.
But in this moment it didn't matter at all to Susannah whether Kit had made love to one woman or a million, it didn't matter at all to her whether he saw her as just a body from whom to take pleasure. She didn't care whether he was here for her sake, or for the sake of Caroline Allston. She wanted him with an incinerating ferocity, because in a sense it was all she had to give to him.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“I know you don't understand what I do."
"That... might be true," he admitted. He touched the top of Manor House's roof with his right index finger. "But that does not mean I do not find it fascinating."
I watched as he traced over every single line on the page, from top to bottom, not skipping over any part of it, with deliberate care. The house. The lake. The barely intimated trees blooming as rough graphite swirls on either side of the page. The memories of his large hand covering mine as we explored Instagram together--- the way my hands had looked pressed up against his chest in the Nordstrom dressing room--- rose unbidden, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.
I'd always felt my art was an extension of my innermost self, and the sight of his large, graceful hands touching every single part of this early drawing felt almost unbearably intimate.
"What do you find fascinating about it?" I couldn't tear my eyes away from the sight of his hands touching my work. I felt moments away from melting into a puddle at his feet.
"All of it." His hand left the page. I felt him withdraw as much as saw it and exhaled for the first time in what felt like minutes. An unexpected, indescribable feeling of emptiness coursed through me. "I do not claim to understand what you see when you draw and build these things. But the intricacy of your detailing suggests that whatever it is, it is big and deliberate. This is intentional. It means something to you. I cannot help but respect it.”
― Jenna Levine, My Roommate Is a Vampire

“Intimacy doesn't mean sharing nudity, intimacy means sharing vulnerability.”
― Abhijit Naskar, Yaralardan Yangın Doğar: Explorers of Night are Emperors of Dawn