Brush It Off Your Shoulder Quotes & Sayings

He grabs my hands and lifts them up in the air. I grip the railing on the top of the bed.
"Don't move those hands," he whispers into my nape. I nod and lick my lips. I'm on my tiptoes. My breath is catching and coming out spurts of rough air. His hands run down my arms. I shiver and pant. His lips brush the back of my neck. He sweeps my hair to one side, kissing down my shoulder blade. Heat and nerves battle low in my belly as his hands grip my hips, pulling me back to him.
"Don't let go of that railing, Sarah." His words are growled between kisses and licks. I hear the menacing threat in them. — Tara Brown

In his vision, she picked up a silver-backed brush and stroked the long fall of hair. He imagined himself taking the brush from her hand. As their eyes met in the mirror, he'd sensuously stroke every tress. He could see himself picking up a lavender-scented lock, kissing it, and then kissing her shoulder, her forehead, her lips. — Debra Holland

Really?" asked Nina, tugging at her corset. Pollen from one of the irises had scattered over her bare shoulder. Matthias had the overwhelming urge to brush it away with his lips. It's probably poisonous, he told himself sternly. Maybe he should take a walk. — Leigh Bardugo

But about the drip drip of long-haul, no-end-in-sight solitude, they know nothing. They don't know what it is to construct an entire weekend around a visit to the laundrette. Or to sit in a darkened flat on Halloween night, because you can't bear to expose your bleak evening to a crowd of jeering trick-or-treaters. Or to have the librarian smile pityingly and say, 'Goodness, you're a quick reader!' when you bring back seven books, read from cover to cover, a week after taking them out. They don't know what it is to be so chronically untouched that the accidental brush of a bus conductor's hand on your shoulder sends a jolt of longing straight to your groin. — Zoe Heller

If the boy who draws
lets you look over his shoulder.
If the poet
smiles
and shows you her words.
If the girl who sings for the shower only,
hums a song
in front of you.
Know that you're no longer a person
but the air
and dust
that fills their lungs.
When the world perishes,
and all things cease to exist,
you'll remain inside an ink stain,
a paint brush,
a song.

Poem N. 8 — Alaska Gold

Got some, dirt on my shoulder, could you brush it off for me? — Jay-Z

Sex only gets better, and we agree we'd like to practice. He tells me, speaking of practice, he can set up a training schedule. And now he rambles.
He inform me every morning will begin with some calisthenics followed by sex. Then we'll eat a breakfast rich in carbohydrates to maintain energy, followed by sex. In the evening, there'll be some warm-up stretches followed by sex. Then a cooldown followed by more sex. The ice cream, preferably chocolate. Then sleep to rest up for the morning practice.
I brush my lips across his warm shoulder. "I'm glad to see you're a normal healthy male. — Katie Kacvinsky

The muse on my shoulder is very sensitive and does not abide claptrap of any kind ... Only when I am totally immersed ... absorbed in work ... does she allow something magical to happen and I become aware of a faint heartbeat and gentle breath emanating from my brush. — Catherine Stock

Where are you now? What roads are you treading? We have so many new roads now, right across the steppe all the way to the Altai and Siberia. Many brave souls are toiling there. Perhaps you're among them? You left, my Jamilia, across the wide steppe without a backward glance. Perhaps you are weary, perhaps you have lost faith in your self? Just lean on Daniyar's shoulder. Have him sing to you his song of love, of life, of the earth. May the steppe come alive and blossom in all its glory. May you recall that August night. Keep on, Jamilia, have no regrets; you've found your hard-sought happiness.
When I gaze at them long enough I can hear Daniyar's voice. He is calling to me, too, to take the highroad, which means it is time for me to get ready. I shall cross the steppe back to my village and find fresh colours there.
May Daniyar's song resound and may Jamilia's heart beat with every stroke of my brush. — Chingiz Aitmatov

allowed two very long cascading curls to slip out and brush one shoulder. Her maid had dressed her hair and pulled out long golden streaks to twirl lazily against — Claudy Conn

Do it, Octavian" She ghosted the tips of her fingers along the hem of his shirt. "Touch me."
He growled low in his throat, his forehead dropping another inch toward her shoulder, his hair tickling the side of her face. "Be my angel, Riley, not my siren. Don't tempt me."
Moistening her lips with a sweep of her tongue, Riley glided her fingers over his belt, tracing the strip of leather to the silver buckle in the center. She felt rather than heard his deep inhalation and the tremor that raked his powerful body. Driven by his surrender, she used two fingers to walk over the square carvings etched into his abdomen, biting her lip to stop the grin that pulled when he groaned.
"I want to be both for you, Octavian," she whispered, letting her lips brush the curve of his shoulder. — Airicka Phoenix

They are not brave, the days when we are twenty-one. They are full of little cowardices, little fears without foundation, and one is so easily bruised, so swiftly wounded, one falls to the first barbed word. To-day, wrapped in the complacent armour of approaching middle age, the infinitesimal pricks of day by day brush one but lightly and are soon forgotten, but then - how a careless word would linger, becoming a fiery stigma, and how a look, a glance over a shoulder, branded themselves as things eternal. — Daphne Du Maurier

Rachel, determined to become invisible, wore no make up, had cut her shoulder length brown hair short and hid her trim figure under a baggy shirt dress. Sarah simply wore again the skirt and t shirt that she had flung over the chair the night before and had yet to brush her hair. — Mary Grand

I first tasted under Apollo's lips,
love and love sweetness,
I, Evadne;
my hair is made of crisp violets
or hyacinth which the wind combs back
across some rock shelf;
I, Evadne,
was made of the god of light.
His hair was crisp to my mouth,
as the flower of the crocus,
across my cheek,
cool as the silver-cress
on Erotos bank;
between my chin and throat,
his mouth slipped over and over.
Still between my arm and shoulder,
I feel the brush of his hair,
and my hands keep the gold they took,
as they wandered over and over,
that great arm-full of yellow flowers. — H.D.

He'd find out, he thought and nodded as he rose. " Are you worried about you? "
It surprised her, the gentleness in his voice, the light brush of his knuckles over her jaw. She could lean against him, she realized with a jolt. She could lay her head on that shoulder, close her eyes, and for a moment at least, everything would be all right.
She nearly stepped forward before she decided it would be foolish. " You're not going to be nice to me, are you? "
" Maybe. " It might have been the confusion in her eyes, or that sultry scent that wafted from her skin, but he needed to touch. He laid his hands on her shoulders, rubbed while his eyes stayed on hers. " Do you need help? — Nora Roberts

There is an exercise I teach at colleges: Get yourself a canvas and a bunch of acrylics and go into a very dimly lighted room. Dip a brush into one of the colors, slap it on the canvas, don't look, close your eyes, make a painting, don't look, turn the lights on and see what you've got. I think this releases people from the editor in their life that's always standing over their shoulder saying, "Oh, you don't have any talent; who do you think you are?" — Buffy Sainte-Marie

"I like you," I whisper and immediately stare at my shoes. Of all the things I could have said, that shouldn't have been it. I. Am. An. Idiot.
A gentle tug on my hair sends goose bumps raining down my arms. I close my eyes and relish the sweet brush of his knuckles against my neck as he flips my hair over my shoulder. "Rachel?"
"Yes?" I say so softly he may not have heard me.
His hand caresses the sensitive spot right below my chin, and with a gentle pressure, Isaiah raises my head until I look into those warm silver eyes. "I like you, too."
The right side of my mouth quirks and a spring of hope bubbles up inside me. He likes me. A really hot, really awesome guy likes me. — Katie McGarry