Bunching Quotes & Sayings

By midmorning eight of the horses stood tied and the other eight were wilder than deer, scattering along the fence and bunching and running in a rising sea of dust as the day warmed, coming to reckon slowly with the remorselessness of this rendering of their fluid and collective selves into that condition of separate and helpless paralysis which seemed to be among them like a creeping plague. — Cormac McCarthy

He moved like a bird; twitching and bunching his shoulders. His head angled back and forth to watch me, and as he did, his biceps tightened. His dark hair was chin length and concealed most of his face. His mouth was wide in a disturbing smile that displayed his perfectly white teeth; the upper and lower canines sharpened to fine points. — J.D. Stroube

The air felt thick with the feeling between us, like it was filling the room: a room full of our carnal heat, our hot desire for each other.

Both my hands were clenched on the tablecloth, bunching it tightly, as he continued to swipe the belt against my quivering ass cheeks, and I could feel his tight fist yank repeatedly on my hair. — Fiona Thrust

She cannot remember when her idea of God has not been cloudy, like the reflection from a steamy bathroom mirror, and she cannot remember ever trying to clean the mirror. — Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

He held up the AK-47, the muscles in his arm bunching against the weight. "This is an assault rifle." Then held up the handgun. "This is a semi-automatic pistol."
Then he gave a little thrust of his hips and looked down at his penis. "That is my gun. As you've discovered, it's pumpaction like a shotgun , but it doesn't fire bullets. — Pamela Clare

As the writings of Walton and others suggest, many evangelicals view the requirements of U.S. national security in the here-and-now and the final accomplishment of Christ's saving mission at the end of time as closely related if not indistinguishable. — Andrew J. Bacevich

Glokta felt his hand bunching into a fist on the parapet. 'We must make the Gurkish pay for every stride of ground.' We must make them pay for my ruined leg. 'For every inch of dirt.' For my missing teeth. 'For every meagre shack, and crumbling hut, and worthless stretch of dust.' For my weeping eye, and my twisted back, and my repulsive shadow of a life. He licked at his empty gums. 'Make them pay. — Joe Abercrombie

If you think in positive terms, you will achieve positive results. — Norman Vincent Peale

I can't seem to wipe away the blood. I rub my hands against my nightgown, but traces of the red remain, staining the lines of my palms and the crescents beneath my fingernails. I wipe harder, gathering and bunching the soft cotton inside my fists. The fabric has been slit up the center and for a moment I worry that I've been cut, that maybe the blood is my own. I try to ask what's happening, but there's a mask over my mouth and nose. Suddenly it hits me - I'm in an ambulance.
I don't remember how I got here. — Paula Stokes

Later," Amos said, "when you're wishing we had this stuff, I am going to be merciless in my mockery. And then we'll die." Holden — James S.A. Corey

His knee pressed between her thighs, bunching the linen against her woman's place, spreading her and rubbing into her folds.
She found herself undulating against that knee, pleasuring herself with his hard, hot, wet body. — Elizabeth Hoyt

Zane dragged his hands down Ty's body to grasp his ass. Ty responded, his muscles bunching, his cock stirring against Zane's groin, kicking up a wicked feedback loop between the two of them as they rubbed against each other and grew more and more aroused. Ty — Abigail Roux

...Success comes and goes on its own schedule, but you're the only you you've got. And love... if you nurture it well, love will always be there to keep you strong. — Kendall Ryan

I'm still an angry dude. I'm just older. I still push the band to be heavy and dark-that's always been my role. — Kim Thayil

Her hands wrapped around his back, bunching the folds of his kaftan, and they stayed like this, connected, as dusk settled over the market. — Cate Rowan

The Bible writers didn't care that they were bunching together sequences some of which were historical, some preposterous, and some downright manipulative. Faithful recording was not their business; faith was. — Jeanette Winterson

When everyone just shook their heads, he unbuttoned his shirt and,
oh good Lord, shrugged out of it, bunching it up to slip beneath her
head like a pillow.
Don't look at him, she told herself. Don't look
She looked.
Sweet Jesus. — Jill Shalvis

She'd always loved beautiful underwear - lacey bras and knickers, usually white or the deepest burgundy. What colour was she wearing today?
His heart slammed faster at the thought and, unable to stop himself, he shifted his arm, bunching up her shirt to reveal that which his hand so desperately wanted to possess.
"Oh, babe," he groaned, his stare falling on a cherry-red bra perfectly cupping her breast. Her nipple strained at the delicate lace, drawing his attention and making his breath quicken. "You are as beautiful as I remember. — Lexxie Couper

I'm not great at talking to people. I have all these thoughts bunching up inside my head and then they come out like a dam bursting or something. I'm sorry. — Roland Merullo

Gibreel, the tuneless soloist, had been cavorting in moonlight as he sang his impromptu gazal, swimming in air, butterfly-stroke, breast-stroke, bunching himself into a ball, spreadeagling himself against the almost-infinity of the almost-dawn, adopting heraldic postures, rampant, couchant, pitting levity against gravity. Now he rolled happily towards the sardonic voice. 'Ohe, Salad baba, it's you, too good. What-ho, old Chumch.' At which the other, a fastidious shadow falling headfirst in a grey suit with all the jacket buttons done up, arms by his sides, taking for granted the improbability of the bowler hat on his head, pulled a nickname-hater's face. 'Hey, Spoono,' Gibreel yelled, eliciting a second inverted wince, 'Proper London, bhai! Here we come! Those bastards down there won't know what hit them. Meteor or lightning or vengeance of God. Out of thin air, baby. — Salman Rushdie

She led them to their pallets, again encircled by other pallets. She sat down, sighing at her aching muscles, and caught his gaze. "You may, er, wrap your arms around me if that will make you feel I am safer."
He chuckled--a hoarse chuckle, rusty, but a chuckle nonetheless. She'd take it.
"May I indeed?" He lay beside her and pulled her back against him, settling her head on his arm, bunching the other hide up to use as a pillow. "If I must." His warm sigh tickled across her neck. "After all, I must ensure that pinkie does not wander."
Would Robert never let her forget that? — Angela Quarles

I cannot feel like a duchess in my
mother's sitting room."
"What do you feel like, then?"
"Hmmm." She took a sip of her tea. "Just Daphne
Bridgerton, I suppose. It's difficult to shed the surname in
this clan. In spirit, that is."
"I hope that is a compliment," Lady Bridgerton remarked.
Daphne just smiled at her mother. "I shall never escape
you, I'm afraid." She turned to Gareth. "There is nothing like one's family to make one feel like one has never
grown up. — Julia Quinn