Cheekbone Quotes & Sayings

She ran a streak of foundation under each eye, highlighter down the bridge of her nose, and bronzer beneath each cheekbone - a layer of armor before battle. Because that's what these parties were to her, a war on all the heartbreaking boys in the San Francisco Bay Area. — Jessica Taylor

Wow," she said weakly. "That's even more amazing than I thought it would be."
Alex's arms were still looped around her waist; it took a serious effort not to draw her back to him and start kissing her again. He managed to control himself and grinned. "You mean with me or just in general?"
"In general," she said. "But I have a feeling it's especially amazing with you." She leaned back in his arms, studying him. Shaking her head with a slight smile, she reached out and stroked the line of his cheekbone. "Do you even realize how gorgeous you are?"
What he realized was that he was happier than he'd ever been. He gazed at Willow, drinking in her face, feeling amazed that this was happening
that she was here with him and that she actually felt the same way.
"Come here," he said softly. And pulling her toward him, he simply held her, cradling her against his chest. — L.A. Weatherly

I awoke some hours later to Hayes's body sliding up against mine, his arm wrapping around my waist, drawing me into his warmth. Like being in a womb. His breath soft at the back of my neck.

"You came back to me," his lips buzzed my ear.

"Of course I did. Liam."

He laughed.

"Wait. Whose room is this?"

"Mr. Marchand's."

"Crap. I might be in the wrong room."

He smiled, rolling me over to face him. "Hiiii."

"Hi."

"You want to come to an August Moon concert with me tonight?"

"It depends..." I said.

"It depends?"

"Do I have good seats?"

His finger was tracing my cheekbone. "You can sit on my face."

"Okay. In that case I'll come. — Robinne Lee

About five years ago, I fainted from exhaustion. I hit my head on my desk. I broke my cheekbone and got four stitches on my right eye. It started me on this journey of rediscovering sleep and balance and integrating my life. I think everyone should stop and reassess their lives before you hit your head on your desk. — Arianna Huffington

The man whirled, his hands still gripping the animal's skin, his face perfectly illuminated by the fire. He was half in shadow, and the shadow revealed him slowly. His left eye was covered by a black leather patch, and thin white scar raked his brow and the cheekbone below. The carried on, down the length of his neck, into the thick black beard, twisting under his collarbone and around his torso. They marred only the skin, I noted, for the muscles beneath were whole and strong, and the entire impression was one of great vitality and energy, strength unbridled. He looked nothing so much as a fallen god working at a trade.
"Hephaestus at the forge," I murmured, recalling my mythology ... — Deanna Raybourn

I stop dead in my tracks when I see Nash leaning against the wall right outside the ladies' room. His legs are crossed casually at the ankle, as his arms are crossed casually over his chest. His smile is faint. And sad.
Finally, he straightens and steps toward me. He doesn't stop until he is mere inches from me, forcing me to tilt my face up just to maintain eye contact.
He brushes his thumb over the ridge of my cheekbone at the corner of my eye. I wonder briefly if I missed a streak of mascara.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers, closing his eyes as if in pain. His face is etched with regret and it tugs at my heart.
"Don't be. You can't control other people. I just hope I haven't embarrassed you too badly, or ruined any important business connections you were hoping to make."
"I don't care about business connections. Not at this cost. — M. Leighton

No. No. Not this. Not this, that had kept him aloof from his fellows through school. Not this, fear of seeing the sun on a cheekbone, filtered through someone's eyelashes, or the shadow of a jawline, and feeling ... this thing. The thing that poets spoke about, but not like this. Not for the girls at the dances with their shy smiles and sturdy prettiness but for the boys, milling about on the other side of the room in navy shirts and red ties, looking, by turns, bored and nervous and happy. — Anonymous

Let me look at you." I pull away and put my hands on his cheeks, examining his face. Blue eyes, of course. And how could I forget that mouth? Thin pink lips with one crooked corner always suggesting a mocking smile. My God, how had I never noticed before how handsome he is? "You need a haircut."
He rubs the side of his thumb over my cheekbone. "You're beautiful. — Cristin Terrill

He saw the young man's face in the mirror up on the wall, he saw the thick wind-ruffled hair and the little scar on the cheekbone. The face moved in the mirror and when he looked round he could not see it anywhere in the room, and when he wanted to call out the sickness choked him, and now he tried to fight the icy sickness, but like whales the waves of it fell on him till he was pounded and drowned, and while he froze suffocating and could not move or breathe ... — Anna Kavan

As we reached the turning of the hall, Randall spoke behind us. "Jamie," he said. The voice was hoarse with shock, and held a note halfway between disbelief and pleading. Jamie stopped then, and turned to look at him. Randall's face was a ghastly white, with a small red patch livid on each cheekbone. He had taken off his wig, clenched in his hands, and sweat pasted the fine dark hair to his temples. "No." The voice that spoke above me was soft, almost expressionless. Looking up, I could see that the face still matched it, but a quick, hot pulse beat in his neck, and the small, triangular scar above his collar flushed red with heat. "I am called Lord Broch Tuarach for formality's sake," the soft Scottish voice above me said. "And beyond the requirements of formality, you will never speak to me again - until you beg for your life at the point of my sword. Then, you may use my name, for it will be the last word you ever speak. — Diana Gabaldon

He brushes my cheek, wiping a tear.
"From the soul or whatever indefinable part of you makes you Annie. I like that part." The pad of his thumb circles my cheekbone, and I can't take my eyes off his. — Roxanne St. Claire

A plane of cheekbone, — Margaret Atwood

The eyes of a man who was all man.
And they were wet.
Oh my fraking God.
His hand came to my jaw, cupping it, his thumb sweeping across my cheekbone but he didn't watch his thumb. His eyes never left mine and he didn't hide it, he didn't fight it.
I gave him my virginity.
He gave that to me.
It was the most beautiful gift I'd ever received.
Then he whispered, "I wanna see to you. Will you let me do that, Faye?"
I'd let him do anything.
Anything.
Even though I had no idea what he was talking about.
"Yes," I answered.
His head dropped and, his lips on mine, he whispered, "Thank you."
Then he touched his mouth to mine, gently, slowly slid out and he saw to me. — Kristen Ashley

On a Friday night in 1983, I was in a taxi in New York riding home from dinner with friends. A drunk driver ran a red light and hit the cab, and I was thrown toward the glass partition. I tried to duck, but my face hit the glass, and the impact fractured my cheekbone, my eye socket, my collarbone and several ribs. — Iman

It's a very odd feeling for a daughter to see her mother blush over a man."
"You wouldn't?" Alan skimmed a thumb over her cheekbone. Shelby forgot her mother altogether.
"Wouldn't what?"
"Blush," he said softly, tracing her jawline. "Over a man."
"Once-I was twelve and he was thirty-two." She had to talk-just keep talking to remember who she was. "He,uh, came to fix the water heater."
"How'd he make you blush?"
"He grinned at me.He had a chipped tooth I thought was really sexy."
On a quick ripple of laughter, Alan kissed her just as Myra opened the door.
"Well,well." She didn't bother to disguise a self-satisfied smile. "Good evening.I see you two have met."
"What makes you think that?" Shelby countered breezily as she stepped inside.
Myra glanced from one to the other. "Do I smell strawberries?" she asked sweetly.
"Your lamp." Shelby gave her a bland look and indicated the box Alan carried. "Where would you like it? — Nora Roberts

I just want to thank you," he says, his voice low. "A group of scientists told you that my genes were damaged, that there was something wrong with me - they showed you test results that proved it. And even I started to believe it." He touches my face, his thumb skimming my cheekbone, and his eyes are on mine, intense and insistent. "You never believed it," he says. "Not for a second. You always insisted that I was . . . I don't know, whole." I cover his hand with my own. "Well, you are." "No one has ever told me that before," he says softly. "It's what you deserve to hear," I say firmly, my eyes going cloudy with tears. "That you're whole, that you're worth loving, that you're the best person I've ever known." Just — Veronica Roth

It was like I saw your soul in the notes of the music. And it was beautiful." She leaned forward and touched his face lightly, the smooth skin over his hard cheekbone, his hair like feathers against the back of her hand. "I saw rivers, boats like flowers, all the colors of the night sky. — Cassandra Clare

As for the work ethic, I'm just the kind of guy who takes what he does seriously. I never missed a day of school, I've rarely missed work and I played all those straight games; my streak only ended when I broke my cheekbone. — Dolph Schayes

With her face tilted up to his, the subtle edge of moonlight touched along the edge of one high cheekbone, the tilted edge of one eye, and those beautiful, enticing lips. Obeying an impulse he couldn't put into words, he lowered his head and covered her mouth with his. — Thea Harrison

I love how you're so trusting with me," he murmured and leaned in. His lips brushed my cheekbone as he said, "I used to hate it." He sighed, long and meaningful and sexy. "I used to think it was a bad thing to give me so much, but now, when you close your eyes and just hang on for the ride, for whatever I have planned for you?" He took my earlobe between his lips and I gripped him tighter. "That makes me absolutely burn up when you do that. — Shelly Crane

I can't bury another friend."
"You won't."
"If anything ever happened to you, Rowan-"
"Don't" he breathed. "Don't even say it. We dealt with that enough the other night."
He lifted a hand - hesitated, and then brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen across her face. His callused fingers scrapped against her cheekbone, then caressed the shell of her ear.
It was foolish to even start down that road, when every other man she'd let in had left some wound, in one way or another, accidentally or not.
There was nothing tender in his face. Only a predator's glittering gaze. "When we get back," he said, "remind me to prove you wrong about every thought that just went through your head."
She lifted an eyebrow. "Oh?"
He gave her a sly smile that made thinking impossible. Exactly what he wanted - to distract her from the horrors of tomorrow. "I'll even let you decide how I tell you: with words"- his eyes flickered once to her mouth- "or with my teeth and tongue. — Sarah J. Maas

The waves wash in, warm and salty,
leaving your eyebrows white and
the edge of your cheekbone. Your ear
aches. You are lonely. On the
underside of a satin leaf, hot
with shade, a scorpion sleeps. And
one Sunday I will be shot brushing
my teeth. I am a native of this island. — Frank O'Hara

The whole thing with contouring is to contour where your natural cheekbone would be and where sun would hit you naturally. — Katherine Schwarzenegger

He lifted a hand to her face, running a fingertip across her cheekbone and down to her mouth. It lingered for a moment before he dropped his hand to his side. I'll be here. — Amanda Gray

She traced Celaena's cheekbone, where the bruises had once been. "Where do men find it in themselves to do such monstrous things? How do they find it acceptable?" "We'll make them pay for it in the end." Celaena grasped Ansel's hand. The girl squeezed back hard. "We'll see to it that they pay." "Yes." Ansel shifted her gaze back to the stars. "Yes, we will. — Sarah J. Maas

My eyes narrowed. "And you'll take me right home after we see it?"
"If that's what you want," he said softly, running his thumb along my cheekbone. "But I'd be tempted to see if I could convince you to stop acting like the proper lady your mother wants you to be."
"So you did hear her." I groaned, blushing. — Andrea Cremer

I just wanted to thank you' he says, his voice low.
'A group of scientists told you that my genes were damaged, that there was something wrong with me - they showed you the test results that proved it. And even I started to believe it.'
He touches my face, his thumb skimming my cheekbone, and his eyes are on mine, intense and insistent.
'You never believed it,' he says 'Not for a second. You always insisted I was ... I don't know, whole. — Veronica Roth

She is wrong, you know. What you do is important. You save people," I told him, pressing my lips to the half-moon scar high upon his cheekbone. "You saved me." His arm tightened about my waist and we stood for a long moment, wrapped in each other. — Deanna Raybourn

He raised his hand, hesitant, conflict raging in his eyes, and then swiftly brushed the length of my cheekbone with his fingertips. His skin was as icy as ever, but the trail his fingers left on my skin was alarmingly warm - like I'd been burned, but didn't feel the pain of it yet. — Stephenie Meyer

My love," he said with great patience, "you're hair is a rat's nest. Your eyes are swollen from weeping, your nose is red, your clothing is tattered, and you face is streaked with mud. You are still beyond passing fair, but not enough to tempt my immortal soul." He wiped a patch of mud from her delicate cheekbone. "I love you because you have a fierce heart, a brave soul, a tender touch, and woman's grace. I love you for a thousand reasons that I cant even begin to understand, when I didn't want to love you at all. I love your mind and your heart and soul, and yes, I love your pretty face as well. — Anne Stuart

Maybe one night I'll be asleep and I'll feel a hand like a dove on my cheekbone and feel her breath cool like peppermints and when I open my eyes my mom will be there like an angle, saying in the softest voice, When you are born it is like a long, long dream. Don't try to wake up. Just go along until it is over. Don't be afraid. You may not know it all the time but I am with you. I am with you. — Francesca Lia Block

Her hair was hidden under a white headdress, like some kind of wimple; she wore a long white tunic and trousers, and her skin had the pale golden hue associated in our world with Orientals. The lines of her cheekbone and jaw reminded him of pictures he had seen of the head of Nefertiti, thought her neck was longer, slightly too long for an ordinary human, and as she turned toward him he realized the planes of her face were subtly different, though it would have been hard to explain in what way. A fraction of an inch here, a fraction of an inch there, and the whole visage was somehow distorted, though its beauty remained undiminished. — Amanda Hemingway

I love the hint of copper in your eyes, radiating out like the sun, turning your pupils into an eclipse.' He ran his thumb down my cheekbone. 'The different striations of color, how every band of green is its own unique shade. A shard of a broken Heineken bottle, a blade of grass, moss on a rusty can.'

'Romantic...' I laughed. — Anastasia Hopcus

Daffy had stopped talking, without her noticing. It was if he'd run out of words. He did a peculiar thing, then; he reached out and touched Mary's cheekbone; lightly, as if he was brushing away a speck of coal dust. She thought of Doll, that first morning, wiping mud out of the lost child's eyes. Her throat hurt, all at once, as if she were swallowing a stone. She wished the two of them could stay forever frozen in this moment, hidden in the grass, as the setting sun slid across the fields of Monmouth. Before any asking, any refusal. While this strange, tame young man was still looking at her as is she were worth any price. — Emma Donoghue

Pushed forward. A flying elbow struck his cheekbone just below his — Stephen King

Raphael lifted a finger, tracing it over her cheekbone. She flinched. Not because he was hurting her. The opposite. The places he touched ... it was as if he had a direct line to the hottest, most feminine part of her. A single stroke and she was embarrassingly damp. But she refused to pull away, refused to give in.
(page 33 , Gollancz edition) — Nalini Singh

He released the guy, who charged me instantly. One punch for every dog to have ever been thrown overboard to the sharks. One punch for every shark who'd been butchered alive. One punch didn't settle the score. But it sure as hell felt good. I hit him just under his right eye, so hard that I heard his cheekbone shatter. — J.R. Rain

Each time Nate saw her, Elisa's beauty struck him anew, as if in the interval the memory of what she actually looked like had been distorted by the tortured emotions she elicited since they'd broken up: in his mind, she took on the dimensions of an abject creature. What a shock when she opened the door, bursting with vibrant, almost aggressive good health. The power of her beauty, Nate had once decided, came from its ability to constantly reconfigure itself. When he thought he'd accounted for it, filed it away as a dead fact - pretty girl - she turned her head or bit her lip, and like a children's toy you shake to reset, her prettiness changed shape, its coordinates altered: now it flashed from the elegant contours of her sloping brow and flaring cheekbone, now from her shyly smiling lips. — Adelle Waldman

But now, sitting on this airplane on my way back to the life I went on to fashion after she left, I think of her differently. I see her so many ways: sitting back on her heels at the side of the bathtub, singing softly as she washes Sharla and my backs; watching at the window for the six o'clock arrival of our father; wrapping Christmas presents on the wide expanse of her bed; biting her lip as she stood before the open cupboards, making out the grocery list; leaning out the kitchen window that last summer to call Sharla and me in for supper. Most clearly, though, I see her sitting at the kitchen table, in her old, usual spot. There is a cup of coffee before her, but she doesn't drink it. Instead, she stares out the window. I see the sharp angle of her cheekbone, the beautiful whitish down at the side of face, illuminated by the sun. Her hands are quiet, resting in the cloth bowl of her apron. She sits still as a statue - waiting, I can see now; she was always waiting. -What We Keep — Elizabeth Berg

Losing beauty was easy.
Overlooking it, forgetting it, hardening yourself so much you could no longer be surprised or overwhelmed by it.
I pulled back, taking in the strong line of his jaw, the sharp edge of cheekbone and the skin now warm from the rising sun.
The trick was in holding on to it. Protecting it. — Emma Raveling

He wasn't looking at her, was at such an oblique angle to her that his face was little more than a sliver, but she knew him at once. "It was like reading," she would try to explain later, and she wasn't talking about phonics. She didn't break him into syllables - shoulders, hair, shirt collar, hand, nose, cheekbone - and put him back together again; she didn't sound him out. He was a language she knew, and it was whole-word recognition: Will. — Marisa De Los Santos

Every morning," he said softly, his breath caressing her cheek. "You were my only thought." He tilted closer. "Every night, you were my only thought." His lips brushed her cheekbone. "Every moment of every day, you were my only thought. — Erica Ridley

The whole right side of his face was smashed in, concave forehead and crushed cheekbone and one eye bugging precariously from a broken socket. He was purplish-black, and dirty white: Maggots seethed from every pore and crawled across him in excited wriggly piles, blowflies waving and blooming and wilting, the bits of bone they'd scraped clean glinting like tiny mosaic tiles. Scraps of jeans and a leather jacket clung to the sticky seething mess of his flesh. He was big, big shouldered, a good foot taller; chit-chitter, he went, even standing still. — Joan Frances Turner

A genuine smile involves two facial muscles: (1) the zygomatic major muscle, which stretches from the cheekbone and lifts the corners of the mouth; and (2) the outer part of the obicularis oculi muscle, which orbits the eye, and is involved in "pulling down the eyebrows and the skin below the eyebrows, pulling up the skin below the eye, and raising the cheeks."7 Artificial smiles involve only the zygomatic major. — Daniel H. Pink

He found himself looking down at Laurent, his eyes passing slowly over the delicate skin, the lamp-darkened blue eyes, the elegant curve of cheekbone, interrupted by a stray strand of blond hair. — C.S. Pacat

I put both hands on his chest and backed him up a pace. The black sky behind him was filled with color. I said, "Go. Hurry. You can still help. You're missing it."
He pulled me close again and gazed down at me, tracing one finger so tenderly along my cheekbone. His finger was black, and he might be leaving an attractive black
streak across my skin. I didn't mind. The way he was looking at me with those light blue eyes, I had never felt more beautiful.
He bent his head close to my ear again so I could hear him whisper, "I'm not missing anything — Jennifer Echols