Quotes & Sayings About His Sweater

I found this." He put the briefcase on the table and opened the locks. She saw a stack of papers, an evidence bag with a red seal. He pulled a college notebook with a blue plastic cover from one of the pockets. Black fingerprint powder spotted the cover. "I tried to clean it up," he said, wiping the grime on the front of his sweater. "I'm sorry. It was in Allison's car and I..." He flipped through the pages, showing her the scrawled handwriting. "I can't," he said. "I just can't."
She realized that Will hadn't looked at her once since walking into the room. He had such an air of defeat about him, as if every word that came from his mouth caused him pain. — Karin Slaughter

We were a family that made our Halloween costumes. Or, more accurately, my mother made them. She took no suggestions or advice. Halloween costumes were her territory. She was the brain behind my brother's winning girl costume, stuffing her own bra with newspapers for him to wear under a cashmere sweater and smearing red lipstick on his lips. — Ann Hood

When daybreak came we were zooming through New Jersey with the great cloud of Metropolitan New York rising before us in the snowy distance. Dean had a sweater wrapped around his ears to keep warm. He said we were a band of Arabs coming in to blow up New York. — Jack Kerouac

When she finished, the white teacher, his face streaked with tears, tapped his boss on the shoulder, and like a television cop handing in his badge and gun, he solemnly removed the shiny new Teach for America button fastened to his sweater vest, placed it in Charisma's palm, and walked off into the squall. — Paul Beatty

Wait. You're going to junk up your nice coat, white man. Take this." He shouldered out of his Aglionby sweater and proffered it. — Maggie Stiefvater

Then why are you getting dressed?" "Maybe I don't like being the only naked one in the room," I said sarcastically. And immediately regretted it. "That is easily remedied," he told me, and pulled off his sweater. — Karen Chance

There is a fine line between love and hate, or haven't you heard? Sometimes it's hard to decipher exactly which emotion is strongest."
I raised my chin. "I don't love you either."
He lowered his head and watched me from underneath his dark lashes. "Are you certain? Because the emotion pouring out of you every time I'm near you is certainly not disinterest."
"That doesn't mean it's love."
"It could be, I promise you. Take off that sweater and give me ten minutes, and you'll believe beyond a shadow of a doubt you're in love. — Darynda Jones

His ruby red rimmed moist eyes were two glasses of cranberry. He wore a cashmere sweater the color of Earl Grey tea ... — Brandi L. Bates

My stomach quivered as I watched him walk to the side of the bed. His dark charcoal gray sweater emphasized his broad shoulders; a white t-shirt was slightly visible at the V-neck. — Melissa A. Hanson

GEORGE AND MARLEE UP IN A TREE! K-I-S-S-I-N-G! We stopped. There was a kid over there, standing by a hackberry bush. I'd never seen him before, not at Mary Day or anywhere else. He wasn't but four and a half feet tall, and stocky. He had on gray shorts that went down all the way to his knees, and a green sweater with orange stripes. It was rounded out up top with little boy-tits and a poochy belly underneath. He had a beanie on his head, the stupid kind with a plastic propeller. His — Stephen King

Noah propped himself up on his elbow, his wicked grin in place. "Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to see you on this bed?"
"Nope." The hem of my sweater rode up from our fall, exposing my belly button. Noah traced circles onto the skin of my stomach, down to the material of my low-rise jeans. His touch sent a combination of tickles and chills through my body. My heart sped up and I struggled to keep my breathing normal.
Every Noah rumor had been right. His kisses curled my toes and now his simple touch rocked my body. Fear mingled with the pleasure in my bloodstream. — Katie McGarry

Turn it off," she said, her voice cracking.
"It's still good music," Joe told her with an almost apologetic shrug.
"It's crap," she breathed, still totally taken aback by the music playing again.
He shook his head. "No, it's not crap!" he said patiently and started peeling out of his sweater, trying hard not to get his braced hand caught in the sleeve. He emerged, his hair a bit messy, and tossed the sweater back towards the sofa. — Billy Wood-Smith

Sprawled in his khakis and citrus-yellow V-neck sweater, — Maggie Stiefvater

Yes, he knew it was crazy to be this obsessed over an encounter that had taken up maybe sixty seconds of his life. (Or had it been an hour and sixty seconds?) But what an encounter. His fingers still felt the bones and flesh through her sweater, his tongue still tasted her mysterious bitter-greens mouth, her voice still haunted him with that whispered 'Help me. — Molly Ringle

Walt, at about eleven, had a routine of looking at Seymour's wrists and telling him to take off his sweater. "Take off your sweater, hey, Seymour. Go ahead, hey. It's warm in here." S. would beam back at him, shine back at him. He loved that kind of horseplay from any of the kids. I did, too, but only off and on. He did invariably. He thrived, too, waxed strong, on all tactless or underconsidered remarks directed at him by family minors. In 1959, in fact, when on occasion I hear rather nettling news of the doings of my youngest brother and sister, I think on the quantities of joy they brought S. I remember Franny, at about four, sitting on his lap, facing him, and saying, with immense admiration, "Seymour, your teeth are so nice and yellow!" He literally staggered over to me to ask if I'd heard what she said. — J.D. Salinger

His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy
There's vomit on his sweater already: mom's spaghetti
He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready
To drop bombs, but he keeps on forgetting
What he wrote down. The whole crowd goes so loud
He opens his mouth but the words won't come out
He's choking, how? Everybody's joking now
The clock's run out, time's up, over - blaow! — Eminem

Do you want to suck face or not?"
"Suck face?" His head fell back and he laughed, his chest vibrating against me. It was a lusty, full-bodied sound and my toes curled at hearing it. Gideon laughed so rarely.
My hands slid under his sweater and glided over that warm skin. My lips moved over his jaw. "Is that a no?"
"Angel, I'll suck on any part of your body I can get my mouth on. — Sylvia Day

Let us help."
"You already did." My voice didn't betray anything. "Both of you helped plan this. You lent me this
car. Aubrey put up the funds."
He raised his brow. "Lending you this car doesn't count as helping. It was more like public service.
If you drove your car, the noise would wake up all of Haverleau."
"It's not that bad - "
"Yeah, if you want to be as obvious as a rhinoceros."
I gave a pointed look at his lime-green coat and bright maroon sweater.
Talk about burning my retinas. "Pot calling kettle."
He glanced at himself. "It's seasonal. I look Christmasy. — Emma Raveling

world comes to realize what I felt going up the hill, then there'll be a kind of right economy of living and of using and using up. Do you know what I mean?" Dannie had clenched his fist, but his eyes were bright as if he still laughed at himself. "Did you ever wear out a sweater — Patricia Highsmith

The barn was warmer than he would have expected, especially with the air compressor going to power the tools, and soon he was down to his T-shirt. Before she started painting, she had taken off the sweater she wore, but it wasn't until he took a break and looked up from connecting two boards that he saw the message on it: Wake up Smarter. Sleep With a Librarian. — RaeAnne Thayne

He was carrying bulky loot; I could see it under his zipped-up sweater. And when I unzipped it with a one-handed rip, I saw that he was wearing a bandolier loaded with grenades. I have no doubt that a wide, manic smile spread across my pretty little face. — Cherie Priest

From then on it was war between them. Spitz, as lead-dog and acknowledged master of the team, felt his supremacy threatened by this strange Southland dog. And strange Buck was to him, for of the many Southland dogs he had known, not one had shown up worthily in camp and on trail. They were all too soft, dying under the toil, the frost, and starvation. Buck was the exception. He alone endured and prospered, matching the husky in strength, savagery, and cunning. Then he was a masterful dog, and what made him dangerous was the fact that the club of the man in the red sweater had knocked all blind pluck and rashness out of his desire for mastery. He was preeminently cunning, and could bide his time with a patience that was nothing less than primitive. — Jack London

I felt Seth pulling me to look at him instead of watching her go. That in itself made my pulse race. "That ... " he sighed and licked his lip, "was the hottest thing I've ever seen." "You're not upset with me?" The corner of his mouth lifted just a smidge before he leaned in ever so slowly and captured my lips, his warm palm finding my side inside my open sweater, tugging me to him with a jolt. I gasped against his lips. He enjoyed that immensely, smiling into our kiss. — Shelly Crane

Merry Christmas," said George. "Don't go downstairs for a bit."
"Why not?" said Ron.
"Mum's crying again," said Fred heavily. "Percy sent back his Christmas jumper." [I guess that's a sweater, though my jury is still out on it until I get a future confirmation.]
"Without a not," added George. "Hasn't asked how Dad is or visit him [in the hospital] or anything ... "
"We tried to comfort her," said Fred, moving around the bed to look at Harry's portrait. "Told her Percy's nothing but a humongous pile of rat droppings
"
"
didn't work," said George, helping himself to a Chocolate Frog. "So Lupin took over. Best let him cheer her up before we go down for breakfast, I reckon. — J.K. Rowling

You overestimate my interest in you," Loki grinned broadly. "I prefer my Princesses in unsoiled pajamas."
My clothes would've been relatively clean if it weren't for the blood on my sweater and some dirt on my knees. I was sure I was a mess, but it wasn't my fault.
"I'm sorry. I usually look much nicer after I take a beating," I said, and his smile faltered. — Amanda Hocking

You hung up on me," he said. "Don't ever hang up on me." His voice was quiet, but as always the authority was unmistakable. He was wearing black dress slacks, a long-sleeved lightweight black sweater pushed up on his forearms, and expensive black loafers. His hair was cut very short. I was used to seeing him in SWAT dress with long hair, and I hadn't immediately recognized him. I guess that was the point. — Janet Evanovich

He was right in front of me. I hadn't even seen him move. I jerked, pressing my back against the wall of the library. My bag slid off my shoulder, landing next to my feet. "Holy crap, you can move."
"I can do a lot of things." Angling his body, he pressed one palm against the wall beside my head. Good God, he was tall. "Some of them fast. Some of them real slow."
My mouth opened. "Was that a s-sexual innuendo?"
His lips twitched. "Something along those lines."
The heat was back in my face and throat, despite the chill bleeding from the wall through my lightweight sweater. "Well, it was a crappy one."
"I can do better," he offered, and those golden eyes finally lightened — Jennifer L. Armentrout

Harry Potter has to go into the lake and find his Wheezy - "
"Find my what?"
" - and take his Wheezy back from the merpeople!"
"What's a Wheezy?"
"Your Wheezy, sir, your Wheezy - Wheezy who is giving Dobby his jumper!"
Bobby plucked at the shrunken maroon sweater he was now wearing over his shorts.
"What?" Harry gasped. "They've got... they've got Ron?"
"The thing Harry Potter will miss the most, sir!" squeaked Dobby. — J.K. Rowling

It's been forever.' The words are quiet, hidden against his shoulder.
'That's because,' Oliver says, 'you were waiting for me.' He slips aside the sweater again and kisses my collarbone. — Jodi Picoult

She wanted to give that terrified man in the uncool sweater the confidence to share his own bare ugly truth. She wanted to let him know that at least one person here today understood all the mistakes he'd made along the way: the times he'd hit back, the times he'd stayed when he should have left, the times he'd given her another chance, the times he'd deliberately antagonized her, the times he'd let his children see things they shouldn't see. She wanted to tell him that she knew all the perfect little lies he'd told himself for all those years, because she'd told herself the same lies. She wanted to enfold his trembling hands between her own and say, I understand. — Liane Moriarty

The voice came first, then the chill across her skin. A moment later, Noah Czerny joined her, dressed as always in his navy Aglionby sweater. Joined was perhaps the wrong verb. Manifested was better. The phrase trick of the light was even more superior. Trick of the mind was the best. Because it was rare that Blue noticed the moment Noah actually appeared. It wasn't that he gently resolved into being. It was that somehow her brain rewrote the minute before to pretend that Noah had been slouching beside her all along. — Maggie Stiefvater

I have always noticed in high school yearbooks the similarity of all the graduate write-ups - how, after only a few pages, the identities of all the unsullied young faces blur, how one person melts into another and another: Susan likes to eat at Wendy's; Donald was on the basketball team; Norman is vain about his varsity sweater; Gillian broke her arm on Spring Retreat; Brian is a car nut; Sue wants to live in Hawaii; Don wants to make a million and be a ski bum; Noreen wants to live in Europe; Gordon wants to be a radio deejay in Australia. At what point in our lives do we stop blurring? When do we become crisp individuals? What must we do in order to end these fuzzy identities - to clarify just who it is we really are? — Douglas Coupland

It was against the rules, but Gansey crouched down beside her, one of his knees against her back, one against her knees, and hugged her. She curled against him, hands balled up against his chest. He felt a hot tear slip into the dip of his collarbone. He closed his eyes against the sun through the window, burning hot in his sweater, foot falling asleep, elbow grinding into the metal bed frame, Blue Sargent pressed up against him, and he didn't move. — Maggie Stiefvater

I've got a sweater." Ben pulled off his coat and held it out for her. "Here."
"Thanks, Ben. It's lovely and warm." Then she said, "Ben, I
I can tell you how I feel about
about everything. I think you're the best friend I've ever had. I
I'd lie down and die for you if you wanted me to."
"Honey," Ben said. "When I get you to lie down for me it won't be to die. — Madeleine L'Engle

I've been thinking about this all day," he said between kisses. "All. Day."
Who was she kidding? She'd been harboring this fantasy for weeks. And then in a move that was becoming her 'thing', Alesha leaned back and pulled her sweater over her head and gave Reece a sexy smile. "Was this part of what you were thinking?"
His hands came up and cupped her breasts, his breath ragged, but his eyes were on hers. "This is better. — Samantha Chase

The soft wool blend of his sweater felt itchy compared to his skin.
Even though we'd been together all night, I couldn't get over the
feel of him, his taste, that potent, delicious smell of his neck. I was
higher than a fan at a Bob Marley concert. — Ophelia London

I like your jumper," she said into it.

"You like my what?" Jared asked. Kami tugged at his sleeve in response and he laughed. "In the civilized land of the Americas, we call that a sweater. A jumper is a dress. You might as well have just said, 'Why, Jared, what a fetching frock you're wearing today.' "

"Why, Jared, what a fetching frock you're wearing today," Kami said instantly, raising her head so she could lift her face up to his. "You look ever so pretty."

Jared laughed, a soft huff of breath, and rested his forehead gently against hers. "Your frock's fairly fetching as well."

Kami closed her eyes, embarrassed to let him see she was happy he'd noticed. "Thanks."

"Not as fetching as mine, of course," Jared added. "I am the prettiest. — Sarah Rees Brennan

Avery?"
My eyes drifted shut.
"What?"
"You've never been kissed before, right?"
My pulse exploded."No."
"Just so we're clear," he said."This isn't a kiss."
I opened my mouth, and then his lips were on mine. A sweet sweeping of his lips across mine, breathtakingly tender and soft, and way too quick.
"You kissed me," I gasped, my fingers digging into his sweater.
"That wasn't a kiss." His lips brushed mine as he spoke. Shivers raced up and down my spine. — J. Lynn

I came across an account of a young man named Kim Malthe-Bruun, who was eventually captured and executed by the Nazis when he was only twenty-one years old. I read his story as I had read many others, turning the pages, skimming here and there: this sabotage, that tactic, this capture, that escape. After a while even courage becomes routine to the reader. Then, quite unprepared, I turned the page and faced a photograph of Kim Malthe-Bruun. He wore a turtleneck sweater, and his thick, light hair was windblown. His eyes looked out at me, unwavering on the page. Seeing him there, so terribly young, broke my heart. — Lois Lowry

Nate liked Death. Death was in the clothes that he wore and the music he listened to. He would wrap himself in a black sweater and ask Death to ride along with him in his Honda Civic. — Lisa Ann Sandell

He didn't answer me, but held my gaze intently as he stood and slowly started to reach for the bottom of his sweater. He turned around and lifted it up over his shoulders, and I forgot how to breath. The sweater slid off of him in one long smooth motion and messed up his hair, leaving it tousled and sexy-looking. An interlooking chain of small black circles and triangles was etched onto each shoulder blde, ending halfway down his back ... He turned back around to face me, and his green eyes stared right through me ... I gulped again and tried very hard not to drool — Jessica Verday

Jace?" She offered him the glass.
"I am a man," he told her. "And men do not consume pink beverages. Get the gone, woman and bring me something brown."
"Brown?" Isabelle made a face.
"Brown is a manly colour," said Jace and yanked on a stray lock of Isabelle's hair with his free hand. "In fact, look-Alec is wearing it."
Alec looked mournfully down at his sweater. "It was black," he said. "But then it faded."
"You could dress it up with a sequined headband," Magnus suggested. — Cassandra Clare

I breathe deeply, and he hovers above me. "I'm going to fuck you," he says, yanking off my pants. The cold nips my skin. "I'm going to have sex with you." He kisses me strongly while lifting my sweater off my head. "I'm going to make love to you." His eyes bore into mine. "All at fucking once." His gaze dances over my features. "Not because of a fucking theory. I can't think of a place I'd rather be right now than with you. Truth is, I can't think of a place I'd rather be in fifty fucking years than next to you. — Krista Ritchie

He had cheated on a college exam, ripped a picture of a woman out of a magazine. He had returned a sweater and got drunk in the middle of the day instead. These were the things he had told her. He had held his son, who had known life only within her, against his chest in a darkened room in an unknown wing of the hospital. He had held him until a nurse knocked and took him away, and he promised himself that day that he would never tell Shoba, because he still loved her then, and it was the one thing in her life that she had wanted to be a surprise. — Anonymous

The orb came about because I wanted to do this kitsch sweater for Prince Charles when he went hunting and fishing with his kilt on. — Vivienne Westwood

After that, he couldn't be sure how it happened, but she wasn't crying anymore and he wasn't thinking. At all. His hands were underneath her sweater, touching every inch of her warm, smooth skin; they were kissing like two condemned people suddenly given a reprieve; and his feeling of calm morphed into happiness so intense, he'd swear his blood was singing. — Trinity Faegen

On my floor, there were fifteen first years and ten sophomores. It was quickly discovered that most of the first years on my floor were still involved in high school relationships. It wasn't difficult to figure out who the ten were, as they (okay, by "they" I really mean "we" but I hate to admit to this type of behavior) often began sentences with the phrase, "My boyfriend/girlfriend . . ." As in "My boyfriend loves Coldplay, too!" Or "My boyfriend has a sweater like that, too!" Or "My boyfriend eats and sleeps and excretes waste, too!" Since no upperclassman would ever, ever, ever put a confining label like "boyfriend" or "girlfriend" on the person she/he was hooking up with on a semiregular basis, it was obvious that anyone making such a bold declaration of commitment was referring to a youthful union forged in the halls of her/his former high school. The — Megan McCafferty

He's British. He's addicted to waving his long stick around. He has a superb sweater collection. — Brittainy C. Cherry

I like your story," I say, running my hand up his sweater. "Happy endings are sexy." Ford grins. "When you say shit like that, I can't believe you don't hear how fucking dirty you sound. — Bijou Hunter

A freshman had to wear a black turtleneck sweater, corduroy trousers, and a little black cap called a 'dink' on the back of his head," he wrote in his autobiography, Confessions of a Maverick — Dorothy Wickenden

I found Waldo. He was in a strip club. He was hard to spot, because he'd already stripped off his red and white striped sweater and was all sweaty. — Jarod Kintz

Shayna thinking about Jensen:
... From my first glance I knew he was atleast three or four inches taller than me and I could tell his lightweight sweater hid a well muscled chest and arms, but lean, not meaty. I was aware of an excess of saliva in my mouth and forced myself to swallow, trying not to blush when I heard Jodi snicker quietly next to me. — Shauna Granger

His training had a fatal flaw: he cared. He asked me what I wanted to eat for dinner. He knew I liked green, and if he had a choice between a blue sweater and a green one, he'd buy the green one for me even if it cost more. I like swimming, and when we traveled, he made it a point to lay our route so it would go past a lake or a river. He let me speak my mind. My opinion mattered. I was a person to him and I was important. I saw him treat others as if they were important. For all of his supposed indifference, there is a town in Oklahoma that worships him and a little village in Guatemala that put a wooden statue of him at the gates to protect them from evil spirits. He helped people, when he thought it was right. — Ilona Andrews

Ennek realised what an enormous mistake it had been to buy the thing. Miner was stunning. The sweater was high enough on his neck to almost hide the iron collar. He reminded Ennek of ocean waves, white foam over sea green, but Miner was warm and soft, with a shy little smile and a slight blush on his cheeks. Ennek wanted to drown in him. — Kim Fielding

Finally," I say, brushing past him as I make my way inside. The heavenly scent of something delicious lights up my senses.
"Come in," he says with a note of sarcasm.
Marshall strides over and takes me in with my hair all frizzed out, my sweater torn in two places and I look like I've just indulged in a mud bath. A dirty smile slides up the side of his face and I can practically see the pornographic implications playing out in his mind.
"You're absolutely filthy - and I most definitely approve." His smile blooms into an all-out sexual leer as he comes in close. "I might be moved to bathe you." He caresses his hand over the side of my cheek. I'm so damn tired I close my eyes and lean into his good vibrations. "Oh, how I'll scrub," he whispers. — Addison Moore

I was crazy about goal keeping. In Russia and the Latin countries, that gallant art had been always surrounded with a halo of singular glamour. Aloof, solitary, impassive, the crack goalie is followed in the streets by entranced small boys. He vies with the matador and the flying ace as an object of thrilled adulation. His sweater, his peaked cap, his kneeguards, the gloves protruding from the hip pocket of his shorts, set him apart from the rest of the team. He is the lone eagle, the man of mystery, the last defender. Photographers, reverently bending one knee, snap him in the act of making a spectacular dive across the goal mouth to deflect with his fingertips a low, lightning-like shot, and the stadium roars in approval as he remains for a moment or two lying full length where he fell, his goal still intact. — Vladimir Nabokov

He had no desire to talk, or move. So he sat, with her still straddling his lap, in no hurry to leave, enjoying the feel of her in his arms, which he tightened around her, slipping his hands under the bottom of her sweater to warm them. They fit together like two distinct halves purposely manufactured to become one seamless whole, a feeling he wouldn't soon forget. — Wendy S. Marcus

Mr. Green Sweater looks normal, but his wingman looks hard-core bad boy," said Vee. "Emits a certain don't-mess-with-me signal. Tell me he doesn't look like Dracula's spawn. Tell me I'm imagining things. — Becca Fitzpatrick

His young man's limbs, sleek in their dark male pride, seemed to disdain the covering offered them by the brief shorts and striped jersey. His body might have been naked, like his full, muscled throat, which rose, round and proud as the male organ of a flower, from the neck of his sweater. — Stella Gibbons

He saw the towel in her hands. "I've got this."
"Let me help."
"I think you've helped enough." She thought he was going to leave it at that, but Will told her, "It's been worse today than usual."
"Stress is a contributing factor-when you get tired or if something emotional happens."
He scrubbed hard at the plate in his hands. Sara saw that he hadn't bothered to roll up his sleeves. The cuffs of his sweater were soaked. He said, "I've been trying to dig a new sewer line to my house. That's why my laundry is behind."
Sara had been expecting a non sequitur, but she'd hoped he could hold off for a few moments longer. "My father built this house with money from people who try to do their own plumbing. — Karin Slaughter

I'm gonna kiss you now,' he murmured, and she mmmd and tightened her fingers in his sweater, and then his mouth was on hers and his heart shouted a resounding yes. Her lips parted under his, accepting him, taking him in. It was like coming home after an eternity away. The rightness of it flooded through him, urging him to take more, to have more, and he burned with it, fighting the need that rose up, so fierce and urgent it overwhelmed him. — Lucy Varna

No one showed him how to live in his clothes, how and elbow needs to worry its way through a sweater like the nub of a spring bulb, poking finally, through the rank, wet earth. — Julie Bruck

The front door opened as he walked up the steps, and she appeared like a spirit in a black dress. She didn't have on the red sweater. That, at least, was a relief. But the scent of peppermint swirled around her and reached out to him as he got nearer. Damn, she smelled good. She always made him smile and remember things he hadn't thought of in ages- Christmases, hot chocolate with his family, schnapps at lodge bars. — Sarah Addison Allen

Your Wheezy, sir, your Wheezy - Wheezy who is giving Dobby his sweater! — J.K. Rowling

Do you sleep in your suits, too?"
He dragged his gaze from the sweater she held up to her and completed a slow perusal starting at her totally reasonable three-and-a-half-inch metallic silver heels, up her bare calves, across the fitted pear-green pencil skirt, over her winter-white cashmere sweater and stopping briefly on her lips before reaching her eyes. She'd been stark naked, pressed up against a sixteenth-floor window, having one of the best orgasms of her life from a lover-s tongue and hadn't been as turned on as she was at that moment. Fire licked its way across her skin, flicking at all of her sensitive spots until her entire body vibrated.
"Do I sleep in my suits? Do you really want to know?" he asked, his voice low with just enough dominating arrogance in it to make her shiver. — Avery Flynn

Jem looked at ease in a white sweater and dark jeans. His black hair had a single, dramatic streak of silver in it that stood out against his brown skin. — Cassandra Clare

Readers who have owned animals will appreciate how difficult it would be to train a dog to play exclusively in his own yard, to fetch his sweater whenever he sees it is raining outside, or to be generous in sharing his dog biscuits with other dogs. Yet these same people would not even question the feasibility of trying to use reward and punishment to teach their children the same behaviors. — Thomas Gordon

He has me pinned on my back in record time, his mouth crashing against mine as we frantically devour one another. "Awesome speech," he murmurs, pushing my sweater up and planting his hot mouth against my equally hot skin. "Very motivational. — Siobhan Davis

His muscles had wasted away to knotty strings, and the flesh pads had disappeared, so that each rib and every bone in his frame were outlined cleanly through the loose hide that was wrinkled in folds of emptiness. It was heartbreaking, only Buck's heart was unbreakable. The man in the red sweater had proved that. — Jack London

She felt the snake between her breasts, felt him there, and loved him there, coiled, the deep tumescent S held rigid, ready to strike. She loved the way the snake looked sewn onto her V-neck letter sweater, his hard diamondback pattern shining in the sun. It was unseasonably hot, almost sixty degrees, for early November in Mystic, Georgia, and she could smell the light musk of her own sweat. She liked the sweat, liked the way it felt, slick as oil, in all the joints of her body, her bones, in the firm sliding muscles, tensed and locked now, ready to spring
to strike
when the band behind her fired up the school song: "Fight On Deadly Rattlers of Old Mystic High."
Harry Crews- A Feast of Snakes — Harry Crews

I love you. she whispered into the rough wool of his sweater. — L.J.Smith

Or perhaps a widow found him and took him in: brought him an easy chair, changed his sweater every morning, shaved his face until the hair stopped growing, took him faithfully to bed with her every night, whispered sweet nothings into what was left of his ear, laughed with him over black coffee, cried with him over yellowing pictures, talked greenly about having kids of her own, began to miss him before she became sick, left him everything in her will, thought of only him as she died, always knew he was fiction but believed in him anyway. — Jonathan Safran Foer

His sister, in a big turquoise Angora sweater, leaned upon the wood frame of the open nursery door, anxiously looking out to see if he was really going to show, beaming and waving like a pastel colored TV Muppet when she spotted him. — Alan Moore

Cyn stepped up and grasped his sweater in her fist, pulling his face down to hers. I love you more than life, Raphael. But I won't be dismissed like some piece of fluff whenever it's convenient. — D.B. Reynolds

Some people got vicious Dobermans. I got a shaved attack poodle in a black sweater. His tough, spawn-of-hell image had taken a fatal blow, but at least he would be warm. — Ilona Andrews

A.J. nodded, covering her smile with a hand as Devlin emerged with his hair messed up and hay hanging off his sweater. He looked like he'd been through a war.
"You okay there, champ?" Chester asked. "Those there grain bags can be tough when they come atcha in a pack like that. — J.R. Ward

I really wish you hadn't worn that sweater,'he muttered into her ear.
'It's good practice for you,' she replied,her lips moving against his skin.
'Tomorrow,fishnets.'
Against her side,warm and familiar,she felt him laugh. — Cassandra Clare

The pressure of his touch through my jacket and my sweater was more assurance than any promise ever made to me. It was a touch that said, I have your back and I am here for you. If a girl wasn't careful, she could fall in love with a touch like that. — Justina Chen

He went with olive green, because it almost matched his borrowed coat, which was tan. He chose pants with flannel lining, a T-shirt a flannel shirt, and a sweater made of thick cotton. He added white underwear and a pair of black gloves and a khaki watch cap. Total damage was a hundred and thirty bucks. The store owner took a hundred and twenty cash. Four days wear, probably, at the rate of thirty dollars a day. Which added up to more than ten grand a year, just for clothes. Insane, some would say. But Reacher liked the deal. He knew that most folks spent much less than ten grand a year on clothes. They had a small number of good items that they kept in closets and laundered in basements. But the closets and basements were surrounded by houses, and houses cost a whole lot more than ten grand a year, to buy or rent, and to maintain and repair and insure.
So who was really nuts ? — Lee Child

Toby placed his front paws on the track, looked up at Ian, and whined.

"What in hell are you wearing, big man?" he asked, staring down at the dog.

"It's his sweater."

"That's a terrible thing to do to a noble beast," Ian muttered, grabbing the sweater by the hem and pulling it up over Toby's head.

-Ian and Jessie — Janet Chapman

This is what you remember about him: not much, but then you have been assiduous in your forgetting. His red sweater, v-neck, cashmere; the clink of ice-cubes in a glass. He is shadow and voice, but you cannot recall his face. He is behind a closed door, in a forbidden room. He is asleep in his armchair, he is asleep in the driveway, asleep in your sandpit, face down, snoring but not harmless, even then. He is shouting, he is whispering, he is close but also remote as if at the end of a long hallway and you cannot hear him. His words never make any sense, he speaks some other language. His hands sometimes spin away from him like windmills, like pinwheels and Catherine wheels, snapping like firecrackers. There must be pain, but you cannot feel it.
Your skin bruises like apples. — Melanie Finn

Would you like to have dinner with me?"
"You mean go on a date?" I focused on stirring instead of my suddenly racing heart. "When?"
"Before the union. Have dinner with me and I'll take you to Blood Moon for a couple of hours until it's time for the ceremony." His fingers moved from the pleats to the hem of my sweater, his hand slipping under the pale blue cashmere to stroke the skin of my lower back.
I gasped, caught his wrist in my fingers, and pulled his hand away from its provocative exploration.
"We are in class," I hissed at him through clenched teeth. — Andrea Cremer

And you're about to pay for that, baby." Furi spun Syn around and pushed his chest against the door. "Furious," Syn groaned when he felt his sweater being roughly yanked over his head. Furi's hand pressed hard into the center of his back, keeping him pinned against the front door. "Yes, punish me." Syn froze when Furi's assault on his body stopped immediately after he said that. Oh no. Furi's hair was brushing against Syn's face as he leaned in to whisper in his ear, "You ever been handcuffed, Sergeant? Restrained." Syn shivered, his cock leaking in his tight jeans. "Oh fuck." "Don't — A.E. Via

I amazed myself, above all, with how well I was able to manage. Michel got to school on time, his teeth brushed and his clothes clean. More or less clean: I was less critical of a few spots on his trousers than Claire would have been, but then I was his father. I've never tried to be 'both father and mother' to him, the way some half-assed, home-made-sweater-wearing head of a single-parent household put it once in some bullshit programme I saw on afternoon TV. — Herman Koch

And then an endless instant later Arthur was kissing him back, like this was perfectly normal, like this was exactly what Arthur had been hoping for most in all the world, his large hands closing over Merlin's shoulders and sliding down over his back, strong and warm even through the fabric of his sweater, one hand pausing on his waist and the other sliding around to cup his arse and pull him in closer. Merlin made a surprised, enthusiastic sound and stopped holding back; let himself cling to Arthur and kiss him more fiercely; and then they were kissing like it was their last day on earth and they had to cram every possible moment of passion into this tiny slice of time, hands clutching at fabric, mouths pressing hungry bites onto bare skin as if they would somehow devour one another, trying to touch and taste everything at once, frantic and needy and bursting with urgent desire and the inescapable knowledge that this was finite, was stolen, was not supposed to be. — FayJay

Why did you pull the arrow out?" she demanded, pulling her sweater over her head. She had a tank top on under it. She patted his chest and side with the sweater, absorbing as much of the blood as she could.

Jules's breath was coming in harsh pants. "Because when someone - shoots you with an arrow - " he gasped, "your immediate response is not - 'Thanks for the arrow, I think I'll keep it for a while.'"

"Good to know your sense of humor is intact. — Cassandra Clare

When he reached the desk he handed Caroline a photograph in a dark blue cardboard frame. It was a portrait, black and white, faintly tinted. The woman looking out wore a pale peach sweater. Her hair was gently waved, her eyes a deep shade of blue. Rupert Dean's wife, Emelda, dead now for twenty years. "She was te love of my life," he announced to Caroline, his voice so loud that people looked up. — Kim Edwards

All his days, no matter what the odds, he had never run from a fight. But the club of the man in the red sweater had beaten into him a more fundamental and primitive code. Civilized, he could have died for a moral consideration, say the defence of Judge Miller's riding-whip; but the completeness of his decivilization was now evidenced by his ability to flee from the defence of a moral consideration and so save his hide. He did not steal for joy of it, but because of the clamor of his stomach. He did not rob openly, but stole secretly and cunningly, out of respect for club and fang. In short, the things he did were done because it was easier to do them than not to do them. — Jack London

Blue," he warned, but his voice was chaotic. This close, his throat was scented with mint and wool sweater and vinyl car seat, and Gansey, just Gansey.
She said, "I just want to pretend. I want to pretend that I could. — Maggie Stiefvater