Pink Fingers Quotes & Sayings

I need to keep sharp. But when you're this damned close to me, all I think about is you. I think about your mouth, and I think about your breasts, and I think about your pink tongue and your legs wrapped around me. I think about touching you and you touching me
and then I look at you and you're giving me that look
yes, that one, just there, as if you want me to kiss you
please stop
He exhaled on a hiss, tipping his head back against the wood and pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose. — Shana Abe

Cooper leaned back a little then reached out and tugged at my size too large pink Minnie Mouse sweatshirt. "You really wanted to put an exclamation mark on the no sex thing, huh?"
Balking, I smacked his hand. "Screw you. This is my sexiest outfit. It's frigging Minnie Mouse, Cooper. The chick exudes sex."
Grinning wider now, he played with my hair. "You can't know what I think about you."
"What does that mean? You're so mysterious that a mere mortal like me can't fathom your giant brain?"
"Sums it up pretty well," he said, twirling my hair around his fingers. "You get feisty after a shower. I'll have to remember that. — Bijou Hunter

You can always strip and go in naked. I'll watch to make sure nobody comes in."
She walks up to me, the pole gripped firmly in her fingers. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"Uh, yeah," I say, stating the obvious. "I have to warn you, though. If you have granny undies on, you'll blow my fantasy."
"For your information, they're pink satin. As long as we're sharing personal info, are you a boxers or briefs guy?"
"Neither. My boys go free, if you know what I mean." Okay, I don't let my boys go free. She'll just have to figure that out herself.
"Gross, Alex."
"Don't knock it till you try it," I tell her, then walk toward the door. — Simone Elkeles

What was this passion that attacked women for knitting under the most unpropitious conditions? A woman did not look her best knitting; the absorption, the glassy eyes, the restless, busy fingers! One needed the agility of a wild cat, and the will-power of a Napoleon to manage to knit in a crowded tube, but women managed it! If they succeeded in obtaining a seat, out came a miserable little strip of shrimp pink and click, click went the pins! — Agatha Christie

Cress?"
"It's beautiful out there."
A hesitation, before, "Could you be more specific?"
"The sky is gorgeous, intense blue color." She pressed her fingers to the glass and traced the wavy hills on the horizon.
"Oh, good. You've really narrowed it down for me."
"I'm sorry, it's just ... " She tried to stamp down the rush of emotion. "I think we're in a desert."
"Cactuses and tumbleweeds?"
"No just a lot of sand. It's kind of orangish-gold, with hints of pink, and I can see tiny clouds of it floating above the ground, like ... like smoke."
"Piles up in lots of hills?"
"Yes, exactly! And it's beautiful."
Thorne snorted. "If this is how you feel about a desert, I can't wait until you see your first real tree. Your mind will explode. — Marissa Meyer

The words make sense, but deeper than the words is the truth. She's right. If Mabel's talking about the girl who hugged her good-bye before she left for Los Angeles, who laced fingers with her at the last bonfire of the summer and accepted shells from almost-strangers, who analyzed novels for fun and lives with her grandfather in a pink, rent-controlled house in the Sunset that often smelled like cake and was often filled with elderly, gambling men - if she's talking about that girl, then yes, I dissapeared. — Nina LaCour

The campus, an academy of trees,
under which some hand, the wind's I guess,
had scattered the pale light
of thousands of spring beauties,
petals stained with pink veins;
secret, blooming for themselves.
We sat among them.
Your long fingers, thin body,
and long bones of improbable genius;
some scattered gene as Kafka must have had.
Your deep voice, this passing dust of miracles.
That simple that was myself, half conscious,
as though each moment was a page
where words appeared; the bent hammer of the type
struck against the moving ribbon.
The light air, the restless leaves;
the ripple of time warped by our longing.
There, as if we were painted
by some unknown impressionist. — Ruth Stone

You want to know about the place called Hell?" he asked the curious animal. "There is no Hell," he said. "Hell is in here." He touched the raw, pink skin of his chest with the tips of his fingers. "And it will forever brun inside me for what I have done. — Thomas E. Sniegoski

I bring my fingers to my bleeding mouth, push them in. Taste. She watches. Come on, baby. A scrape of her heels, a soft curse...and then she turns from me. But too late. I see her hand come up to graze her jawline. And I see her pink tongue cut a pale path through the red. Heady. Expensive. Addictive as opium. Leo, what have you done? — Lime Craven

I held my fingers out to the new day. I that virgin light -- bold strands of pink and orange breaking over the rim of the horizon -- I saw hope, and I wrapped my fingers around that light and brought it to my heart. — N. Gemini Sasson

Through my blue fingers, pink grains are falling, haphazard, random, a disorganized stream of silicone that seems pregnant with the possibility of every conceivable shape ... But this is illusion. Things have their shape in time, not space alone. Some marble blocks have statues within them, embedded in their future. — Alan Moore

His fingers fucked her slowly as he lowered his head and purred."Oh,so beautiful.So pink.Every inch of you cries for me.Eating your sweet pussy makes my cock cry too."
He covered her clit with his mouth and drew the bud into his wet heat,suckling it as he'd suckled her swollen tit. — Laura Wright

Anita Kleinman was a slight woman in her seventies. Her hair was thinning and white with a touch of pink, and was swept back from her face in unbroken waves. She wore a full-length Chinese silk gown covered with bright gold dragons on a blue background. Her fingers were tipped with long red nails and heavy with gold rings. She held out her arms in an expression of welcome and perhaps to show me the full extent of her dragons. — Frederick Weisel

Unable to resist any longer, he buried his fingers in the hair at the base of her neck and angled her face upward. He leaned forward and dropped soft little kisses onto her lips, starting at the corner and working his way across until she began to stir. Her lashes flittered. "Gid - ?" He smothered her question with his kiss. No longer playful, he took her mouth fully, holding nothing back. She was no longer Adelaide Proctor, governess. She was Adelaide Westcott, wife. His wife. It didn't take long for her to recover from her surprise. She clasped his shoulder for support and stretched toward him. His pulse surged, and when she finally pulled away, he refused to let her separate from him completely. He rested his forehead against hers and listened to their ragged breaths echoing in the quiet morning. "Feeling better today, are we?" Adelaide asked as she lowered her head back down to her pillow, her face a becoming shade of pink. Gideon grinned. "A little. — Karen Witemeyer

Do you want me to strip those tiny jeans off your body? Bend you over my knee? You want my palm slapping against your ass till it turns bright pink? Until my fingers slip between your thighs to test how wet you are? — Jana Aston

So pink and swollen,Jean-Baptiste whispered,his fingers easing her lips apart,one brushing over the sensitive bud of her clit. — Laura Wright

She has her fingers curled tightly around his forefinger and I have hold of her perfect pink foot, and I feel as though fireworks are going off in my chest. It's impossible, this much love. — Paula Hawkins

We walk up the sandy slope toward the dining terrace. I see Troy sitting at a table with some people I know. I look at Scottie to see if she sees him, and she is giving him the middle finger. The dining terrace gasps, but I realize it's because of the sunset and the green flash. We missed it. The flash flashed. The sun is gone, and the sky is pink. I reach to grab the offending hand, but instead, I correct her gesture.
"Here, Scottie. Don't let that finger stand by itself like that. Bring up the other fingers just a little bit. There you go. That's the cool way to do it."
Troy stares at us and smiles a bit. He's completely confused.
"All right, that's enough." I suddenly feel sorry for Troy. He must feel awful. — Kaui Hart Hemmings

I was standing outside myself trying to stop those hangings with ghost fingers ... I am a ghost wanting what every ghost wants-a body-after the Long Time moving through odorless alleys of space where no life is, only the colorless no smell of death ... Nobody can breath and smell it through pink convolutions of gristle laced with crystal snot, time shit and black blood filters of flesh. — William S. Burroughs

I nod and tap my fingers against my knees. "What to do with a girlfriend while I work my hours at the TOG. Hmm ... Can I really do this? Will I be able to pull it off? Will she be able to read at the snack bar tables without losing her mind," I mumble.
"Do you always talk to yourself?"
"Yes. Bad habit. Does it bother you?" I walk back over to her side of the small stage.
"No. It's interesting. I hate people knowing my thoughts. But yours just fall out of your head so easily." She shrugs.
"I never thought of it like that ... but you're my girlfriend now ... so who cares if you know what I think?"
Her cheeks turn pink, and I laugh. — Anne Eliot

I looked around for that welcoming light I'd heard about, but I didn't see it. Instead, everything around me seemed to glow and shimmer in the sunlight. I heard beautiful sounds-not the voices of dead loved ones, but the laughter and singing of my children when they were tiny. I saw James, young and shirtless, chasing them through Mama's garden. Off in the distance I saw Barbara Jean and Clarice, and even myself when we were kids, dancing to music pouring out of my old pink and violet portable record player. Here I was with my fingers brushing up against the frame of the picture I'd been painting for the last fifty-five years, and my beautiful, scarred husband, my happy children, and my laughing friends were right there with me. — Edward Kelsey Moore

Gilbert took from his desk a little pink candy heart with a gold motto on it, "You are sweet," and slipped it under the curve of Anne's arm. Whereupon Anne arose, took the pink heart gingerly between the tips of her fingers, dropped it on the floor, ground it to powder beneath her heel, and resumed her position without deigning to bestow a glance on Gilbert. — L.M. Montgomery

Still dressed in matching butler suits with pink bow ties, the redcaps filed into the dining room, every one of them scowling at me. Ash's eyes widened and he quickly hid his mouth under his laced fingers, but I saw his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Luckily, the redcaps didn't notice. — Julie Kagawa

Pearl rolled a tiny pink speck in her fingers, possibly part of Rose's new leg that I'd tried so hard to make a good match. Pearl laughed and flicked it away as if it was snot out of her nose. I suddenly couldn't stand it. I rushed at her.She saw I wasn't playing around. She ran for it but I caught up with her along the landing. I punched her hard in the chest and she staggered back wards - back and back, and then she wobbled and went right over, down the stairs. — Jacqueline Wilson

She slid open the box, extracted a match, and struck it with a flourish. The flame flared up in the gloom of the unlit room, a tiny golden beacon. For a moment, Oma Kristel held it aloft, then the unthinkable happened. The match slipped out of her fingers and fell straight onto her pink mohair bosom. With a whooomph! like the sounds of a gas furnace firing up, the hairspray with which Oma Kristel had doused herself ignited, obliterating her in a column of flames. — Helen Grant

The young woman's perfect breast didn't yield beneath the gentle pressure of two latexed fingers.
"What're you doing?" Professor Robert 'Lithium Bob' Beck frowned at me.
"I don't know. It's what I did when I first saw her ... "
"Why?" asked Doc Donald, about to assist with the post mortem.
"She seemed so ... pink. Maybe to see if she was alive ... " I saw the Prof and the Doc exchange a look. It was an unconventional - no, plain weird - place to touch her. — Morana Blue

I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess we're going to a party."Her mood suddenly lifts and she grins impishly. "What gave it away?"I eye her outfit and count down on my fingers."Four things: leather shorts, pink highheels,knee high socks,and a sparkling top. "She sticks out her hip and pops up her foot, striking a pose. "Come on, admit it,I look
hot.""You look like a - "She tosses a pillow at me."Watch that dirty mouth of yours, Death Girl. — Jessica Sorensen

Jedediah pulled out his pocketknife, reached over her, and snipped the rose to place in her hair. "Looks better there." In the moonlight, he wasn't sure if she blushed or not. Her eyes seemed all soft and glowing, her lips the color of the pink rose, slightly parted and tempting him. Before he knew what he was doing, his arms had circled her in a swift embrace. Heat filled his face, and his heart pounded so hard he was sure Patience could hear it. Would she let him kiss her? But she was already pulling away, visibly shaken. Her fingers touched her hair, patting it into place, and her eyes, large with surprise, looked into his, then quickly away. "I . . . Jed . . . I think we'd better go back inside and join the party." "I'm - I'm truly sorry, Patience. I don't know . . . I'm not sure what came over me just now. It must be the moonlight and the roses." And you, he said only to himself. — Maggie Brendan

His pink fingers found the shell around my neck, touched it softly. He lifted it and saw the scar. His brow furrowed.

He whispered, "Is your voice inside the shell?"

I smiled a little sadly.

"That's okay," he said. "We don't have to talk to be friends. — Sarah Ockler

She stooped to pick a wild pink rose, avoiding the tiny spines that slivered like unseen glass hairs onto one's fingers. There was little scent, but the creamy softness of the petals like the insides of a dog's ear more than made up for it. She placed one on her tongue, and imagined she could taste the hills, the bittersweet tang of life. — Jonis Agee

Lolita," he said, turning my book over in his hands. His eyes widened over the pink-lipped mouth on the cover, then handed it to me. Our fingers brushed, and a warm current coursed through them. My heart thundered so loud he could probably hear it.
"So," he said, his eyes meeting mine. "You're a smuthound with daddy issues?" The corner of his mouth turned up in a slow, condescending smile.
I wanted to smack it off his face. "Well, you're quoting it. And incorrectly, by the way. So what does that make you?"
His half-smile morphed into a whole grin. "Oh, I'm definitely a smuthound with daddy issues. — Michelle Hodkin

THE TWINS WERE eighteen months old now, walking (and standing and staring and screaming and sitting) just like other children more or less their age, and Andy found herself increasingly preoccupied with those baby scrapbooks her brother's wife had sent when they were born. Andy had gotten Janny's to the six-month mark - the last photo was of her sitting up in the baby bath with her fingers in her mouth. Richie's and Michael's - not even birth pictures. Birth pictures of the twins existed, but they reminded Andy more of mug shots than of baby photos, naked in incubators, little skinny limbs and odd heads, no hair except where it shouldn't be, on arms and back, like monkeys. She had stuffed the scrapbooks onto the upper shelf in the closet in Richie and Michael's room, and every time she slid open that door, she would see their spines, white, pink, and blue, the silliest objects in her very modern house, ready to get thrown out. — Jane Smiley

It was pleasant to wake up in Florence, to open the eyes upon a bright bare room, with a floor of red tiles which look clean though they are not; with a painted ceiling whereon pink griffins and blue amorini sport in a forest of yellow violins and bassoons. It was pleasant, too, to fling wide the windows, pinching the fingers in unfamiliar fastenings, to lean out into sunshine with beautiful hills and trees and marble churches opposite, and, close below, Arno, gurgling against the embankment of the road. — E. M. Forster

I have to absorb the new season like sunlight, letting it turn my winter skin pink and then brown. I must stuff myself with lore and statistics until my fingers ooze balm. — W.P. Kinsella

A small white rabbit with floppy ears and a twitching pink nose bounded out from the thick forest brush. Fingers twitching at his side, James stepped toward the small animal, a nervous giddiness creeping up inside of him. — Brandi Salazar

Sulfuric ether was sweet and hot, pungent and burning to the palate. It did not smell the least, to Nardi, of turpentine, but rather of large, white, oversweet flowers, fat, fleshy, prehistoric in their size and substance. He thought of these flowers as fringed, mouthed, and pistiled with sticky aroma, with pink-tipped, translucent styles and stigmas that moved in flower throats like beckoning fingers. Lush, languorously heavy, meltingly ephemeral, an indulgence to the New World tropics or an Old World greenhouse - something akin to night-blooming cereus. Ether, to him, was the nectar of such flowers, gathered and carried in the mouths of foot-long bumblebees, its aroma as old as Egypt, as modern as white walled hospitals, as personal and familiar as his own vague euphoric befuddlement. — Judy Cuevas

After Auschwitz"

Anger,
as black as a hook,
overtakes me.
Each day,
each Nazi
took, at 8: 00 A.M., a baby
and sauteed him for breakfast
in his frying pan.

And death looks on with a casual eye
and picks at the dirt under his fingernail.

Man is evil,
I say aloud.
Man is a flower
that should be burnt,
I say aloud.
Man
is a bird full of mud,
I say aloud.

And death looks on with a casual eye
and scratches his anus.

Man with his small pink toes,
with his miraculous fingers
is not a temple
but an outhouse,
I say aloud.
Let man never again raise his teacup.
Let man never again write a book.
Let man never again put on his shoe.
Let man never again raise his eyes,
on a soft July night.
Never. Never. Never. Never. Never.
I say those things aloud.

I beg the Lord not to hear. — Anne Sexton

You're probably wondering what you did in a past life to get stuck with us." Catherine says this as she drowns a fry in ketchup, her many rings glinting as she works her fingers.
"Gee, thanks," Brendan murmurs.
She gives him a look. "Don't be so sensitive. You know I adore you."
I lower my mostly uneaten burger. "Of course not. Just glad for anyone who wants to be my friend."
"Hey, Jacinda!" Nathan calls from his table, half rising. He waves and jerks his head, beckoning me over.
Catherine's smile slips. She reaches for another fry, avoiding my gaze. "You've got plenty of people willing to be your friend. Go on. Sit with Nathan. He's a decent guy-unfortunate pink shirt and all. — Sophie Jordan

I'm going to have the daintiest things possible ... things that will match the spring, you understand ... little jelly tarts and lady fingers, and drop cookies frosted with pink and yellow icing, and buttercup cake. — L.M. Montgomery

The field was carpeted with the most lustrous show of wildflowers she had ever seen - flowers by the hundreds, the thousands, the millions. Purple irises. White lilies. Pink daisies. Yellow buttercups and red columbines and many others she knew no names for. A breeze had arisen; the sun had broken through the clouds. She shrugged off her pack and walked slowly forward. It was as if she were wading into a sea of pure color. The tips of her fingers brushed the petals of the flowers as she passed. They seemed to bow their heads in salutation, welcoming her into their embrace. In a trance of beauty, Amy moved among them. Corridors of golden sunshine fell over the field; far away, across the sea, a new age had begun.
Here she would make her garden. She would make her garden, and wait. — Justin Cronin