Skin To Skin Contact Quotes & Sayings

The essence of love and compassion is understanding, the ability to recognize the physical, material, and psychological suffering of others, to put ourselves "inside the skin" of the other. We "go inside" their body, feelings, and mental formations, and witness for ourselves their suffering. Shallow observation as an outsider is not enough to see their suffering. We must become one with the subject of our observation. When we are in contact with another's suffering, a feeling of compassion is born in us. Compassion means, literally, "to suffer with." — Nhat Hanh

He swayed side-to-side, fighting against my compulsion. I smiled sweetly, leaning in and grazing my nail across his cheek. "You understand?" Skin contact made it solid. His shock melted into a gooey grin.

J.M. Friedman. Succubus in Seattle (Kindle Locations 173-175). — J.R. Thorn

Being a woman is worse than being a farmer there is so much harvesting and crop spraying to be done: legs to be waxed, underarms shaved, eyebrows plucked, feet pumiced, skin exfoliated and moisturised, spots cleansed, roots dyed, eyelashes tinted, nails filed, cellulite massaged, stomach muscles exercised.
The whole performance is so highly tuned you only need to neglect it for a few days for the whole thing to go to seed. Sometimes I wonder what I would be like if left to revert to nature - with a full beard and handlebar moustache on each shin Dennis Healey eyebrows face a graveyard of dead skin cells spots erupting long curly fingernails like Struwelpeter blind as bat and stupid runt of species as no contact lenses flabby body flobbering around. Ugh ugh. Is it any wonder girls have no confidence? — Helen Fielding

We crave touch. We need each other. We need to be held. Baby mammals, humans included, who don't get enough cuddling and skin-to-skin contact with another creature whither, don't thrive, and can develop serious emotional problems.

Adults are no different. You need touch, physical play, caresses, and pleasure in your body as much as a river otter. We need more fun play in our days, even as adults. Play isn't some trivial, dumb thing that's just for kids. Play should be as important to you as eating greens or drinking water. Not only does pleasurable play grow new brain connections for happier moods and better memory, play also sets off a cascade of body-positive effects that help keep you slim and vital. — Alex Jamieson

You...you always made everything sound like it's not a big deal. You're doing that now."
His lips continued to curve on the right and the dimple appeared. Then he sighed and scooted forward, spreading his legs. His hands suddenly landed on my hips, and I almost dropped the cotton ball at the unexpected contact. My breath caught as he lowered me so I was sitting on the edge of the coffee table and he kept moving forward, the inside of his legs sliding against the outside of mine. The rough material of his jeans touching my bare skin sent a raw, drenching rush of sensation through my veins.
"That better?" he asked, peering at me through lowered lashes.
I blinked, having no idea what he was talking about, and then I realized that seated like this, it was easier to reach him. His hands dropped from my hips to rest on his thighs, and they were oh so close to mine. — Jennifer L. Armentrout

His gaze was too personal again, like we were the only two people in the room. I was the first to break eye contact, looking back at Beth like it wasn't a big deal, like my skin wasn't on fire and my knees didn't just go weak. — Kelley R. Martin

Noboru tried to compare the corpse confronting the world so nakedly with what might have seemed the unsurpassably naked figures of his mother and the sailor; by comparison, they weren't naked enough. They were still swaddled in skin. Even that marvellous hom and the great wide world whose expanse it had limned couldn't possibly have penetrated as deeply as this ... the pumping of the bared heart placed the peeled kitten in direct and tingling contact with the kernel of the world. — Yukio Mishima

You think my first instinct is to protect you. Because you're small, or a girl, or a Stiff. But you're wrong."
He leans his face close to mine and wraps his fingers around my chin. His hand smells like metal. When was the last time he held a gun, or a knife? My skin tingles at the point of contact, like he's transmitting electricity through his skin.
"My first instinct is to push you until you break, just to see how hard I have to press." he says, his fingers squeezing at the word break. My body tenses at the edge in his voice, so I am coiled as tight as a spring, and I forget to breathe.
His dark eyes lifting to mine, he adds, "But I resist it."
"Why ... " I swallow hard. "Why is that your first instinct?"
"Fear doesn't shut you down; it wakes you up. I've seen it. It's fascinating." He releases me but doesn't pull away, his hand grazing my jaw, my neck. "Sometimes I just want to see it again. Want to see you awake. — Veronica Roth

Think of what it means to manually strangle someone. How personal it is. The close contact. Skin to skin. Your hands against her flesh. Pressing her throat as you feel her life drain away.' Rizzoli — Tess Gerritsen

When we see something, we do not think of what we see as a separable aspect of it, a ghostly skin shed for our vision. We feel that we see the thing itself, rather than any occasion or extrusion of the thing. But when we hear something, we do not have the same sensation of hearing the thing itself. This is because objects do not have a single, invariant sound, or voice. How something sounds is literally contingent, depending upon what touches or comes into contact with it to generate the sound. We hear, as it were, the event of the thing, not the thing itself — Steven Connor

If she could explore and heal his injuries with her fingers, it would be another type of magic, her skin making contact with his. Putting her mind to it, Love would become familiar with his body. She would know him from top to bottom, from beginning to end.

Touching this boy would be the death, and life, of her. — Natalia Jaster

I'm not like you," he said. "I used to be like you, but I'm not anymore."
"What are you? A vampire?"
He had to laugh. "Of course not!"
Then, he blurted it out. "We're zombies."
This time, Josie drew her hand back, cradling it as if it had been wounded by its contact with his skin.
"Zombies? Like in the movies? But how? You guys are so . . . sexy! — Maggie LaCroix

She remained in this attitude, clearly inviting him to touch her.

Taking a position of advantage, he rested his right hand on her buttock. He considered a moment then raised his arm and brought his palm upon her, delivering a sharp spank. He felt the acuteness of it on his own skin. He gave her another, watching his hand in the mirror opposite, as it made contact.

The slap caused her to flinch, but her heard her sigh also: the timbre of which was now familiar to him. He paused, allowing the sensation of the sting to sink in before giving her more. She remained folded over for him, eager for more of his burning smacks upon her flesh. The peach of her cheeks rippled each time under the impact of his blows. — Emmanuelle De Maupassant

Some guys say beauty is only skin deep. But when you walk into a party, you don't see somebody's brain. The initial contact has to be the sniffing. — James Caan

He wanted Jordan so badly, his fantasies consumed him. Whenever he reached out to touch something, paper, the phone, his steering wheel, there was a brief moment when he expected his hand to come in contact with the smooth silk of Jordan's skin. When he ate, his tongue instinctively sought the taste of Jordan. Whenever he picked up the phone, he expected to hear Jordan's voice. — Matthew Haldeman-Time

A micro-second before our mouths fully touched,when I could feel the heat of his skin,the barest brush of a lip,he glided his nose along my cheek.I gasped at the almost-contact.he exhaled heavily down my throat,an enticing noise escaping his lips,making me shudder.He stayed there,taking two ragged breaths,while I unconsciously melted even more against his body.My Knees turned even more into him,the hand on my lap dropped onto his thigh.I started to turn my head towards his mouth.He smelled so good ... — S.C. Stephens

But as much as Greyson's overly warm body had to be worked around and compensated for in summer, at that moment she was eternally and ridiculously grateful for it. She almost thought she heard her own skin sizzle when it came into contact with his: some of the cramping in her muscles relaxed.
Only to tense up again when she saw, through her half-closed eyes, Greyson's second gaurd and Malleus's brother, Maleficarum, advancing on her with a hypodermic needle. Something clear squirted ominously from it's sharp silver tip.
"Oh, no," she managed, "You are not giving me a shot."
"'Sonly under the skin, m'lady. You'll barely even feel it, honest." Maleficarum's features did no do "innocent" well: he looked like a serial killer trying to hide a severed head behind his back. — Stacia Kane

My skin is on fire with every touch, every contact, and my body throbs with unfamiliar need. We're dangerously close to throwing caution to the wind. Logan's body pulses and trembles over and under me, and I know he's feeling it too. I want to give into it, to go there with him. I want him to be my first, my last, my one and only. I want to give myself to him fully; heart, mind, body and soul, but I can't. The acknowledgment assaults me with soul-shattering clarity. — Siobhan Davis

To write weekly, to write daily, to write shortly, to write for busy people catching trains in the morning or for tired people coming home in the evening, is a heartbreaking task for men who know good writing from bad. They do it, but instinctively draw out of harm's way anything precious that might be damaged by contact with the public, or anything sharp that might irritate its skin. — Virginia Woolf

First developed as a weapon by the U.S. Army, VX is an oily, odorless and tasteless liquid that kills on contact with the skin or when inhaled in aerosol form. Like other nerve agents, it is treatable in the first minutes after exposure but otherwise leads swiftly to fatal convulsions and respiratory failure. — Barton Gellman

He stepped closer with an intense, thoughtful look on his face. "We shouldn't do this."
Her heart gave a hard thud.
"You probably can't kiss." Another step closer. "What does the doctor say?"
"We never kissed," she deadpanned. "Dr. Pratt and I are not interested in each other that way."
The sound of his deep laughter broke the tension between them. He moved a little closer still.
"Dr. Pratt says intimacy is all right, unless the other person is sick." She couldn't believe she just said that. Why not put a neon sign on her forehead? DESPERATE FOR SEX.
"This isn't going to work." He leaned his forehead against hers, the skin-to-skin contact jolting. "This isn't the right time for either of us." His hands slid up her arms. "I shouldn't kiss you," he said.
And then he did.
Holy heaven. — Dana Marton

Slowly, Joaquin leaned in, drawn closer to her against his will. Pursing his lips, he breathed warm air across her cheeks, like animals do when they learn each other's scent, learn to trust. "Easy now," he whispered in between the soft puffs of air. "Let go of the fear."
"I can't," she said, in a little broken voice that clenched at his heart.
"Yes you can." Joaquin let his lips touch her skin, the merest hint of a contact. She made a tiny sound of alarm, a cross between a sob and a cry. He brushed his mouth against hers. A shudder shook her body, but she pressed into him, seeking his shelter. Keeping his hands braced to the timber, he deepened the kiss. His mouth slanted over hers, bolder now.
Her hands rose between them and fisted into his shirt. — Tatiana March

The voice was calm and infinitely tender. He didn't understand the words, because unconsciousness still wrapped his mind in layers of blackness, but he heard the voice, felt it, like something warm touching his skin. It made him feel less alone, that tiny, dim contact. Something hard and vital in him focused on the contact, yearning toward it, forcing him upward out of the blackness, even though he sensed the fanged monsters that waited for him, waiting to tear at his flesh with hot knives and brutal teeth. He would have to endure that before he could reach the voice, and he was very weak. He might not make it. Yet the voice reached out to him, pulling at him like a magnet, lifting him out of the deep senselessness that had held him. — Linda Howard

Syn watched the Partini closely as the alien lunged for him. He caught the alien's wrist before the knife could make contact with his skin. The Partini tried to pull loose, but Syn held fast with one hand. "Tell me," he asked snidely, "what smells like shit and screams like a girl?" He shot the Partini in the knee. The Partini screamed like a woman meeting her long-lost best friend as he crumpled to the street, his poisoned knife falling on the concrete with a metallic clink. Syn kicked the knife into the darkness, out of the assassin's reach. "That's right. You." The — Sherrilyn Kenyon

Was so much more than she'd ever expected for herself, but she was finding that nothing less would satisfy her. For the rest of her life, every man she came into contact with would be judged against Tristan. No one could meet his standard. I made love to this man, she thought, awed, drawing in his scent that still clung to her skin. Several times. Peace fluttered inside her, a feeling she'd thought she possessed before - a sort of satisfaction with her life, an acceptance. She'd deceived herself, convinced herself that her life was fine the way it was. Now she knew the truth. True satisfaction was only found in Tristan's arms. With him, she felt alive, whole. Desired. — Gena Showalter

Cynicism is, ultimately, fear. Cynicism makes contact with your skin, and a thick black carapace begins to grow - like insect armor. This armor will protect your heart, from disappointment - but it leaves you almost unable to walk. You cannot dance in this armor. Cynicism keeps you pinned to the spot, in the same posture, forever. — Caitlin Moran

A layer of fine powder coats his skin.
"My lungs are turning to concrete," Rob wheezes, hacking and spitting.
"So are my eyes. How do I always get roped into these things?" Avery coughs and pats Rob's back in sympathy. A poof of dust billows from the contact. — Laura Kreitzer

How did ears get their start? Any piece of skin can detect vibrations if they come in contact with vibrating objects. This is a natural outgrowth of the sense of touch. Natural selection could easily have enhanced this faculty by gradual degrees until it was sensitive enough to pick up very slight contact vibrations. At this point it would automatically have been sensitive enough to pick up airborne vibrations of sufficient loudness and/or sufficient nearness of origin — Richard Dawkins

But the thought of laying a hand on someone brings back a world of memories, feelings, a flush of power I experience only when I make contact with skin not immune to my own. It's a rush of invincibility; a tormented kind of euphoria; a wave of intensity flooding every pore in my body. I don't know what it will do ti me. I don't know if I can trust myself to take pleasure in someone else's pain. — Tahereh Mafi

How marvellously lie our anxieties, in filmy layers, one over the other! Take away that which has lain on the upper surface for so long - the care of cares - the only one, as it seemed to you, between your soul and the radiance of Heaven - and straight you find a new stratum there. As physical science tells us no fluid is without its skin, so does it seem with this fine medium of the soul, and these successive films of care that form upon its surface on mere contact with the upper air and light. — J. Sheridan Le Fanu

[ ] manic sex isn't really intercourse. It's dicourse, just another way to ease the insatiable need for contact and communication. In place of words, I simply spoke with my skin. — Terri Cheney

She had always enjoyed the warm, calming feeling of the sand. It slipped as a silken scarf of liquid sunshine across the surface of her skin. Kayn took one hand and ran it over the surface of the sand, and it shifted as though it had been moved by a light breeze without her hand making contact. Her life now had no room for feet being firmly planted on the ground. She had to allow her mind to take off in flight and accept the impossible. She had to embrace life as a toddler. In a child's world, every breath of life is a mystery; everything had the possibility of being magic. — Kim Cormack

His dark eyes met mine, just the same. A lean, saturnine face, his cheekbones balanced, his mouth a straight unforgiving line. The demon Tierce Japhrimel touched my cheek, his knuckles brushing my skin. The contact sent a shudder through me, my body recognizing him before the rest of me could dare to. "You burned," I managed, before another fit of retching and gagging shook me. "You burned - you were
ash - "
"While you live, I live." The corners of his mouth turned down, an expressive movement that managed to give the impression of a grim smile. "I suppose nobody told you." I shook my head weakly. — Lilith Saintcrow

She draws back, yet refuses to lose skin contact. Golden light flickers across his face. He is the night, the stars. His soul shines so brightly, she could pour it into a jar, and it'd be as bright as the sun. — Laura Kreitzer

Dads. Do you not realize that your child needs to feel your skin on his? Do you not realize the incredible and powerful bond that skin on skin contact with your daughter will give you? Do you not understand the permanent mental connections that are made when you stroke your son's bare back or rub your daughter's bare tummy while you tell bedtime stories? And if any idiot says anything about that being inappropriate, you're gonna get kicked in the face, first by me, and then by every other good dad out there. Touching your child is your duty as a father. — Dan Pearce

It was a tiny moment, brief and fleeting, but Olanna noticed how scrupulously they avoided any contact, any touch of skin, as if they were united by a common knowledge so monumental that they were determined not to be united by anything else. — Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie