Thumb Up Quotes & Sayings

His phone sounded.
He grabbed it off his coffee table and his mouth curled up when he read, Kiss my ass, Merry.
Using his thumb, he returned, You want that, brown eyes, I'll work it in.
She didn't make him wait and shot back, Go fuck yourself.
Now, sweetheart, you know that's not the way it works.
Then came, We're done.
He ignored that and sent, Sleep tight. See you tomorrow. — Kristen Ashley

Mark. She fisted her hands in his hair and pulled his mouth to hers, her entire world anchored on his finger. When it slid inside her, she thunked her head back against the door and panted. Then his thumb brushed her in a slow circle.
She cried out against his lips, arching into him, yanking his hair. She couldn't help it. She was going up in flames. He merely pressed her hard to the door, locking her in place. Continuing the torture, he added another finger. She came hard and fast, the power of it sweeping over her like a tidal wave. — Jill Shalvis

At the end of the day, you should try to remember that it's not about the number of followers you have or the numbers of likes, comments, and shares your posts are getting.
It's the number of people who will be present in the hospital room when you fall terribly sick.
It's the number of people who will remember your birthday like they remember their first name.
It's the number of people who will invite you to celebrate Christmas or new year's eve.
It's the number of people who will actually show up to look at your newborn child or to bless your newly bought house.
It's the number of people who will actually cross an ocean to see your face.
It's the number of people who will wipe your tears when one of your parents passes away.
It's the number of people who will make a slightly larger than a thumb effort to be there for you. — Malak El Halabi

Many different kinds of sprouts lay torn. Green, purple and orange leaves lay scattered across the dark soil, and the thorn fence surrounding the bed had a fist-sized hole in it. Teacher eased himself into a squat, poked at the inside of the hole. Whatever made the hole had left blood on the thorns. The sprouts looked like wispy ghosts, pale and broken. Their delicate leaves and stems were riddled with bites. Life drained out of them like water dripping from a hanging cloth, and a breeze made them dance sadly. It felt like a funeral.
Teacher picked up a gnawed berry and gently squeezed it until purple juice dripped down his thumb. He placed the berry by the plant's roots.
Chandi's small face bunched up. "Are they dead?"
"They're dying, yes." Yuvali took her hand. "But their bodies will help other plants grow. — B.T. Lowry

Of course there were areas of safety; nothing could get at me if I curled up on my father's lap, holding his ear with one thumb tucked into it ... All about him was safe. — Naomi Mitchison

Intertwining our fingers, he brought my hand up to his mouth and placed a gentle kiss against it before kissing the inside of my wrist and rubbing a thumb across my newest tattoo. Brandon and I got "his and hers" tattoos, on my left wrist read "i love him", and on his right read "i love her". Cheesy? Definitely. But we love them. — Molly McAdams

When you're facing down multiple attackers, you always want to make the first move. It lets them know that you're ready to fight and that you're crazy enough to get the party started. One rule of thumb in fighting is that crazy can often overcome skill and numbers, because, while a trained fighter might actually enjoy going up against another trained fighter, no one really wants to wrestle with crazy. Crazy doesn't know when it's winning. And crazy doesn't know when to stop. If you can't pull off crazy, if, for instance, you're handcuffed in a small van with six armed assailants, stupid is a decent substitute for crazy. — Richard Kadrey

They weren't bad guys, just products of a society run by men and infused with rules to leave everyone sexually frustrated. Even in marriage sex in India is often just a brief, clumsy fumble in the dark, trying not to wake up grandma who's sleeping in the same bed. — Tom Thumb

No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you are! No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder on the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven Charles's Wain like a locomotive engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several stomachs. To — Charles Dickens

I pushed passed him. He grabbed my hand and swung me back towards him. Then he pushed me against the wall and ... he kissed me.
He ran his thumb along my jawline and down my throat, hips pinning me to the wall. He kissed me slowly and with intensity, and once I got over the mind-numbing shock and comprehended what was actually happening, it was incredible. I had never been kissed like that before. We melted together. Every movement of mine was somehow perfectly mirrored by his. My heart was pounding so hard I knew he must be able to feel it and I was sure my legs were giving way, but he held me up, pushed me harder against the wall.
I grabbed a handful of his hair, remembering all the times I'd dreamed of doing it. I let my hand drift down his back and pulled him even closer to me. It all happened so quickly. I heard him make a low kind of growl and lean into me. His hand slid down my leg behind my knee, drawing it to him. I moaned and felt him tense. — Jessica Shirvington

I wish I were three feet tall and he could pick me up and he still had a beard and he wore cotton sweaters that felt soft on my cheek and I could cry it all away and I would wipe my tears on his shoulder and I could suck my thumb and suck the end of my ponytail and he wouldn't tell me only babies did that and he would rock me on the front porch with the wind coming clean from the north and he would sing nursery rhymes with made-up words like Mom used to and he could teach me the alphabet again and how to walk and how to run and maybe I would do it better this time. — Laurie Halse Anderson

Clubs rattled behind them. Skeet Cooper rubbed the corner of his mouth with his thumb and rose from the bench. "Looks like Kenny's caddy's here."
Dallie lifted an eyebrow as his son stepped up on the tee carrying Kenny's bag.
Ted smiled. "Sorry I'm late. Mom made me eat breakfast. Then she started fussing with my hair, don't ask me why."
Dallie took the driver Skeet handed him. "Funny you didn't mention that you were going to caddy for Kenny today."
"Must have forgot." Ted smiled and shifted the bag. "I told Skeet."
Dallie shot Skeet an annoyed look that didn't bother Skeet one bit. Kenny gestured toward the tee. "Be my guest. I believe in showing respect for the elderly and the infirm. — Susan Elizabeth Phillips

This isn't food." Bram picked up a lavender-iced cake between thumb and finger and stared at it. "This is ... edible ornamentation. — Tessa Dare

Roark looked at the clean white sheet before him, his fist closed tightly about the thin stem of a pencil. He put the pencil down, and picked it up again, his thumb running softly up and down the smooth shaft; he saw that the pencil was trembling. He put it down quickly, and he felt anger at himself for the weakness of allowing this job to mean so much to him, for the sudden knowledge of what the months of idleness behind him had really meant. His finger tips were pressed to the paper, as if the paper held them, as a surface charged with electricity will hold the flesh of a man who has brushed against it, hold and hurt. He tore his fingers off the paper. Then he went to work ... — Ayn Rand

Lauren could smell the starch that kept Jared's shirtfront crisp, which blended intoxicatingly with tobacco and champagne. When he spoke in confidential tones to the silly woman, Lauren could feel the vibration of his voice in his chest. The bank director's wife moved away, and still Jared retained his possessive hold on her. His hand trembled slightly as his thumb moved upward and lightly stroked the side of her breast. Or did she only imagine it? Lauren thought she would die from the constriction in her chest that pounded up into her throat and sought release in a small moan.
Another guest walked toward them. Slowly, reluctantly, the strong fingers were withdrawn, leaving behind an imprint on Lauren's skin as scorching as a brand. — Sandra Brown

Libertarians see these changes as gains for freedom. No longer under the thumb of traditional marriage and religion, people can make up their own minds about how to live their personal lives, believing what they wish about religion and morality. Maybe so, but that's no basis for a free society. Codified rights offer limited protection. If the Supreme Court can find a right to same-sex marriage in the Constitution, then it can find anything, including dramatically different (and reduced) rights of speech, association, and religion. The most powerful limits to government power are found below and above political life: a strong culture of marriage and family, and robust, assertive religious institutions. A free society depends on strong family loyalties and faith's indomitable resolve. — R. R. Reno

He's the captive Kastor sent you to train?' said Torveld, curiously. 'He's
safe?'
'He looks combative, but he's really very docile and adoring,' said Laurent, 'like a puppy.'
'A puppy,' said Torveld.
To demonstrate, Laurent picked up a confection of crushed nuts and honey and held it out to Damen as he had at the ring, between thumb and forefinger.
'Sweetmeat?' said Laurent.
In the stretched-out moment that followed, Damen thought explicitly about killing him. — C.S. Pacat

Crumb," he said. "What?" A slight grin appeared on his face and then he reached out, without the napkin, and before I knew what he was doing, he smoothed his thumb over my bottom lip. Every single muscle in my body locked up and became painfully tense. My eyes widened and the air caught in my throat. The touch was slight, barely anything, but I felt it in several parts of my body. "Got it." His grin spread. — J. Lynn

As a critic, I try very hard to say exactly what I think. And in a medium in which we are well-known for the binary thumbs up and thumbs down, I try to be able to give the mixed review. But most pictures fall into that middle ground, so I wrestle over which way my thumb is going to turn. It's not flip. — Gene Siskel

How's your orange juice, Anna? Does it have a touch of lime?"
The glass paused at my lips as I processed his innuendo, and I took a second to make sure my embarrassment stayed hidden inside. I let the drink swish over my tongue a moment before swallowing and answering.
"Actually it's a little sour," I said, and he laughed.
"Thats a shame. " he picked up a green pear from his plate and bit into it, licking juice that dripped down his thumb. My cheeks warmed as I set down my glass.
"Okay, now you're just being crude," I said.
He grinned with lazy satisfaction. — Wendy Higgins

The ethic of ecstasy is the opposite of the trial's ethic; under its protection everybody does whatever he wants: now anyone can suck his thumb as he likes, from infancy to graduation, and it is a freedom no one will be willing to give up; look around you on the Metro; seated or standing, every single person has a finger in some orifice of his face-in the ear, in the mouth, in the nose; no one feels he's being observed, and everyone dreams of writing a book to tell about his unique and inimitable self, which is picking its nose; no one listens to anyone else, everyone writes, and each of them writes the way rock is danced to: alone, for himself, focused on himself yet making the same motions as all the others. In this situation of uniform egocentricity, the sense of guilt does not play the role it once did; the tribunals still operate, but they are fascinated exclusively by the past; they see only the core of the century; they see only the generations that are old or dead. — Milan Kundera

He'd stepped on something. He took a step back and knelt and parted the grass with his hands. It was an apple. He picked it up and held it to the light. Hard and brown and shriveled. He wiped it with the cloth and bit into it. Dry and almost tasteless. But an apple. He ate it entire, seeds and all. He held the stem between his thumb and forefinger and let it drop. Then he went treading softly through the grass. His feet still wrapped in the remnants of the coat and the shreds of tarp and he sat and untied them and stuffed the wrappings in his pocket and went down the rows barefoot. By the time he got to the bottom of the orchard he had four more apples and he put them in his pocket and came back. — Cormac McCarthy

Just one more?" he said, holding up his thumb and index finger to indicate tiny. Oh so small. "Just one more little one? I don't think that was my best work, and what if this is the only time we ever kiss? Then you'll go on for the rest of your life thinking that's the best I can do. I don't think my ego can take that."

He sure as hell hoped this wouldn't be the only time they ever kissed. In fact, he was going to make damn sure of it, and then some. But for the moment, this angle was going to work for him. He could see her indecision. He leaned closer, his lips nearly touching hers. Her eyes fluttered shut as he whispered against her mouth, "Just one more. — Tracy Brogan

I try to keep my gaze from drifting to her, but I find myself watching her as she taps away at the keyboard, completely oblivious. I twist my pen between my finger and thumb, staring at her. She tilts her head and looks down at her notebook, adjusting her glasses as her pen scribbles over the page. Her light blue eyes flick along as she writes. She bites the edge of her lip and suddenly looks up at me. — Dannielle Wicks

The Ranger moved in closer, thrusting his thumb in and out of the vampire's mouth with a lewd sort of motion. "It's still light out. Where ya gunna go, even if I were to let ya out? Ya not a Day Walker, else ya'd be out already trying to rustle up a Werewolf. So why don't ya just relax an' do what those eyes have wanted to do since we first met. — A.L. Wilson

Was going to drown. Woo had attached him to the drain at the bottom of the pool with his own handcuffs. He looked up. The moon was shining down on him through a filter of water. He stretched his free arm up and out of the water. Hell, the pool was only one meter deep here! Harry crouched and tried to stand up, stretched with all his might. The handcuff cut into his thumb, but still his mouth was twenty centimeters below the surface. He noticed the shadow at the edge of the pool moving away. Shit! Don't panic, he thought. Panic uses up oxygen. He sank to the bottom and examined the grille with his fingers. It was made of steel and was totally immovable, it didn't budge even when he grabbed it with both hands and pulled. How long could he hold his breath? One minute? Two? All his muscles ached, his temples throbbed and red stars were dancing in front of his eyes. He tried to jerk himself loose. His mouth was dry with fear, his brain had started producing — Jo Nesbo

Why a compass?" Ty asked. He hadn't taken his eyes off Zane's yet.
Zane smiled and ran his thumb across the pendant. "Because you gave me direction when I was lost. You showed me the way." He looked up to meet Ty's eyes. "You're like my very own compass. — Abigail Roux

INSTRUCTIONS FOR ZAZEN First of all, you have to sit down, which you're probably already doing. The traditional way is to sit on a zafu cushion on the floor with your legs crossed, but you can sit on a chair if you want to. The important thing is just to have good posture and not to slouch or lean on anything. Now you can put your hands in your lap and kind of stack them up, so that the back of your left hand is on the palm of your right hand, and your thumb tips come around and meet on top, making a little round circle. The place where your thumbs touch should line up with your bellybutton. Jiko says this way of holding your hands is called hokkai jo-in,113 and it symbolizes the whole cosmic universe, which you are holding on your lap like a great big beautiful egg. — Ruth Ozeki

I put up my thumb and it blotted out the planet Earth. — Neil Armstrong

He reached out a hand, and when she didnt move he curved fingers around her forearm slowly, as if afraid she'd dart away. He drew her toward him and his eyes slid shut as he inhaled. "Cinnamon and wild spice" One hand reached up and curled into her hair. "There was a woman last night, at the game." She froze in his arms. "Blonde hair, lithe, willing." Eyes caressed her face. "But the eyes were wrong, the color, the shape. Her scent." "Did you -" She swallowed. "Did you kiss her?" She couldnt ask if he'd done more. "No, I couldnt." His thumb ran over her bottom lip. "Her lips were completely wrong. How could I?" Her breath caught as his eyes held hers. "Oh." And something inside her, some devil, prompted her to add, "And mine?" "Perfect." He pulled her the rest of the way toward him and her lips met his. — Anne Mallory

Every bad decision I've made has been based on money. I grew up in the projects and you don't turn down money there. You take it, because you never know when it's all going to end. I made Cop III because they offered me $15 million. That $15 million was worth having Roger Ebert's thumb up my ass. — Eddie Murphy

You live in your own world, dear one." "I do," Arjun agreed, running his thumb across the hand terminal's screen. He looked up. "You don't mind, do you?" "I love you for it. Stay — James S.A. Corey

You deserve all that and more. It made me happy to see you suffer. I would do it all over again if I could.' I realized I was shaking as the words tumbled out of me. 'I would do it again and again. Every night I would torment you and laugh. Do you understand? You are never safe with me.' I drew a shuddering breath, trying to will away the sting of tears.
He opened his eyes and stared up at me as if I were the door out of Arcadia and back to the true sky. 'That's what makes you my favorite.' He reached up and wiped a tear off my cheek with his thumb. 'Every wicked bit of you. — Rosamund Hodge

Here's a rule of thumb: If he hasn't faced the trial yet, or he's in the midst of it - encourage him. If he's been to the wars and is limping home wounded - comfort him. Once the wounds are bound up, encourage him to rise and face the fight again. — Hal Young

As a quiet salute to Beavis and Butthead, I held up my index finger and thumb in an "L"-the international sign for loser. — Michael Moore

She silenced him with her mouth, then pulled back. "You can't change what I think of you."
He reached up and brushed her lower lip with his thumb.
"If you truly knew me, everything you believe would change."
"Your heart would be the same. And that is what I love. — J.R. Ward

If I were going to paint the dimension I see in front of me, I'd load my palette up with burnt umber, opaque black, a spectrum of grays - nothing brighter than that. I'd have to grind something into the paint with my thumb, some sort of grit or ash, because the grime here goes deeper than surfaces. — Claudia Gray

He held up the fingers of his left hand, with the thumb concealed.
- There are five fingers there. Do you see five fingers?
- Yes. — George Orwell

Higher and higher he climbed. His strength came from somewhere deep inside himself and also seemed to come from the outside as well. After focusing on Big Thumb for so long, it was as if the rock had absorbed his energy and now acted like a kind of giant magnet pulling him toward it. After a while he became aware of a foul odor. At first he thought it came from Zero, but it seemed to be in the air, hanging heavy all around him. He also noticed that the ground wasn't as steep anymore. As the ground flattened, a huge stone precipice rose up ahead of him, just barely visible in the — Louis Sachar

A bishop friend who is known for his advocacy of controversial positions says his rule of thumb when uncertain about which course to choose is "Go with the future." Had he lived in Germany in 1932 and followed that rule of thumb he would have been a spirited supporter of Adolf Hitler. There is no "future" to guide our present decisions. There are only possible futures that we can strive to advance or resist. More precisely, there is no "future" until it happens, and then it is fleetingly the present on its way to becoming the past. Yet we persist in trying to dismiss proposals labeled as conservative because, we confidently proclaim, they are not of the future but of the past ... The commandments of the future are easier, of course, because we can make them up to our liking. — Richard John Neuhaus

I used to think that pain was my body's way of telling me something was wrong. Now I think that while that is sometimes true, more often pain is some little bit of my body bitching about being asked to do something it doesn't want to, but once it figures out that I'm serious, it shuts up and delivers. My new rule of thumb is that if something hurts, unless it's debilitating, I give it five kilometers to go away. It usually does. — Paul Klipp

I felt his forehead against mine, another swipe of his thumb to wipe the wetness away and I heard him whisper, Baby, I can't keep up. — Kristen Ashley

It is a magic book. Words mean things. When you put them together they speak. Yes, sometimes they flatten out and nothing they say is real, and that is one kind of magic. But sometimes a vision will rip up from them and shriek and clank wings clear as the sweat smudge on the paper under your thumb. And that is another kind. — Samuel R. Delany

I was a very quiet, shy child. I grew up in a small town, Louisville, Kentucky, and there weren't too many Hawaiian-Filipino girls, so I stuck out like a sore thumb. I didn't look like everyone else and didn't feel I belonged ... But these things only build character and make you stronger. It taught me to grow into the woman I was to become. — Nicole Scherzinger

She already missed the feel of him beside her, and the scent of him around her. She sat up to give him back the T-shirt she was wearing.
His lazy smile was far too beautiful to be real. "Keep it," he insisted. "I like it better on you anyway." The way he stared at her made her stomach flip. It was a look brimming with tenderness. They were a part of something more now; they belonged to each other.
He tugged his hoodie over his bare chest, and then he leaned down to kiss her one last time, his lips lingering.
His thumb traced the line of her cheek. "I love you, Violet Marie. I'll always love you. — Kimberly Derting

Clear night, thumb-top of a moon, a back-lit sky.
Moon-fingers lay down their same routine
On the side deck and the threshold, the white keys and the black keys.
Bird hush and bird song. A cassia flower falls.
I want to be bruised by God.
I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
I want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.
I want to be entered and picked clean.
And the wind says "What?" to me.
And the castor beans, with their little earrings of death, say "What?" to me.
And the stars start out on their cold slide through the dark.
And the gears notch and the engines wheel. — Charles Wright

Aspiring authors, get this through your head. Cover art serves one purpose, and one purpose only, to get potential customers interested long enough to pick up the book to read the back cover blurb. In the internet age that means the thumb nail image needs to be interesting enough to click on. That's what covers are for. — Larry Correia

I have a rule of thumb that allows me to judge, when times is pressing and one needs to make a snap judgment, whether or not some sexist bullshit is afoot. Obviously, it's not 100% infallible but by and large it definitely points you in the right direction and it's asking this question; are the men doing it? Are the men worrying about this as well? Is this taking up the men's time? Are the men told not to do this, as it's letting the side down? Are the men having to write bloody books about this exasperating retarded, time-wasting, bullshit? Is this making Jeremy Clarkson feel insecure?
Almost always the answer is no. The boys are not being told they have to be a certain way, they are just getting on with stuff. — Caitlin Moran

World-class cereal-eating is a dance of fine compromises. The giant heaping bowl of sodden cereal, awash in milk, is the mark of the novice. Ideally one wants the bone-dry cereal nuggets and the cryogenic milk to enter the mouth with minimal contact and for the entire reaction between them to take place in the mouth. Randy has worked out a set of mental blueprints for a special cereal-eating spoon that will have a tube running down the handle and a little pump for the milk, so that you can spoon dry cereal up out of a bowl, hit a button with your thumb, and squirt milk into the bowl of the spoon even as you are introducing it into your mouth. The next best thing is to work in small increments, putting only a small amount of Cap'n Crunch in your bowl at a time and eating it all up before it becomes a pit of loathsome slime, which, in the case of Cap'n Crunch, takes about thirty seconds. — Neal Stephenson

Dear Fran
I'm watching you sleep. You are sucking your thumb. (We're going to need to talk about this.)
I can't pretend you look like a delicately slumbering princess, because you don't. Apart from the thumb business you are twitching around like a ferret and about ten minutes ago you pulled the entire duvet over yourself and left me with nothing. But I've never loved you more than I do right now.
I love you so much. I hope we can have a life together. There's so much I want to say to you. Please wake up soon.
Freddy x — Lucy Robinson

Katherine is the master of anger; she dominates anger. She takes anger in her hands and twists its neck, ripping its head off. She throws anger against the wall and stomps it to death. Her voice rises, it changes, it conjures up ghosts and cusses in a spitting Irish brogue. Then, when she's tapped out empty, she picked anger up between her a thumb and a forefinger and carries it outside and drops it in the trash. On her way back, she scoops up forgiveness like a bouquet, sniffs it deep and arranges it in a vase. She sets forgiveness down, shining in the middle of everything. — Colleen Clayton

Preston pulled me up against his chest and cupped my face in his hands. "I love you. I love you so damn much it consumes me. I don't deserve you, but I'm gonna become the man who does deserve you. I promise you. I'll make you proud of me."I reached up and ran my thumb over his lips. "I am and will always be proud of you. I want the world to know you're mine. — Abbi Glines

I look over at Ed. He's staring out the window giving Leo the thumbs-down. I wait till he's looking at me, then I give him two fingers up. He gives me two fingers back. I give him the middle finger. He gives it back to me. I don't know any more signs, so I make up one. Three fingers. Take that, mister. He sticks up four. I call your four and raise you five. He skips straight to ten and does something with his thumb that disturbs me. I bounce my hands on my lap. Ed bounces his lap right back. — Cath Crowley

Right after 9/11, I mean, every agency can give their own gradation, but a nice, popular rule of thumb is everybody doubled down. I ended up in NSA with about twice as much money as I had prior to 9/11. — Michael Hayden

Regan's pulse was astonishing. It hammered at a speed too rapid to gauge. Across the bed, Merrin reached out calmly and with the end of his thumb traced the sign of the cross on Regan's vomit-covered chest. The words of his prayer were swallowed up in the poundings. — William Peter Blatty

However hard I try to be nice I always end up with my nose in the dirt and my thumb feeling for somebody's eye. — Raymond Chandler

Ripping her thoughts from the scalding memory, Lillian glanced away from him. Immediately she felt his lean fingers come up to her hot cheek, guiding her face back to his. The tip of his thumb slid over her chin. "I wanted you today," he said softly.
Her heart escalated into a rapid thump, and the cheek beneath his caressing fingertips tautened with a smile. "You didn't so much as glance in my direction even once during supper."
"I was afraid to."
"Why?"
"Because I knew that if I did, I wouldn't be able to keep from making you into my next course."
-Marcus & Lillian — Lisa Kleypas

It's your call," he said softly, "but whatever you decide, I'll help you." He placed a soft, warm hand at the back of her neck and Laurel's breath caught in her chest. "Whatever you need, I'll be. If you need the science geek to give you answers from a textbook, I'm your guy; if you just want a friend to sit by you in bio and help you feel better when you're sad, I'm still your guy." His thumb slowly stroked across her earlobe and down her cheek. "And if you need someone to hold you and protect you from anyone in the world who might want to hurt you, then I am definitely your guy." His pale-blue eyes bore into hers, and for a second she couldn't breath. "But it's all up to you," he whispered. — Aprilynne Pike

Kale's body was the warmest I'd ever felt it. Normally his hands were freezing, but as he caressed the hem of my shirt, his thumb grazed my skin, sending sparks of heat up and down my spine. I'd never felt this way before-so alive that every inch of my body was so sensitive the mere thought of Kale's touch excited me. My need for Kale was so urgent it slammed through me like a freight train. — Inger Iversen

Jules stood up and stretched gracelessly. "Let's hurry up and pay before she"-she indicated Claire with a flick of her thumb-"sees something shiny and we lose her again. — Kimberly Derting

Karyn reached out to graze his jaw with her thumb, savoring the beginnings of stubble. She'd never seen her ex with stubble. Or with his mouth as deliciously soft and used as Jeff's.
"How'd we end up here?" she asked softly, not expecting an answer.
"Luck," he said, turning his head to kiss her palm. "Blind f#cking luck. — Cari Quinn

You just couldn't wait to get me naked, could you, Princess?" Loki asked tiredly. I started to pull my hand back, but he put his own hand over it, keeping it in place.
"No, I - I was checking for wounds," I stumbled. I wouldn't meet his gaze.
"I'm sure." He moved his thumb, almost caressing my hand, until it hit my ring. "What's that?" He tried to sit up to see it, so I lifted my hand, showing him the emerald-encrusted oval on my finger. "Is that a wedding ring?"
"No, engagement." I lowered my hand, resting it on the bed next to him. "I'm not married yet."
"I'm not too late, then." He smiled and settled back in the bed.
"Too late for what?" I asked.
"To stop you, of course." Still smiling, he closed his eyes. — Amanda Hocking

In Santa Fe her whole yard had been crowded with different-sized terra-cotta pots, out of which she grew everything from rosemary and lavender to ornamental pear and plum trees and even peppers, although they were not particularly popular with the bees.
In Colorado she'd created a fertile oasis out of old gas cans and cut-off oil drums. Her neighbors had been skeptical to begin with but once her creepers grew up and her flowers draped down and her shrubs fluffed out, the junkyard ugly duckling was transformed into the proverbial backyard swan. — Sarah-Kate Lynch

The priest rose to take up the crucifix; at that, she strained her neck forward like someone who is thirsty, and, pressing her lips to the body of the Man-God, she laid upon it with all her expiring strength the most passionate kiss of love she had ever given. Then he recited the Miserateur and the Indulgentiam, dipped his right thumb in the oil, and began he unctions: first on the eyes, which had so coveted all earthly splendors; then on the nostrils, greedy for mild breezes and the smells of love; then on the mouth, which had opened to utter lies, which had moaned with pride and cried out in lust; then on the hands, which had delighted in the touch of smooth material; and lastly on the soles of the feet, once so quick when she hastened to satiate her desires and which now would never walk again. — Vladimir Nabokov

One spring morning timing the lean near-liquid progress of a horse on a track, the dust exploding, the rapid hasping of his hocks, coming up the straight foreshortened and awobble and passing elongate and birdlike wish harsh breaths and slatted brisket heaving and the muscles sliding and brunching in clocklike flexion under the wet black hide and a gout of foam hung from the long jaw and then gone in a muted hoofclatter, the aging magistrate snapped his thumb from the keep of the stopwatch he held and palmed it into his waistcoat pocket and looking at nothing, nor child nor horse, said anent that simple comparison of rotary motions and in the oratory to which he was prone that they had witnessed a thing against which time would not prevail. — Cormac McCarthy

I admire your courage. I know what you've given up to be here. I know the kind of artist it takes to land a role. I know that you won't receive one on your own. And I imagine you, myshka, two years from now, working at Phantom with the same aspirations, the same dreams, in the same place where you are now. It's wasted courage. And wasted love. You shouldn't have to waste those things."
I'm speechless.
And overwhelmed. When someone reaches out and gives you a hand - for no other reason than to see your success - it's powerful. And rare.
He wipes beneath my eye with his thumb. "I'd rather feed your hunger than watch you starve — Krista Ritchie

(Lest you have forgotten, it is quite excruciating to hammer the back of your thumb. It inevitably prompts a hopping up and down and the taking of the Lord's name in vain.) But — Amor Towles

And how do you know she's the one?" I whisper, wiping the tears spilling down my face. He brings a hand up to my cheek and caresses over it with his thumb. "I know because, when she's not with me, I feel like I lack oxygen, and even when I am with her, I feel like I can't breathe enough. — Claire Contreras

Thumb and forefinger, grimacing at its matted feel. One of those low cellar windows was directly behind it, one pane broken, the other opaque with dirt. He leaned forward, now feeling almost hypnotized. He leaned closer to the window, closer to the cellar-darkness, breathing in that smell of age and must and dry-rot, closer and closer to the black, and surely the leper would have caught him if his asthma hadn't picked that exact moment to kick up. It cramped his lungs with a weight that was painless yet frightening; his breath at once took on the familiar hateful whistling sound. — Stephen King

Mental illness turns people inwards. That's what I reckon. It keeps up forever trapped by the pain of our own minds, in the same way that the pain of a broken leg or a cut thumb will grab your attention, holding it so tightly that your good leg or your good thumb seem to cease to exist. — Nathan Filer

I record the events of my life, filling up one notebook after another. Maybe I'm not getting the details exactly right, but it doesn't matter. The strict facts hold no currency here. What counts is the saliva I just spat on this very sheet of paper. The thick gob slowly dissolves a small circle in the text and turns the words translucent. The ink starts to bleed. The fibers loosen. If you run your fingers along this paragraph, you'll find the site where I stabbed my thumb straight through the page. There is an entire world in that hole. — Jeff Jackson

Judge's eyes slid closed. Michaels was the beautiful one. So beautiful for doing this to him, making him feel so desired. His cock was grabbed from between his legs and pulled back, right into Michaels' hungry mouth. He sucked hard on his thick head while rubbing his hole with the pad of his thumb. Judge's balls were drawing up, his stomach clenched tight and his eyes squeezed shut, preparing for the climax of his life. He didn't know if Michaels sensed it or not but the base of his dick was squeezed tightly and Michaels' mouth popped off. His orgasm had been simmering so close to the surface. — A.E. Via

I'm not doing anything, baby. I love you. I'm being faithful to you." He held up his ring, his thumb stroking the metal. "I promised ... I promise — S.C. Stephens

I wanted to curl up into a fetal position and start sucking my thumb, let my tears and dripping saliva pool under me.
Sorry. I tried living, tried being sentient. Can't do it. Can't live in the same universe with that. — David Wong

Goddess," he rasped, running his hands over her hips, up her legs.
"Lover," she whispered back, threading the fingers of her right hand through the fingers of his left and moving his hand to her breast. It was heavy and swollen and ripe with desire. He scraped his thumb over her nipple, loving the way she closed her eyes and hummed in appreciation. He loved that she was in charge. He loved how she took pleasure from his body with such confident leisure. He loved how she squeezed her innermost muscles in pulse after deliberate, exquisite pulse as she rode his length. He loved how he was just that to her, her lover, not Nick Blackthorne rock star, but just the man she gave her body, her heart, her soul to. He loved her. Everything about her. — Lexxie Couper

The kiss was everything she hadn't dared let herself think about. Slow. Hot. Hungry. His lips molded to hers, drinking up her small, breathless exhale before his tongue skimmed across hers. Bree reached out and gripped his shirt, tugging him until he was flush against her. The man knew how to kiss, and she felt her mind emptying of everything but how incredible his mouth felt working deeper into hers. Every nip, every silky stroke of his tongue, every breath dragged between their mouths made her hold on tighter. The second he stopped, the real world would slide back into place, and more than anything, she wanted this. Wanted Finn with an unexpected yearning that burrowed deeper with each second he continued to kiss her. He cupped the nape of her neck, tipping her head back as he deepened the kiss. She whimpered, catching his bottom lip between hers. His thumb trailed along her jawline, and she shuddered in its wake, wanting his mouth there. Wanting — Sydney Somers

Keeper!"
He inhaled slowly, took Azalea's outstretched hand-shudders went through her throat, he felt so solid-and pressed the brooch into her marked palm.
"I was only picking it up," he said, quietly. His thumb rubbed the red nail mark on her hand. A smile crossed his lips. "Temper, temper. — Heather Dixon

I don't deny that impulse drew us together, but while physical gratification began and ended it for you, in making love, dumbo here - - ' she jerked a thumb at her chest ' - was also demonstrating that she cared.'
His tongue moistened his lips. 'You're very up-front, aren't you?'
'You mean none of your other rejects have ever looked you in the eye and complained?' Sian queried. She might have made things easy last night, but she refused to make anything easy for him now. 'I suppose you'd prefer it if I shrugged my shoulders, muttered something about it being nice while it lasted, and filed the experience away under lessons learned? Well, sorry, but for me, and for most women if they're honest, going to bed with someone is a darn sight more complicated than that! — Elizabeth Oldfield

He rubbed his thumb over the smoothness of her cheek, thinking she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever known. "You don't think you're worth killing for?"
Her laugh was brittle. "Hardly."
For a moment, there was only the sound of their breathing and the wind gusting through the trees. And then he said, "I disagree."
She stared up at him, trembling, her eyes filled with the questions she couldn't put into words.
"I mean it," he rasped. "I would kill for you. Easily. Without remorse. Again and again. — Rhyannon Byrd

Get over yourself," I mutter. "I'd be wet if any guy was rubbing up against me."
"Bull. Fucking. Shit." His thumb brushes my clit. I almost fall over.
"It's me. You want me. — Elle Kennedy

Anyone with less intestinal fortitude, inhuman or not, would've been curled up on the floor sucking his thumb. I basked in the attention and took it as my due. I'd always known I was a star. Without me, the Auphe were nothing. I was the key, and the gate was a lock only I could open. At this moment I was, as I'd always suspected, God. Spreading my arms, I let my head fall back and closed my eyes, my streaming hair a silk touch on my shoulder blades. "Suffer the little children to come unto me." Opening my eyes, I smiled gently at the Auphe. — Rob Thurman

My relationship with Wilhelm and Jacob Grimm reaches far back into my childhood. I grew up with Grimm's fairy tales. I even saw a theater production of 'Tom Thumb' during Advent at the State Theater in Danzig, which my mother took me to see. — Gunter Grass

The night she died, Dan found her propped up in her hospital bed; she appeared to have fallen asleep with the TV on and with the remote-control device held in her hand in such a way that the channels kept changing. But she was dead, not asleep, and her cold thumb had simply attached itself to the button that restlessly roamed the channels - looking for something good. At the time, in 1989, it seemed a fairly unusual way to die. Nowadays, I suspect, more and more people are dropping off that way. And we're still looking for something good on television. We won't find it. There's precious little on TV that can keep us awake or alive. Ever the prophet, Owen Meany was right about television, too. — John Irving

And what have I invested in interpreting disfocus for chaos? This threat: the only lesson is to wait. I crouch in the smoggy terminus. The streets lose edges, the rims of thought flake. What have I set myself to fix in this dirty notebook that is not mine? Does the revelation that, though it cannot be done with words, it might be accomplished in some lingual gap, give me the right, in injury, walking with a woman and her dog in pain? Rather the long doubts: that this labor tears up the mind's moorings; that, though life may be important in the scheme, awareness is an imperfect tool with which to face it. To reflect is to fight away the sheets of silver, the carbonated distractions, the feeling that, somehow, a thumb is pressed on the right eye. This exhaustion melts what binds, releases what flows. — Samuel R. Delany

Well, well. Lucinda Hutton. One flexible little gal." He is reclining in his chair again. Both feet are flat on the floor and they point at me like revolvers in a Wild West shootout.

"HR," I clip at him. I'm losing this game and he knows it. Calling HR is virtually like tapping out. He picks up the pencil and presses the sharpened tip against the pad of his thumb. If a human could grin without moving their face, he just did it. — Sally Thorne

You killed him."
I held up my index finger and my thumb, slowly closing the gap between them, peering over at Dre through the tiny slit that remained. "Little bit."
"I don't think you can kill someone a little bit."
"Oh, well then, a lot bit. I killed him a lot bit. — T.M. Frazier

We could come up with a reasonable explanation for your wearing it. Would that help?" wheedled Sophronia.
"Justification for my trotting around wearing a lady's undergarments? I hardly see how."
Soap's eyes were sparkling with amusement, and Vieve was dimpling openly at the very idea of Pillover in a skirt. Pillover stood holding the petticoat between thumb and forefinger as if it were contaminated with some dreaded chemical.
"Go on, pull it on over you clothes and go out there," Sophronia urged.
"You could say you were running some experiment dangerous to your nether regions," suggested Vieve.
"You could say you were testing the response time of the maid mechanicals," suggested Sophronia.
"You could say you like ladies' undergarments," suggested Soap.
"I'm doomed." Pillover rolled his eyes and flapped the petticoat. — Gail Carriger

If you send up a weather vane or put your thumb up in the air every time you want to do something different, to find out what people are going to think about it, you're going to limit yourself. That's a very strange way to live. — Jessye Norman

I'm about to object when he turns his head and takes my thumb into his mouth instead. He gnaws at it all gentle, teeth and tongue teasing over my fingerprint, before he slides it further so that my hand winds up cupping his jaw. His mouth is hot and wet and when he sucks softly, I get an unexpected, almost electric pulse that shoots straight to my groin; it's damned sexy what he's doing. — Bey Deckard

Say my name."

"No." She tipped her head up, her breath sawing out of her lungs. "Don't stop, please."

He languidly stroked her. "I won't stop, but I won't take you there unless you say it."

Her voice locked in her throat.

He stroked into her again at the same time giving her the pressure she desired with his thumb. "I have all night. — Jessica Lemmon

I wanted to ask my father about his regrets. I wanted to ask him what was the worst thing he'd ever done. His greatest sin. I wanted to ask him if there was any reason why the Catholic Church would consider him for sainthood. I wanted to open up his dictionary and find the definitions for faith, hope, goodness, sadness, tomato, son, mother, husband, virginity, Jesus, wood, sacrifice, pain, foot, wife, thumb, hand, bread, and sex.
"Do you believe in God?" I asked my father.
"God has lots of potential," he said.
"When you pray," I asked him. "What do you pray about?"
"That's none of your business," he said.
We laughed. We waited for hours for somebody to help us. What is an Indian? I lifted my father and carried him across every border. — Sherman Alexie

Masses of warring men animated the horizon, crashing into stubborn ranks, churning in melee. The air didn't so much thunder as hiss with the sound of distant battle, like a sea heard through a conch shell, Martemus thought - an angry sea. Winded, he watched the first of Conphas's assassins stride up behind Prince Kellhus, raise his short-sword ...
There was an impossible moment - a sharp intake of breath.
The Prophet simply turned and caught the descending blade between his thumb and forefinger. "No," he said, then swept around, knocking the man to the turf with an unbelievable kick. Somehow the assassin's sword found its way into his left hand. Still crouched, the Prophet drove it down through the assassin's throat, nailing him to the turf.
A mere heartbeat had passed. — R. Scott Bakker

You're my friend," Chris whispered back, and his other hand came up so he could rub Xander's lower lip with his thumb. "That makes you beautiful. — Amy Lane

Judging by informal observation, most young Americans burn up their spare time buffing their emotional IQ and self-esteem with social media and non-stop texting. That's great for eye-thumb coordination, but what about the satisfaction of actually making something? — Seth Shostak

Oh, the way he was looking at her, really looking at her . . . this was the Christopher of her dreams. This was the man who had written to her. He was so caring, and real, and dazzling, that she wanted to weep.

"I thought . . ." Christopher broke off and drew his thumb over the hot surface of her cheek.

"I know," she whispered, her nerves sparking in excitement at his touch.

"I didn't mean to do that."

"I know."

His gaze went to her parted lips, lingering until she felt it like a caress. Her heart labored to supply blood to her nerveless limbs. Every breath caused her body to lift up against his, a teasing friction of firm flesh and clean, warm linen.

Beatrix was transfixed by the subtle changes in his face, the heightening color, the silver brightness of his eyes.

She wondered if he were going to kiss her.

And a single word flashed through her mind.

Please. . . — Lisa Kleypas

Beneath me, the bed tipped as Cole edged closer. I felt him lean over me. His breath, warm and measured, hit my cheek. Two breaths. Three. Four. I didn't know what I wanted. Then I heard him stop breathing, and a second later, I felt his lips on my mouth.
It wasn't the sort of kiss I'd had with anyone before. This kiss was so soft it was like a memory of a kiss, so careful on my lips that it was like someone running his fingers along them. My mouth parted and stilled; it was so quiet, a whisper, not a shout. Cole's hand touched my neck, thumb pressed into the skin next to my jaw. It wasn't a touch that said I need more. It was a touch that said I want this.
It was all completely soundless. I didn't think either of us was breathing.
Cole sat back up, slowly, and I opened my eyes. His expression, as ever, was blank, the face he wore when something mattered.
He said, That's how I would kiss you, if I loved you. — Maggie Stiefvater

My space chums think my unique hookup with humanity could be evolution's awkward attempt to jump-start itself up again. They're thinking just maybe, going crazy could be the evolutionary process trying to hurry up mind expansion. Maybe my mind didn't snap. Maybe it was just trying to stretch itself into a new shape. The cerebral cortex trying to grow a thumb of sorts. — Lily Tomlin

His eyes turn dark and serious. "You couldn't be more wrong. I want you so fucking badly that I can't see straight. I haven't been able to since the moment I laid eyes on you. That's the fucking problem. You think I wanted her more than I do you? I didn't want her at all. I wanted you then and every day before and every day since. All I want is you. I was holding back just now - and trust me, it's been taking every ounce of strength I have to do so - because you deserve better than me feeling you up in an elevator." He runs his thumb over my lower lip, his eyes darkening further. — Samantha Towle

She watched Delta try to pull herself into a pitiful looking crouch. Delta was far from coordinated, though, so her feet slipped out from under her. For a second, she almost looked like she was trying to run in place with her feet slipping and sliding all over the place. Finally, Delta stopped her pathetic running man imitation so that she ended up in a squat. Her hands held out in front of her, clasped together with her pointer finger and thumb in the shape of a gun. Good Lord, her sister looked like a Charlie's Angel reject. - Elena — Jessie Lane

Hudson pushed up onto his elbows and took me in, his eyes moving from my navel, to my lacy black bra, to my face. He cupped my cheek and dragged his thumb across my bottom lip. "You're so fucking beautiful. All that talk about your mom and how she kept pushing you to be perfect ... You are perfect." With — Cindi Madsen