Couch Cuddling Quotes

I would rather have had someone shoot me in the head with a nail gun, repeatedly, than have to watch the two of them cuddling on the couch together all night. --Conrad

I miss the way he used to kiss my shoulder whenever it was bare and he was nearby. I miss how he cleared his throat before he took a sip of water and scratched his left arm with his right hand when he was nervous. I miss how he tucked my hair behind my ear when it came loose and took my temperature when I was sick or when he was bored. I miss his glasses on my nightstand. I miss watching him take Sunday afternoon naps on my couch, with the newspaper resting on his stomach like a blanket. How his hands stayed clasped, fingers intertwined, while he slept. I miss the cadence of his speech and the stupidity of his puns. I miss playing doctor when we made love, and even when we didn't. I miss his smell, like fresh laundry and honey (because of his shampoo) at his place. Fresh laundry and coconut (because of my shampoo) at mine. I miss that he used to force me to listen to French rap and would sing along in a horrible accent. I miss that he always said "I love you" when he hung up the phone with his sister, never shy or embarassed, regardless of who else was around. I miss that his ideal Friday night included a DVD, eating Chinese food right out of the carton, and cuddling on top of my duvet cover. I miss that he reread books from his childhood and then from mine. I miss that he was the only man that I have ever farted on, and with, freely. I miss that he understood that the holidays were hard for me and that he wanted me to never feel lonely.

See what a good girlfriend I am? I’m all about the compromises.” She grins. “This relationship rocks.” “Damn right it does.” I kiss her cheek, then suck in a breath when something occurs to me. “What is it?” she says in concern. I turn to her with even wider eyes. “Babe…are we boring?” Allie hoots. “Did you really just ask that?” “Yes, I fucking asked that.” I wave a hand around the room. “Look at us. It’s Friday night and we’re on the living room couch, talking about how great our relationship is. That’s the most boring thing we can be doing.” I sigh loudly. “Is this our life now? Doomed to stay in and cuddle every night? Is the excitement over?” “The excitement isn’t over,” she assures me. “Are you sure?

Because in love, the man is never right,” Jonah said. “Never. Let me repeat, in case you still don’t get it. The man is never right, and even if he is right, he knows it’s better to go to sleep with a sexy woman next to him than cuddle up with his ego on a cold couch. Egos don’t wear lace. Remember that and everything else is easy.

Of course I still love you, Lennox. You’re it for me. Good days or bad, sleep or no sleep, cuddle slut or pouting on the other end of the couch. It’s you and me forever.

I want to cuddle on the couch with your hands in my hair while we watch movies. I want to read Faerie porn books with you and then act out your favorite filthy scenes. Savy, I want to be with you.

We’ve hugged. We’ve cuddled. We’ve twisted ourselves around one another on the couch watching movies. But we’ve never panted into each other’s skin. Moved together to chase friction and heat and wanting.

Yes. Why do you want me to move, Caleb?” I know what he’s trying to do. Humiliate me, make me feel ashamed because straight guys don’t do this. We don’t spoon on couches, but I don’t feel ashamed. Not really.  “Fine. I want to cuddle. With you. Now move.

That’s when I notice Cheryl and Mickey cuddled up on the couch. She’s leaning on his shoulder, his arm around her, her leg across his lap. Cheryl throws glances at Kerry that say, “Look at me!” while Kerry shoots a “You go, girl!” smirk right back. I think of CK, how he and I often sat like that. Not because we were seconds from making out or wanted to look like a couple, but just out of a deep, platonic connection. My heart hits a higher notch on the ache-o-meter, my teeth sear into my bottom lip, and then something inside me snaps as cleanly as a crayon.

The mortals no longer want you.' Wren shook her head, because that couldn't be true. Her mother and father loved her. Her mother cut the crusts off her sandwiches and kissed her on the tip of her nose to make her giggle. Her father cuddled up with her to watch movies and then carried her to bed when she fell asleep on the couch. She knew they loved her. And yet the certainty with which Lord Jarel spoke plucked at her terror

I love you,” he starts with the phrase he loves to repeat at least a hundred times a day. “I love you so much, and I know it’s soon, but fuck, Ollie, I just really love you. When I’m gone, all I can think about is cuddling you on the couch, or falling asleep with you in my arms, or you walking around the house in the morning wearing nothing but my T-shirt with your sleepy smile, your curls trying to escape from your messy bun. When I get off the plane, you’re the first person I want to see. And when I’m home…I want you to be home too. I want us to be home together.

Aun’ Emmy?” Hayden piped up in her little voice. “Yeah, baby doll?” I asked her, giving her a quick squeeze as she cuddled into my side on the couch. “Whas’ a gorgamsm?” “A what?” I asked her, not understanding what she said. “A gorgamsm. I heared Mommy talkin’ bout it on the ‘pone. Whas’ is it?” “Um, I’m not sure, honey. What did Mommy say about it on the phone?” I asked, kinda scared about the answer I would get. “Hers said it was sumfing that my Daddy gived her an’ it was ‘mazin’ an’ made her toes curled up. If I have a gorgamsm will my toes curled up, too?

An introversion party is three people sprawled on couches and pillows, reading and occasionally talking. Or a couple cuddling by a fire at camp, savoring the music of crackling wood and crickets. Your introversion party might be a solitary walk where thoughts are exposed to air and become clear. You might find your party in meditation, when time expands and everything seems possible. Your party might come with popcorn as you passionately observe the big screen of the theater or with a steaming cup of Ethiopian blend as you watch people from your table at the coffeehouse, or with a cold beer as you watch the world go by from your porch.

Somehow, the strife made our marriage better. We got back to holding hands and making out on the couch, touching each other during the day, and cuddling in bed. We’d been distracted by everything, and now we returned to what was important. We laughed; we had fun. I felt again like we were made for each other. There is a point for everyone, I think, where physical attraction is everything, and it can lead to love. A person looks beautiful to you, and therefore you love them. Beyond that, as you grow with them, as your love deepens, your perception of beauty starts to deepen. At that point, what you love becomes beautiful-or rather, you are better equipped to recognize the inherent beauty. We were there. Chris would gaze at me in the mirror from the bedroom as I was getting ready for bed, and his eyes would be filled with love. I would lie next to him on the bed and just feel loved, secure in the knowledge that the most amazing man in the world had me in his arms. And yet, there was a little part of me, a nagging part, that told me I didn’t deserve all this happiness. I remember calling a girlfriend around this time and raving about how our marriage seemed to have gone to a new level: Amazing. Then I added, “But I feel like something bad is going to happen to one of us. Because it’s just too perfect.

What no one tells you is that there will be a last time you ever carry your child. A last time you tuck them in. A last time they run into your arms off the school bus. All through his infancy, Dylan was attached to me, almost literally. I nursed him, and he was fussy, so I carried him almost constantly, patting his back, humming to him, breathing in his delicious baby scent. He didn’t walk till he was fourteen months old, and I loved that, because I got to carry him that much longer. I took him for hikes in a backpack, his little knees hitting my ribs. I carried him on my shoulders, him clinging to fistfuls of my hair. I loved every minute. He was an affectionate boy full of drooly kisses and cuddles. He was generous with his hugs, from Paul at the post office to Christine, our librarian. And especially with me. Every night when I read him bedtime stories, his sweet little head would rest against my shoulder, and he’d idly stroke my arm, smelling like Dove soap and baby shampoo. Driving in the car was like a tranquilizer dart for Dylan . . . even bumping down our long dirt road wouldn’t wake him up, and I’d park the car, get out and unbuckle him, then lift his sweaty little body into my arms to carry him inside and just sit on the couch with him in my arms, heart against heart. And then one day, he no longer needed that. The bedtime stories stopped when he was about ten and wanted to read to himself. The last time I attempted to carry him from the car, he woke up and said, “It’s okay, Mom. I’m awake.” He never needed that again. Had someone told me “This is the last time you’ll get to carry your son,” I would have paid more attention. I would have held him as long as I could. They don’t tell you that your son will stop kissing you with sweet innocence, and those smooches will be replaced with an obligatory peck. They don’t tell you that he won’t want a piggyback ride ever again. That you can’t hold his hand anymore. That those goofy, physical games of chasing and tickling and mock wrestling will end one day. Permanently. All those natural, easy, physical gestures of love stop when your son hits puberty and is abruptly aware of his body . . . and yours. He doesn’t want to hug you the same way, finding your physicality perhaps a little . . . icky . . . that realization that Mom has boobs, that Mom’s stomach is soft, that Mom and Dad have sex, that Mom gets her period. The snuggles stop. This child, the deepest love of your life, won’t ever stroke your arm again. You’ll never get to lie in bed next to him for a bedtime chat, those little talks he used to beg for. No more tuck-ins. No more comforting after a bad dream. The physical distance between the two of you is vast . . . it’s not just that he’ll only come so close for the briefest second, but also the simple fact that he isn’t that little boy anymore. He’s a young man, a fully grown male with feet that smell like death and razor stubble on his once petal-soft cheeks.

She shoved me out of the bed! The realization hit him as hard as the floor. His feline grace failed him. Far from hanging its head in shame, his inner lion rolled in mirth, tufted tail practically wagging. Not funny. Except it was. He had a feeling this more assertive side of Arabella was his fault. Since the moment they’d met, he’d encouraged her to not take any shit, and apparently she’d decided to start with him. Dammit. When he’d told her to not let the world stomp all over her, he should have specified his exemption. I’m her mate. Isn’t there a rule that says she can’t kick me out of bed? Except she’d yet to realize what he had. Was it only a day ago since his life changed? Not even. At this rate, he’d be picking out fucking China patterns by noon. Completely emasculated and by a woman who wanted nothing to do with him. Flipping to his knees, he sat up and rested his chin on the mattress. Arabella faced him, eyes wary, breathing shallow as she waited for his reaction. More like she waited to see if he’d explode. She’d learn. Hayder would never harm her, but he would use his infamous kitty-cat eyes against her. He stared. You know you want me. You know you need me. Come on, baby. Melt. Melt for your lion. She stared right back. Hmm, this wasn’t working as planned. He let the left side of his lip curl into a grin, tugging his cheek and popping his infamous dimple. “I know what you’re doing.” “What?” “Trying to manipulate me into letting you back into bed.” “Is it working?” For a moment her expression shifted, a quick flip of emotions as she struggled to answer. “Yes it’s working. But I wish it wasn’t.” “Why? Why fight it?” “Because I think I need time.” It turned out there was something more powerful than his dimple. Her honesty. He groaned. “I think you were sent to kill me. Fine. If you insist, I’ll respect you even if I’d rather debauch you.” Her eyes widened. “Respect doesn’t mean I’m going to lie, baby. I want you. Bad. But I’ll listen to what you want. For now.” And, yes, he said it ominously. Let her think about it. Think about him. Soon even she wouldn’t be able to deny they were meant for each other. He stood, all six foot plus naked feet of him. And, yes, that did put a certain part of his anatomy in perfect view of a certain shocked gaze. A sucked-in breath, cheeks that darkened, a certain awareness sizzling between them. She couldn’t hope to hide her pleasure or interest in what she saw. “Sweet dreams, baby.” He winked and then turned, resisting an urge to catch her staring at his ass. He knew she was. He could feel the crazy heat as she traced his path out of the room. Go back. Want to snuggle. His lion couldn’t understand why they were back in the living room with its cramped couch that wouldn’t allow him to stretch out. Why couldn’t they snuggle in the nice warm bed and, even better, cuddle with a nice warm mate? Respect, my furry friend. A lion had no use for respect though. His worldview was much simpler. Ours. Bed. Hungry. Not hungry for a steak but, rather, a sweet, creamy pie. Hayder groaned. No need to keep reminding him of what he was missing. He knew. He hated it, but her wants had to take precedence over his. Argh.

To see you in love is far more powerful than any other lesson. A picture is worth a thousand words. It’s important that your sons see your physical affection, to see you kiss, cuddle on the couch, hold hands in public. Oh, sure—they’ll say they’re “grossed out,” tell you to “get a room.” But they are watching and learning.

a few years, I spent Christmases and Hanukkahs with friends’ families, but even though they were all very welcoming and kind, I couldn’t help but feel out of place. I’d watch loving parents catch their children as they passed through the kitchen and pull them into a hug. They’d whisper, “I love you, mijo,” or “When did you get so big, bubeleh?” They’d savor well-worn family stories at dinner, and afterward, my friends would jump into cuddle puddles with their siblings on the couch. It was all so beautiful. And it was excruciating, because it wasn’t mine.

He’s shown me so many sides of himself. The survivalist and teacher. The carpenter and uncle. The dirty, dirty man capable of bringing me to a level of bliss I wasn’t even aware of and the laid back guy who wants to eat ice cream and cuddle on the couch.

When I was empty, I bent over and gathered him to me carefully so my cock wouldn’t slip out. I carried him, and we sat on the couch, Michael in my lap, straddling me, my cock tucked in his hole. He cuddled to me, roping his arms around my neck.

Like my parents. That’s their life I just described—but then, there they were, talking on the phone about my dad massaging my mom’s groin area after yoga; cuddling on the couch; holding hands and wearing stupid Great Dane paraphernalia. That’s all we can realistically hope for.

You’re a goddamn masterpiece. I could just take you home and cuddle you all night long on my couch. What’s that term—Netflix and chill?

I would rather have had someone shoot me in the head with a nail gun, repeatedly, than have to watch the two of them cuddling on the couch together all night.

Finally, taking time for yourself is a fundamental part of surrendering. Long walks, dinners with your girlfriends, journal writing—or just cuddling up on the couch with a book or a romantic movie helps you to hear your own heart. When you do, urgency and desperation are replaced with confidence.

Tears roll down my cheeks as I finally allow myself to mourn my Momma. It hurts so much more than anything I have endured. I would rather take a lifetime of beatings and be trapped with those monsters than have to deal with this soul-wrenching heartbreak. I just wanted to hug my mom. I wanted to hear her laugh and cuddle me on the couch during a Netflix marathon. She is- was my soul mate. We always talked about the past lives we must have lived together and where our next life might take us. We would always be together. Any reincarnation would bring us to each other.

Someone who will cuddle on my couch and watch a classic romcom with me. Someone who will challenge me. Someone who is respectful and courteous to others but also has no qualms about shouting at an official while pounding on the glass at a hockey game. We don’t have to be a perfect match, because when is that really the case? But I want our match to be close with a little bit of wiggle room for some give and take, because what’s love without a little bit of compromise, without being able to adapt to your partner and love what they love? It’s the people in our life who mold us, and I’m far from being molded completely.

You love her?” Paul asks quietly. I can’t bite back my grin. “Yeah.” “He’s got the coochie disease,” Sam says. “You know, the one where you get some and can’t stop thinking about getting some more.” I throw another pillow at his head. “We haven’t even done that,” I say quietly. I look toward the door. I don’t want her to hear me. “You haven’t?” Matt asks. He walks over and sits down on top of Emily, who’s still in Logan’s lap, and steals the nuts back from her. She squirms under him and finally gives up. He holds out a cashew for her, and she opens her mouth like a baby bird so he can pop it in. Then he climbs off her. “Nope.” God, they’re nosy. “She has an apartment across town, over near where Emily lives.” “Oh, then we can take her home,” Emily chirps. But she’s already harassing Matt for the can of nuts again. He pins her down on the couch with his elbow and eats them while refusing to let her up. “Logan!” she whines, but she’s laughing. Logan just smiles. She gets herself into these messes; she can get herself out. “I want her to stay here,” I say, shaking my head at Emily. Matt lets her up, and she leans against him with her head on his shoulder. He likes to cuddle with her. She’s like a sister to all of us, and I hope Reagan will fit in as well as Emily does one day. But I really can’t imagine her wrestling with them the way Emily does.

You’re awake.” She reached over and brushed his hair back from his forehead and made no protest when he captured her fingers and kissed them. There would be no more cuddling, but no artificial, silently recriminating propriety either. “I am feasting on your morning beauty,” he replied, “but the natives are restless below, and a certain young lady on your couch needs a very stern talking to.” “And a certain gentleman who did not get much dinner needs to break his fast,” Emmie agreed, “and a certain baron needs to heed nature’s call.” “He’s already outside,” St. Just said, his smile not reaching his eyes. “I looked out the window, and nature’s call is attended to.” “Fortunate. I do not want to leave this bed, Devlin.” “Nor I.” The smile did reach his eyes, but it was so, so sad. “Just hold me,” she said, closing her eyes lest he see the desperate plea in them. He settled his naked weight over her one last time, his body caging hers in warmth and tenderness as his cheek rested against hers. “Just for a bit,” he agreed softly, but she clung tightly, and she couldn’t help wishing and wishing… She eased her hold, and he shifted off her and out of the bed. He was a soldier, after all, a man who had done the impossible and suffered the unbearable on so many other occasions. He

She poured a cup of coffee and slipped into Ada’s makeshift bedroom to grab the book she’d left on the couch. Her gaze focused on her goal, she tiptoed across the rug. With book in hand, she turned. The spine of the book cracked on the floor. The coffee cup broke into pieces, the air ripe with hazelnut. Trembling started in her knees and spread through her body. A static roar blocked out any other noise. The corners of Ada’s mouth tilted into a slight smile. Washed-out blue eyes stared at the ceiling. Darcy reached for Ada’s hand. The cool, waxy skin reeled her backward. She tripped over the book and landed half on the couch. She slid to a crouch on the floor and pulled the afghan over her knees. She dared another look. Ada lay still. Her mind pinged from memory to memory. Standing on a chair in the kitchen while Ada taught her the secret of fluffy biscuits. Cuddling next to Ada on the couch learning to read from Dr. Seuss books. Ada in old, rolled-up overalls and a floppy straw hat weeding the garden. The way Ada smelled like books and Pond’s cold cream. Ada’s laugh when Darcy had regaled her with made-up stories as a child. They’d run out of time to make new memories.

You’re it for me. Good days or bad, sleep or no sleep, cuddle slut or pouting on the other end of the couch. It’s you and me forever.

He had dark eyes that seemed to latch on to hers when he entered the elevator. His nose was a bit crooked, but it gave his face character. He was muscular, and had a larger build than the other two men with him. He wasn’t only taller than them, he was bigger in every sense of the word. He made her think of late nights and cuddling on the couch.

Vera and Moira are cuddled up on the couch, both in frilly, pink, little-girl nightgowns. “Hey, Maddie, you want to watch Miss Lovey’s Luminous Leggings with us?” Vera asks. Dear Lord, yes. Yes, I would love to do anything other than what I’m about to do. “Sorry, I have plans. Remember?” I wink at her. “Right, right, right. Have fun storming the castle!” She waves.

When the big Marine pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head, she leaned into him and curled her hands beneath her chin, desperate for some kind of anchor in the catastrophe her life had become. His massive arms wrapped around her and she broke into sobs, unable to tamp them down any longer. She heard rumbling beneath her good cheek, but couldn’t understand the words. When he swung her up into his arms, she didn’t even care, as long as he continued to hold her. She heard the squeak as her office door slammed shut, then the world tilted as he sank onto the old couch pushed against the wall. Time stopped as she sobbed into his shirt and he gently rubbed her back. He was so solid and strong beneath her fists. It felt like the world could be falling down around them and he would still hold her safely above everything. A warrior battling back the nightmares. She lost track of time as she cuddled into him, but her tears eventually began to dwindle away.

This is Reid. Reid, my stupid best friend who I cuddle on the couch with. The one who makes weird faces and eats my food. He’s not the guy that makes my heart race. He’s never been that guy. Not even shirtless. But right now, my chest is tight and my pulse is through the roof.

Indica invokes the feeling of bodily highs and love baths, tea and relaxation, and chilled-out nights on the couch. Use an indica when you’re in need of full-body stress relief and wouldn’t mind cuddling up to watch a movie.