Duvet Covers With Quotes

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.

Abruptly, she yanked the covers over her crippled one, hiding it from him. Tohr marched right back over to her, and resolutely pulled the duvet back where it had been. Tracing the badly healed wounds with his fingertips, he met her squarely in the eye. "You're beautiful. Every inch of you. Don't think for a moment there's anything wrong with you. We clear?" "But-" "Nope. I'm not hearing that." Bending down he pressed his lips to her shin, her calf, her ankle, tracing the scars, caressing them. "Beautiful. All of you." "How can you say that," she whispered blinking back tears. "Because it's the truth."Straightening, he gave her a final squeeze. "No hiding from me, okay. And after I feed you, I think I'm going to have to show you just how serious I am." That made her smile....then laugh a little. "That's my girl." he murmured.

The queen-size bed has a wooden frame and a dark-orange duvet cover and pillows. The bedside tables on both sides are identically stocked: three books, a lamp and a glasses case. I wonder if this allows my parents to swap sides during the night. I turn on one of the lamps, lighting the room like a sexy library.

Grisaille let go of Ruthven and flopped face downward onto the duvet, with a creak of springs. 'I am never leaving this bed again,' he said, muffled by the covers. 'I am amalgamated with this bed. This bed and I have achieved spiritual oneness. I am it and it is me.

In the dark behind the glare of the television, like a mannequin behind it, I could see a silhouette and it wasn’t moving. It was maybe six foot high with its shoulders hunched and I blinked to make sure it was real. The TV fuzzed grey and white and black and I had a lump in my throat that I couldn’t swallow away. “Rory” I whispered. Clawing out gently beneath the duvet cover, reaching for his hand. But I couldn’t find it. And he didn’t answer.

On the roof, on the duvet under the steam vent, with the planets overhead, he let her scream all she wished. She screamed into the night. To the stars. At one point, with his lying atop her, he said, “Look over my left shoulder. Venus is visible tonight.” Then he pulled the covers away from her, wrestling her for the duvet, as he called, “Here she is, all you Venusians”—he lifted out his arm, using it to span the celestial horizon-—“and the rest of you planets out there: the most beautiful woman on Earth, spread-eagled for your pleasure!” He laughed. “At my disposal, mm-m-m!” He bent down, nibbling, kissing her neck with his teeth, his lips, his mouth.

Who the fuck manages to do this in one go? You’d need the intellect of fucking Einstein to get this massive fucking duvet into this cover.

She threw the duvet off and tiptoed across the landing to Josh’s room. He was sound asleep, his face lit up by his nightlight. Pip crept over to the foot of his bed and climbed under the covers beside him. She lay there, listening to his deep breaths, letting his warmth thaw her. Her eyes crossed as she stared ahead, transfixed by the soft blue light. Josh would be safe, if she was here to watch him.

I’d rather be a beggar than be with the wrong king—not the queen of slaves, but the slave of bravery. I lay me on rocks, cover me with the darkness of the nights—not the king’s poisonous soft duvets that won’t let me meet I at dawn.

I picked her up and carried her down the hall to the bathroom, just a pitiful skeleton with skin stretched over the top and a great red scar across her chest. She sank onto the plastic seat we had got from the hospital and closed her eyes as I washed her, leaning her poor bald head back exhaustedly against the back of the shower cubicle. "I'll just change the sheets," I said, "I won't be a minute - would you rather sit under the water, or shall I turn it off and wrap you up in a towel ?" "Under the water," she whispered. I had to strip the bed entirely, and two of the pillows were saturated. I replaced them with pillows from my bed, and while I was at it my duvet as well. Then I propped the poor woman up against the bathroom sink to dry and dress her, picked her up and carried her back to bed. Never have I been so grateful to be, after all, a strapping wench rather than a delicate wisp of a girl. As I pulled the covers up under her chin she opened her eyes, looked at me sternly and said with nearly her old decision, "This is not the way I wish to be remembered, Josephine." "I know," I whispered, the tears spilling unchecked down my cheeks. Nurses are supposed to be bright and matter-of-fact about these things: my bracing professional manner left a lot to be desired. "I'll get you some dinner." "No," she said. "Just my pills, love." Back in the kitchen I stood for a moment in a trance of indecision, wondering where the hell to start. It didn't really matter - when you're overcome with lethargy you just have to do something. And then the next thing, and then the next, and eventually, although you'd have sworn you were far too tired and depressed to accomplish anything, you're finished. I turned on the tap about the big concrete sink by the back door and began to scrub sheets and blankets.

As he ran out of the door, Jessica rolled sideways, keeping her grip on Flora but trying not to either hurt the other woman or get clattered herself. She slipped off the bed, avoided Flora’s flailing foot, wrenched up the bottom of the duvet – and then threw it forward until the thrashing woman was entirely covered. Then she sat on her.

They lay side by side, the duvet cover pulled up to their necks as though it offered protection. Very little sleep followed.

Something about Noah’s place feels homey. I glance around the room I’m staying in and realize it’s because everything in his house seems to have a purpose—a history—or a sentiment behind it. Where he has a patchwork quilt that was probably made by a grandmother or an aunt, I have an expensive duvet cover, selected by my interior designer. And this is what my house in Nashville is missing. It’s filled with stuff, not memories.

That’s how it is with our feelings and the truth of God’s word. Our feelings are emotional reactions to maladies in our thinking or perspective, but our reality is God’s word which is truth. The truth remains constant. Lagos can be like Mercury, but with your fever, you cover up yourself with a duvet and are still not warm enough. We’re spirit beings. We do not react based on our emotions. We react to God’s word. If God says you’re forgiven, then you are. Regardless of how and what you feel.

He’d wake up, and watch Dex sleep for a brief moment, grinning like an idiot at his partner’s sleeping form. The guy always looked like he’d gone three rounds with the duvet and lost. It was wrapped around his waist, one leg on top, arm tucked up against his body, the other under his crooked pillow, his hair sticking up every which way and stubble grown in. Damn he was sexy. Sloane carefully leaned over and placed a kiss to Dex’s bare shoulder, tempted by the curve of his spine leading down to that plump ass underneath the covers. God, he loved Dex’s ass. Then again, there wasn’t a whole lot of Dex not to love. Love? He

Hi, Mad,” Piper’s voice sang out in her ear. “Oh, it’s you,” Madison said, falling back on the pink brocade duvet covering her double bed. “Of course it’s me. I always call you at this time,” Piper said. “Who’d you think it was?” “I thought you were Blue,” she said with a giggle. “But that’s, of course, impossible, since Blue doesn’t even know my name.” “Just what are you talking about?” Piper demanded. “And who is Blue?” “Blue”--Madison grabbed one of her pink furry pillows that lined her headboard and hugged it to her chest--“is my Heart-2-Heart partner. And I think I’m in love.” “What?” Piper screeched into the phone. “We were just assigned our partners yesterday. I have spent almost every spare minute with you, except for a few hours last night and the two hours since we left Giorgio’s. When could you possibly have found the time to fall in love?” “Okay,” Madison said, rolling over onto her stomach. “Maybe not love with a capital L. But a very strong like. Blue is funny and smart--he knows how flies land on the ceiling upside down. And talented--he can do a backflip. Or at least he could when he was nine at his cousin’s house in Issaquah.” “He put all that in one letter?” Piper asked. Madison giggled. “Of course not. We’ve e-mailed several letters. In fact, I’m expecting one now.” “Geez,” Piper said a little wistfully. “I haven’t even checked to see if my Heart-2-Heart pal wrote back.” Madison plucked at the fuzzy strands of yarn on her pillow. “You should. I love this program! We can tell each other anything. It’s so great!” “And this guy’s name is Blue?” Piper’s voice sounded doubtful. “I don’t remember any kid at school named Blue. There was that one guy we called Green in our chem lab, remember? But I think we called him that because his last name was Green and we could never remember his first name.

was the only place he wanted to be right at this moment. Tossing his clothes into a pile on the floor, Jeffrey yanked his pajamas from the drawer, put them on, then climbed under his duvet and pulled it over his head. He just needed to sleep. He’d figure out what to do in the morning. He could hear a ticking sound, but not like the one his clock made. Jeffrey pulled the covers away from his head and looked around the dark room. There was an odd shadow in the chair in the corner. As he swallowed hard and screwed his eyes up to focus, he saw Agnes, her needles clacking as she knitted, her head lowered purposefully over her work. “Mum, what’re you doing?” he whispered. “I could ask you the same thing, laddie.” The little purple head tilted to the side, and his mother’s dark eyes connected with his. “I don’t understand ye, Jeffrey.” Jeffrey sat up in bed and turned on the bedside light. Meanwhile, Agnes carefully wrapped a long strand of wool around the bulk of what she was working on, stuck the needles through the bundle, and placed it behind her as she rose from the chair. He watched her familiar movements, afraid to move or breathe too deeply in case she wafted away. When she sat on the edge of his bed, Jeffrey noted that she made no impression on the duvet, like a butterfly landing on a flower. He leaned back against his pillow and tried

Mum sat on the end of my bed, her hair in a shower cap. I was home sick from school and rereading old magazines. Mum looked around the room. ‘It’s a mess in here.’ ‘That’s why we made a path.’ Mum smiled and I felt amusing. ‘Instead of making a path through the shite, could you not pick up the shite?’ ‘It’s Jacinta’s stuff too.’ Pete called out something and shut the front door before Mum could respond. She shouted out anyway: ‘Bye, pet!’ She stood up and collected the clothes from the floor, sitting back down at the end of my bed to fold everything, whether it was clean or not. I continued to read a magazine and was surprised she didn’t ask me to help her fold. I worried she might tell me to do my homework or change the duvet cover. She said, ‘What was happening last night? When I came in?’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Come on now.’ The quiz I was reading seemed to spin on the page. ‘Nothing.’ ‘You see, if something was happening and Pete found out, do you know what he’d do?’ ‘Leave.’ ‘He’d murder someone, Dolores. So whatever didn’t happen stays between us, OK?’ ‘OK.’ ‘Are you hurt?’ ‘No.’ ‘And you understand what I’m talking about?’ ‘I think so.’ ‘I’ll talk to him.’ ‘OK.’ ‘OK. Now if you’re feeling a bit better, you can come downstairs and help me with the dinner.

Gabriel Mackie had just celebrated his fourth birthday the first time he visited the whisper room, a windowless enclave with lavender walls brimming with daydreams, obscured from reality. All he knew for certain was that his older brother, Griff, nicknamed Boo, was gone. His bedroom at the end of the long hallway had been transformed into a guest room with ecru lace duvets instead of the blue and white pinstriped spreads covering the twin beds. Vanished were his toy box and New York Yankee American League pennants that had plastered the walls, replaced by paintings of water lilies and wheat fields. A stray tear trickled down Gabe’s cheek when he remembered Boo’s curly blonde hair and how he snorted when he laughed. Silence is deafening and the Mackie household screamed heartbreak.

Reliving this dream made her heart race again. She had the feeling that she would not be getting any more sleep this night. She rose, throwing the duvet cover off. She breathed in slowly and tried to recollect herself. Tonight was one of the worst nights she'd had in months.

The bed was king-sized, with a thick mattress and a blood-red canopy that matched both the duvet covering the bed and the curtains covering the window. When Frederick laid me down on the mattress, as carefully as he might handle a porcelain doll, I realized the red duvet cover was made of velvet. This part is a bit cliché, I thought, running my fingers over the impossibly soft material. Right from Interview with the Vampire. But my body was alight with anticipation and nerves, and the tender, heated way he was looking at me as he stood at the foot of the bed made it almost impossible to think clearly. Constructive feedback on his bedroom stylings could wait.

bed and runs a hand over the duvet cover. “Matouk sheets?

Tea strainer and a gardening fork? Framed picture of two elephants and a cheese board? Bottle of insecticide and super king duvet cover in an odd shade of milky green? You can find them all, right in IKEA—if you’re prepared to tackle the incomprehensible floor plan and are wearing your best walking shoes.

The pleasure of a freshly-dressed bed is one of the finer things in life, and yet many stumble here, not sure what can go with what, or whether it's okay to mismatch pillows and duvet cover. The simple answer to this is that anything goes.