Filthy Mouth Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Filthy Mouth. Here they are! All 114 of them:

You have very Grace Kelly-like tendencies about you. I hear Grace Kelly had a filthy mouth too," he added. "You love my filthy mouth." "True. But I like it better when its full," he said, meaningful smirk in place. "You know, if you would shut up once in a while you'd be damn near perfect." "But I'd be a silent panty ripper, which I think is a lot creepier than the angry-boss panty ripper.
Christina Lauren (Beautiful Bastard (Beautiful Bastard, #1))
What are you imagining? Your expression is filthy.” “Strangling you. Bare hands.” I can barely get the words out. I’m huskier than a phone-sex operator after a double shift. “So that’s your kink.” His eyes are going dark. “Only where you’re concerned.” Both his eyebrows ratchet up, and he opens his mouth as his eyes go completely black, but he does not seem to be able to say a word. It is wonderful.
Sally Thorne (The Hating Game)
He takes out a cigarette and offers one to me. "I try not to indulge. It's a filthy habit," I tell him. "I love that word filthy. I love the way you force it out of your mouth like it's some kind of vermin you want to get rid of." "You've had vermin in your mouth?" "You're mean in that way, you know. You don't let anyone get away with pathetic analogies.
Melina Marchetta (Saving Francesca)
He is lying on dirty straw. He has been beaten so many times, his body is one bloodied bruise; he is filthy, he is hideous, he is a sinner and he is utterly unloved. At any moment, at any instant, he will be put on a train in his shackles and taken through Cerberus's mouth to Hades for the rest of his wretched life. And it is at that precise moment that the light shines from the door of his dark cell #7, and in front of him Tatiana stands, tiny, determined, disbelieving, having returned for him. Having abandoned the infant boy who needs her most to go find the broken beast who needs her most. She stands mutely in front of him and doesn't see the blood, doesn't see the filth, sees only the man, and then he knows; he is not cast out. He is loved.
Paullina Simons (The Summer Garden (The Bronze Horseman, #3))
The myriad of flavors explode on my tongue, shimmy through my mouth, slap my taste buds and call them filthy bastards, and I love it.
Stacey Jay (Romeo Redeemed (Juliet Immortal, #2))
I am filthy. I am riddled with lice. Hogs, when they look at me, vomit. My skin is encrusted with the scabs and scales of leprosy, and covered with yellow pus.[...] A family of toads has taken up residence in my left armpit and, when one of them moves, it tickles. Mind one of them does not escape and come and scratch the inside of your ear with its mouth; for it would then be able to enter your brain. In my right armpit there is a chameleon which is perpetually chasing them, to avoid starving to death: everyone must live.[...] My anus has been penetrated by a crab; encouraged by my sluggishness, he guards the entrance with his pincers, and causes me a lot of pain.
Comte de Lautréamont (Maldoror and Poems)
I’m not sure I ever made a woman come with my mouth before I met you,” he admits. “I love kissing you there. And I love your ass, it’s perfect.” With this, I feel his length stir against my stomach as his hands squeeze me. “I like any kind of sex with you, but I prefer being on top of you . . . You make missionary feel dirty the way you grab and move under me.
Christina Lauren (Sweet Filthy Boy (Wild Seasons, #1))
'You've got a smart mouth, boy. And you swear too much. I should do what your mama failed to do and soap out your filthy mouth.' Unwilling to hide the smirk, Jamie flashed it unrepentantly. 'Shit, your organic-oatmeal-and-mint soap probably tastes better than your cookies. Bring it on.'
Finn Marlowe (Not His Kiss to Take)
When they came to harvest my corpse (open your mouth, close your eyes) cut my body from the rope, surprise, surprise: I was still alive. Tough luck, folks, I know the law: you can't execute me twice for the same thing. How nice. I fell to the clover, breathed it in, and bared my teeth at them in a filthy grin. You can imagine how that went over. Now I only need to look out at them through my sky-blue eyes. They see their own ill will staring then in the forehead and turn tail Before, I was not a witch. But now I am one.
Margaret Atwood
Now, then. What does ‘fucking’ mean?” My surprise must have shown plainly, for he said irritably, “If ye must call me names, that’s one thing. But I dinna care to be called things I can’t answer. I know it’s a damn filthy word, from the way ye said it, but what does it mean?” Taken off guard, I laughed, a little shakily. “It … it means … what you were about to do to me.” One brow lifted, and he looked sourly amused. “Oh, swiving? Then I was right; it is a damn filthy word. And what’s a sadist? Ye called me that the other day.” I suppressed the urge to laugh. “It’s, er, it’s a person who … who, er, gets sexual pleasure from hurting someone.” My face was crimsoning, but I couldn’t stop the corners of my mouth from turning up slightly. Jamie snorted briefly. “Well, ye dinna flatter me overmuch,” he said, “but I canna fault your observations.
Diana Gabaldon (Outlander (Outlander, #1))
I reach for my bag, pulling out gum, but he quickly moves to me, sliding his hands up my neck to cup my face. “Don’t.” He leans close, sucking on my mouth the way he seems to like so much. “You taste like me. I taste like you.” He bends, licking my tongue, my lips, my teeth. “I like this so much. Let it stay, just for a bit.
Christina Lauren (Sweet Filthy Boy (Wild Seasons, #1))
Winter’s head snapped around, away from Scarlet. Scarlet’s pace slowed, dread pulsing through her as she, too, heard the footsteps. Pounding footsteps, like someone was running at full speed toward them. She reached for the knife Jacin had given her. A man barrelled around the corner, heading straight for the princess. Winter tensed half a second before he reached her. Grabbing Winter’s elbow, he yanked back the red hood. Scarlet gasped. Her knees weakened. The man stared at Winter with a mixture of confusion and disappointment and maybe even anger, all locked up in eyes so vividly green that Scarlet could see them glowing from here. She was the one hallucinating now. She took a stumbling, uncertain step forward. Wanting to run toward him, but terrified it was a trick. Her hand tightened around the knife handle as Wolf, ignoring how Winter was trying to pull away, grabbed her arm and smelled the filthy red sleeve of Scarlet’s hoodie, streaked with dirt and blood. He growled, ready to tear the princess apart. “Where did you get this?” So desperate, so determined, so him. The knife slipped out of Scarlet’s hand. Wolf’s attention snapped to her. “Wolf?” she whispered. His eyes brightened, wild and hopeful. Releasing Winter, he strode forward. His tumultuous eyes scooped over her. Devoured her. When he was in arm’s reach, Scarlet almost collapsed into him, but at the last moment she had the presence of mind to step back. She planted a hand on his chest. Wolf froze, hurt flickering across his face. “I’m sorry,” said Scarlet, her voice teetering with exhaustion. “It’s just…I smell so awful, I can hardly stand to be around myself right now, so I can’t even imagine what it’s like for you with your sense of sm-“ Batting her hand away, Wolf dug his fingers into Scarlet’s hair and crushed his mouth against hers. Her protests died with a muffled gasp. This time, she did collapse, her legs unable to hold her a second longer. Wolf fell with her, dropping his knees to break Scarlet’s fall and cradling her body against his. He was here. He was here.
Marissa Meyer (Winter (The Lunar Chronicles, #4))
We fit beautifully together like this. Sex with her shattered me down to my deepest levels of complexity; even if Brynne wasn’t aware, I was. I don’t even know what I said to her during the heat of it. I say all kinds of things to her because she likes my filthy mouth. She told me so. It’s a damn good thing too because I cannot help it. The filter between my brain and my mouth is pretty much nonexistent.
Raine Miller (All In (The Blackstone Affair, #2))
Oh aye. He's as dangerous as a sack of blackmark vipers. A right cunt and no mistake.' The boy raised his eyebrows, mouth slightly agape. Mia met his tare, scowling. 'What?' 'My mother said that's a filthy word,' Tric Frowned. 'The filthiest. She told me never to say it. Especially in front of dona.' 'O, really.' The girl took another pull on her cigarillo, eyes narrowed. 'And whys that?' 'I don't know.' Tric found himself mumbling. 'It's just what she said.
Jay Kristoff (Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle, #1))
For fucks sake, Gia. You just let a goddamn sociopath into your house. Inside your fucking mouth.” Each word dripped with scorn. Disappointment. His scowl so dark it completely washed out his entire face. “You ought to have more fucking sense than that. Shit.
V. Theia (Filthy Love (Renegade Souls MC Romance Saga #4))
Come over tonight,” he said, softly enough so only I could hear him. “Wear the roses.” I shook my head. “I’m filthy. All covered in roses and Faire dirt. I should wash up first.” “No.” He brushed his mouth against mine one more time before murmuring into my ear. “I can’t wait that long. Come over now. I’ll take care of you.
Jen DeLuca (Well Met (Well Met, #1))
Now I’m gaping at him, because is he for real? “Hey, asshole, you’re filthy rich. If anyone should be paying full price for movie tickets, it’s you.” “I was being nice, asshole. Waiting for the cheap day so you’d be able to afford it.” Then he flashes his trademark grin, the one that makes chicks drop their panties and dive onto his dick. “Don’t give me your sex grin. It’s creeping me out.” His mouth stays frozen in the sex-grin position. “I’ll stop smiling like this if you agree to be my date tonight.” “You’re the most annoying pers—” The grin widens, and he even throws a little wink in there. Ten minutes later, we’re out the door.
Elle Kennedy (The Mistake (Off-Campus, #2))
Because I want you to scare me, and you know it. Because the way you’re vile fits the way I’m vile.” I sucked hard on his thumb. “You’re not vile,” he groaned. He drew his wet thumb from my lips and placed his hand firmly behind my neck so he could pull me down toward him. “Then neither are you,” I managed before his mouth crashed against mine.
Laurelin Paige (Dirty Filthy Rich Men (Dirty Duet, #1))
My mouth drops open, and his smile gets a bit wider, his eyes still half-lidded. Bedroom eyes, that’s what he has. I hadn’t figured out how to describe them before, but that’s the expression he’s always got on, like he’s about to have sex.
C.M. Stunich (Filthy Rich Boys (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep, #1))
I want to tell her all the filthy things I think about, be real, raw and unfiltered. I want to make her cheeks flush from my dirty mouth and her body squirm with desire.
Karina Halle (The Pact (The McGregor Brothers, #1))
But now ye also put off all these; anger, wrath, malice, blasphemy, filthy communication out of your mouth.
Zeiset (The Holy Bible - King James Version (KJV))
I may not voice my opinion often, but when I do you need to shut your filthy, donkey humping mouth and listen to what I have to say. -Word of advice
Lani Lynn Vale (Kill Shot (Code 11-KPD SWAT, #6))
My drubbing heart propelled into my throat, and I pressed a hand over my gaping mouth. Ashley Cutler, you gorgeous, filthy pervert.
Pam Godwin (Sea of Ruin (Sea of Ruin, #1))
A brick could be used to wash your hands. And after that, I’d suggest you wash out your filthy mouth. Scrub it clean, you scatological talker you.

Jarod Kintz (Brick)
I know you have a filthy mouth." He pressed down hard on my lip for emphasis. I shivered. "And you're used to getting your way. I know you're vulgar and dishonest and manipulative-" I recoiled, nose wrinkling, but he only gripped me tighter. "-but you're also compassionate and free-spirited and brave. He tucked my hair behind my ear. "I've never met anyone like you, Lou.
Shelby Mahurin (Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1))
If your mouth feels half as good as your hand does, you’re going to kill me.” I feel his chest vibrate against me as he catches his breath. “I’m not coming in that filthy little mouth just yet.
Kennedy Fox (This is War (The Checkmate Duet #1))
Sam counts the money carefully. I watch him in the mirror. “You know what I wish?” he asks when he’s done. “What?” “That someone would convert my bed into a robot that would fight other bed robots to the death for me.” That startles a laugh out of me. “That would be pretty awesome.” A slow, shy smile spreads across his mouth. “And we could take bets on them. And be filthy rich.” I lean my head against the frame of the stall, looking at the tile wall and the pattern of yellowed cracks there, and grin. “I take back anything I might have implied to the contrary. Sam, you are a genius.
Holly Black
to let anything connected with Charlene get criticized, so I said, Mama, you’re just jealous because you can’t dance like Charlene. Mama said, Shut your filthy mouth. Then I said, Shut your filthy mouth.
Rebecca Wells (Little Altars Everywhere)
I want to keep kissing forever, tasting sultry Southern boy and good manners and a filthy fucking mouth, but I think he has other plans. “If you don't want this,” he whispers as he grazes my ear with his white, white teeth. “Then you better tell me now because once I get started, I ain't gonna be able to stop.
C.M. Stunich
Around six-thirty, Rory was across the street, leaning against a telegraph pole, smiling just for laughs; the world was filthy, and so was he. After a short search, he pulled a long strand of girls' hair from his mouth. Whoever she was, she was out there somewhere, she lay open-legged in Rory's head. A girl we'll never know, or see.
Markus Zusak (Bridge of Clay)
What I meant was, I love your filthy mouth. And I love your mouth when it sings and jokes. I love your body, and everything it does to me. I love when you come, when you squirm under me, begging for it. I love your hands, and your eyes. I love your honor and integrity. I love your loyalty, your intelligence. I love your honesty, even when it hurts me. I’ve fallen in love with you, Monica. I didn’t think it would happen to me again, but it did. Thank you.
C.D. Reiss (Complete Submission (Songs of Submission, #1-8))
I took a few steps toward the kitchen window although I'd already realized I couldn't look through the kitchen window because, as already mentioned, it's covered with filth from top to bottom. Austrian kitchen windows are all totally filthy and we can't look through them and naturally it's to our greatest advantage, I thought, not to be able to look through them because then we find ourselves staring into the mouth of catastrophe, into the chaos of Austrian kitchen filth.
Thomas Bernhard (The Loser)
I don't know if I have the willpower to let you put your mouth on me. I won't last, not tonight." It was intoxicating, the thought that he could want her that hard, that much. "So? Come in my mouth, and then show me all the things you've wanted to do to me." Noah groaned, his fingers tightening until her scalp tingled. "That is a filthy fucking suggestion.
Kit Rocha (Beyond Temptation (Beyond, #3.5))
You marked up my neck last night with that filthy mouth of yours. And you know what else?” Troy felt his defenses slipping. Against his better judgment, he looked down and immediately got lost in her green eyes. “I like it. Having your marks on me.
Tessa Bailey (His Risk to Take (Line of Duty, #2))
Wherever you are,” he said low and steady as I wrote his name, knee to crotch, “I own you. I own your filthy mouth. I own your dirty mind. When you get wet thinking about fucking, it’s mine. Every drop from you. I own your every thought. You are my property.
C.D. Reiss (Coda (Songs of Submission, #9))
I'd rather you came out with your filthy, unfitting language for the rest of your life than for you to turn out one of them cowardly people who can't speak their minds but won't hold their peace and instead mumble behind hands and get their fights out in sneakery and in whispers.
Anna Burns (Milkman)
It was almost a mystical experience. I do not know how else to put it. My mind outran time as he neared, and it was as though I had an eternity to ponder the approach of this man who was my brother. His garments were filthy, his face blackened, the stump of his right arm raised, gesturing anywhere. The great beast that he rode was striped, black and red, with a wild red mane and tail. But it really was a horse, and its eyes rolled and there was foam at its mouth and its breathing was painful to hear. I saw then that he wore his blade slung across his back, for its haft protruded high above his right shoulder. Still slowing, eyes fixed upon me, he departed the road, bearing slightly toward my left, jerked the reins once and released them, keeping control of the horse with his knees. His left hand went up in a salute-like movement that passed above his head and seized the hilt of his weapon. It came free without a sound, describing a beautiful arc above him and coming to rest in a lethal position out from his left shoulder and slanting back, like a single wing of dull steel with a minuscule line of edge that gleamed like a filament of mirror. The picture he presented was burned into my mind with a kind of magnificence, a certain splendor that was strangely moving. The blade was a long, scythe like affair that I had seen him use before. Only then we had stood as allies against a mutual foe I had begun to believe unbeatable. Benedict had proved otherwise that night. Now that I saw it raised against me I was overwhelmed with a sense of my own mortality, which I had never experienced before in this fashion. It was as though a layer had been stripped from the world and I had a sudden, full understanding of death itself.
Roger Zelazny (The Guns of Avalon (The Chronicles of Amber #2))
You shove that filthy-ass piece of meat into this starved mouth and I’ll show you what hunger truly looks like, Heart.
K. Webster (Cold Cole Heart)
As filthy as any night was, a New York City morning is always clean. The eyes get washed. Flowers in white deli buckets are replenished. The population bathes, in marble mausoleums of Upper East Side showers, or in Greenwich Village tubs, or in the sink of a Chinatown one-bedroom crammed with fifteen people. Some bar opens and the first song on the jukebox is Johnny Thunders, while bums pick up cigarette butts to see what’s left to smoke. The smell of espresso and hot croissants. The weather vane squeaks in the sun. Pigeons are reborn out of the mouths of blue windows.
Jardine Libaire (White Fur)
You have no fucking idea, little bit of a thing, so old are you that you know everything? So worldly with the round eyes and the way you see the good in everything, even me. Forget everything you fucking think you know. The second I was inside you people would know, you’d be different, they’d treat you differently, tarred with my fucking ruined brush, all the rumors flying around, people who had once been your friends because they’d know I had hands all over you. I don’t fuck like a gentleman, little bit, I fuck like an animal, that stains a little girl like you. You want pretty-fucking-romance, to show off a man to your friends, to go to parties with him on your arm, so fucking meek and boring, that’s not me, will never be me. I’m not normal, the wiring is not right in my head, and I’m not for you, walk away before I’ve had my mouth on that pussy and drank down your honey, because if you don’t and I taste you, I feel how it is to shove my cock as deep and as hard as I can inside you, it’s all over, you get me? You hearing what I’m telling you? Game over, ‘cause I don’t play by anyone's rules but my own and my rules are nasty, my rules are fucking filthy.
V. Theia (Filthy Love (Renegade Souls MC Romance Saga #4))
He closes the door with a determined click, and I hear him call to a flight attendant, and I sink down onto the toilet seat, resting my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands as I listen to him through the door. "I'm sorry to bother you but my wife," he says, and then pauses. With the last word he says, my heart begins to hammer. "The one who now got sick? She's started her... cycle? And I'm wondering if you keep any, or rather if you have... something? You see this all happened a bit fast and she packed in a hurry, and before that we were in Vegas. I have no idea why she came with me but I really really don't want to screw this up. And now she needs something. Can she, uh," he stutters, finally saying simply, "borrow quelque chose?" I cover my mouth as he continues to ramble, and I would given anything in this moment to see the expression of the flight attendant on the other side of this door. "I meant use," he continues. "Not to borrow because I don't think they work that way." I hear a woman's voice ask, "Do you know if she needs tampons or pads?" Oh God. Oh God. This can't be happening. "Um..." I hear him sigh and then say, "I have no idea but I'll give you a hundred dollars to end this conversation and give me both.
Christina Lauren (Sweet Filthy Boy (Wild Seasons, #1))
Venice was luscious. She had real curves and real cleavage. She had a stunning face, set off by a broad, lascivious grin. She had an indefinable hairstyle, a swag of thick blond dazzle that seemed always in motion, falling in her eyes, getting caught in her mouth. Venice spoke in a husky growl, with a deep, filthy laugh. Venice was no stranger to flirtation; she was practically no stranger to anyone. She smoldered, even at breakfast. Venice—at times literally—enjoyed a love affair with Manhattan.
Paul Rudnick (Social Disease)
And they had no idea what lives inside me, what I can do.” “I know what you do to me,” Kyle said, finding his eyes. “It’s everything right, honest, and good.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his lips. “Kyle, I’m intense and devoted, and I need a lot of direction just to get through my day.” “Cole, I’m impulsive and devoted and hopeless. I have a filthy mouth, and I don’t see it cleaning up anytime soon.” “I would like to make love to you. Here. Right now,” Cole said, continuing his confession. “But I’m afraid I’ll lose you, that you’ll leave your body and go somewhere else. Will you stay with me?” “I’m your shadow now, Cole. I’ll be where you are.” Kyle set her jaw, determined. “Okay,” he said. “This is how it’ll go. I’m going to give you pleasure. And you’re going to take it. No reciprocating.” He instantly saw doubt in her face. “Please, this time—which will be the first of so many—let me make you happy. Let my touch cleanse you. When I’m done, I want your body to belong just to us.” He could feel himself smiling, just thinking about it.
Debra Anastasia (Poughkeepsie (Poughkeepsie Brotherhood, #1))
When I close my eyes to see, to hear, to smell, to touch a country I have known, I feel my body shake and fill with joy as if a beloved person had come near me. A rabbi was once asked the following question: ‘When you say that the Jews should return to Palestine, you mean, surely, the heavenly, the immaterial, the spiritual Palestine, our true homeland?’ The rabbi jabbed his staff into the ground in wrath and shouted, ‘No! I want the Palestine down here, the one you can touch with your hands, with its stones, its thorns and its mud!’ Neither am I nourished by fleshless, abstract memories. If I expected my mind to distill from a turbid host of bodily joys and bitternesses an immaterial, crystal-clear thought, I would die of hunger. When I close my eyes in order to enjoy a country again, my five senses, the five mouth-filled tentacles of my body, pounce upon it and bring it to me. Colors, fruits, women. The smells of orchards, of filthy narrow alleys, of armpits. Endless snows with blue, glittering reflections. Scorching, wavy deserts of sand shimmering under the hot sun. Tears, cries, songs, distant bells of mules, camels or troikas. The acrid, nauseating stench of some Mongolian cities will never leave my nostrils. And I will eternally hold in my hands – eternally, that is, until my hands rot – the melons of Bukhara, the watermelons of the Volga, the cool, dainty hand of a Japanese girl… For a time, in my early youth, I struggled to nourish my famished soul by feeding it with abstract concepts. I said that my body was a slave and that its duty was to gather raw material and bring it to the orchard of the mind to flower and bear fruit and become ideas. The more fleshless, odorless, soundless the world was that filtered into me, the more I felt I was ascending the highest peak of human endeavor. And I rejoiced. And Buddha came to be my greatest god, whom I loved and revered as an example. Deny your five senses. Empty your guts. Love nothing, hate nothing, desire nothing, hope for nothing. Breathe out and the world will be extinguished. But one night I had a dream. A hunger, a thirst, the influence of a barbarous race that had not yet become tired of the world had been secretly working within me. My mind pretended to be tired. You felt it had known everything, had become satiated, and was now smiling ironically at the cries of my peasant heart. But my guts – praised be God! – were full of blood and mud and craving. And one night I had a dream. I saw two lips without a face – large, scimitar-shaped woman’s lips. They moved. I heard a voice ask, ‘Who if your God?’ Unhesitatingly I answered, ‘Buddha!’ But the lips moved again and said: ‘No, Epaphus.’ I sprang up out of my sleep. Suddenly a great sense of joy and certainty flooded my heart. What I had been unable to find in the noisy, temptation-filled, confused world of wakefulness I had found now in the primeval, motherly embrace of the night. Since that night I have not strayed. I follow my own path and try to make up for the years of my youth that were lost in the worship of fleshless gods, alien to me and my race. Now I transubstantiate the abstract concepts into flesh and am nourished. I have learned that Epaphus, the god of touch, is my god. All the countries I have known since then I have known with my sense of touch. I feel my memories tingling, not in my head but in my fingertips and my whole skin. And as I bring back Japan to my mind, my hands tremble as if they were touching the breast of a beloved woman.
Nikos Kazantzakis (Travels in China & Japan)
Wilson dug into his pockets, feeling in every one. Then he tried his car doors. I could have told him they were all locked, but I wisely remained silent. I suppose that would be twelve things: I can be wise. “Bollocks!” He pressed his face up against the car window, hands shielding his eyes on either side. “Blast!” “You have a filthy mouth, Mr. Wilson,” I chided, trying not to laugh. “Isn't saying blast like saying the F word in England?” “What? No! Bugger, blast and bloody are fairly tame . . . like damn.” “And bollocks? That sounds downright profane.” It really didn't, but I found I was enjoying myself. “Soon you'll be saying fiddlesticks! I don't think Principal Beckstead would approve.” “My keys are in the ignition,” Wilson groaned, ignoring me. He straightened and looked down at me soberly. “We're walking, Blue, unless you're willing to admit you have certain skills . . . breaking and entering, perhaps?” “I don't need skills to break and enter. I just need tools – and I don't have any of them on me,” I retorted flatly. “We could shove your big violin through your car window, though.” “Always a smartarse,” Wilson turned and began walking toward the road. “I live about four miles away in that direction,” I offered, hobbling along after him. “Oh, good. I live six. That means for at least two miles, I will not have to listen to you snipe at me,” Wilson grumbled. I burst out laughing. He really was cranky
Amy Harmon (A Different Blue)
Men all alone, completely alone with horrible monstrosities, will run through the streets, pass heavily in front of me, their eyes staring, fleeing their ills yet carrying with them, open-mouthed, with their insect-tongue flapping its wings. Then I'll burst out laughing even though my body may be covered with filthy, infected scabs which blossom into flowers of flesh, violets, buttercups.
Jean-Paul Sartre (La náusea)
He took complete command. With the length of his body pressed against me, his erection pushing firmly at my pelvis, his lips molded mine. He sucked alternately on my bottom lip and then my top, leaving no part of my mouth untouched or untasted. When this wasn’t enough, he let go of one of my hands and grabbed a fistful of my hair in its place. Then he yanked my head back, opening my mouth wider. I let out a cry that he lapped up with a long swipe of his tongue. I’d remembered this about him. I’d remembered that he’d been a kisser, and there was something validating about having the memory confirmed. Something surreal about living again a time that had only been lived through recollection for so long. Experiencing it for real with all of my senses fully engaged already had me wild. And I needed more.
Laurelin Paige (Dirty Filthy Rich Men (Dirty Duet, #1))
I’m yours. Fuck me, Cole,” she murmurs. Fuck. I thrust in, and her gasp meets my moan in a blissful explosion of lust. Like animals, we fuck against the wall, kissing and bouncing up and down. She rides me like an expert while sweat drips down my forehead, and her pussy is wetter than anything I’ve ever felt before. We were made for each other, her and me, like lightning and thunder in the night sky. And I can’t fucking stop loving her. Our mouths entangle in a furious battle while we fuck like madmen high on lust. Her body quakes with need as goose bumps scatter on her skin. My cock pulses inside her, and I’m slamming into her so hard I can barely fucking keep it together. I move away from the wall and carry her to the table in the back of the room where I put her down and swipe everything off it. She lies down, and I fuck her against the table like a savage, my hands grasping at her waist and tits. I’m delirious with need, completely consumed by my own desire. I lean over to kiss her on the neck, drawing a line all the way down to her nipples, which peak from the attention I lavishly dish out. And when I lean up to slam into her fully, her eyes almost roll into the back of her head. A filthy smile spreads on my lips, knowing it was me who made her feel this way. After all this waiting, all this fighting, all this tugging and pulling, she is finally mine.
Clarissa Wild (Rowdy Boy: A High School Bully Romance (Black Mountain Academy))
He’s right there. In two paces I could have him in my mouth. It’s like Jamie Canning looked into my filthy mind and extracted my fantasies. Well, the opening reel, anyway. He doesn’t turn his head to look at me, because he doesn’t have to. We both know where my attention lies. He squeezes his shaft once. Twice. Then he opens his hand, letting the fingers drift down. He cups his balls, his thumb skimming the delicate skin. I hear a hot gasp, and realize it’s come from me. Then? The fucker smiles.
Sarina Bowen (Him (Him, #1))
Every muscle in his body tensed for action, adrenalin pounding through his tiny veins, he crept down the stairs, keeping to the corners (where he knew they creaked less). He peered around the bottom of the stairwell into the living room, and there he saw a lean, bearded man, clad only in a loincloth and a crown of thorns. When he bent over the Xmas tree, Tony saw that blood flowed freely from his bare hands and feet. Before the cherubic prepubescent could stop himself, the words flew out of his mouth: “You’re not Santa!
Phillip Andrew Bennett Low (Get Thee Behind Me, Santa: An Inexcusably Filthy Children's Time-Travel Farce for Adults Only)
He was, he realized, comforted by her presence. They didn’t need to talk. They didn’t even need to touch (although he wasn’t about to let go just then). Simply put, he was a happier man— and quite possibly a better man— when she was near. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent, smelling . . . Smelling . . . He drew back. “Would you care for a bath?” Her face turned an instant scarlet. “Oh, no,” she moaned, the words muffled into the hand she’d clapped over her mouth. “It was so filthy in jail, and I was forced to sleep on the ground, and—” “Don’t tell me any more,” he said. “But—” “Please.” If he heard more he might have to kill someone. As long as there had been no permanent damage, he didn’t want to know the details. “I think,” he said, the first hint of a smile tugging at the left corner of his mouth, “that you should take a bath.” “Right.” She nodded as she rose to her feet. “I’ll go straight to your mother’s—” “Here.” “Here?” The smile spread to the right corner of his mouth. “Here.” “But we told your mother—” “That you’d be home by nine.” “I think she said seven.” “Did she? Funny, I heard nine.” “Benedict . . .” He took her hand and pulled her toward the door. “Seven sounds an awful lot like nine.” “Benedict . . .” “Actually, it sounds even more like eleven.” “Benedict!” He deposited her right by the door. “Stay here.” “I beg your pardon?” “Don’t move a muscle,” he said, touching his fingertip to her nose. Sophie watched helplessly as he slipped out into the hall, only to return two minutes later. “Where did you go?” she asked. “To order a bath.” “But—” His eyes grew very, very wicked. “For two.” She gulped. He leaned forward. “They happened to have water heating already.” “They did?” He nodded. “It’ll only take a few minutes to fill the tub.” She glanced toward the front door. “It’s nearly seven.” “But I’m allowed to keep you until twelve.” “Benedict!” He pulled her close. “You want to stay.” “I never said that.” “You don’t have to. If you really disagreed with me, you’d have something more to say than, ‘Benedict’!” She had to smile; he did that good an imitation of her voice. His mouth curved into a devilish grin. “Am I wrong?” She looked away, but she knew her lips were twitching. “I thought not,” he murmured.
Julia Quinn (An Offer From a Gentleman (Bridgertons, #3))
Get off your horse, Jack." "Why don't you just ride outta here, missy, and I'll forget this ever happened." Willow's voice trembled with fury. "Get off your horse," she repeated. "Slow and easy." Still grinning his contempt, he did as he asked. "That's good. Now, real slow like, take your gunbelt off and toss it my way." "Like hell!" A shot rang out and nicked a chunk of leather from his boot. Cursing, he unbuckled his gun and tossed it at her mare's feet. "Now,strip them britches off, underwear, too," she ordered. "You little shi-" Bang! Jack's hat whizzed off his head. He dropped his pants in a puddle over his boots, trying his best to shelter his privates from her view. "My,my,Jack." Willow laughed humorlessly. "Is that puny thing you're trying to hide the same thing you were threatening me with?" If looks could kill, Willow would have been dead and buried ten times over, then and there. "Take them confounded boots off so's you can get your pants clear off," she ordered in mock exasperation. He wheeled around, gaining a modicum of privacy while he complied. "You're puny all over, Jack. You got the boniest bee-hind I ever did see. You sure you ain't picked up a worm somewheres?" "You're gonna pay for this,you little slut!" "Shut your filthy mouth and pick them pants off the ground and toss 'em over here at my horse's feet. Then you can put your boots back on." He gave the pants a toss, put his boots on, and turned around to face her, cuping his privates in his hands. "Okay,Jack, finish the job. You've been real generous but I'm a greedy cuss. Give me the shirt off your back, too." Cursing, he again turned around and obeyed. "Oh,ah,Jack, you better reach behind you there,and get your hat. I'll let you keep it. We wouldn't want your bald spot to get sunburned." Scofield now stood in nothing but his boots, using his hat to shield his lower half. Humiliated, the gunslinger's eyes burned with bloody intent. Willow suddenly regretted her damnable quick temper and realized the folly of her reckless retaliation. No doubt,the heinous man would seek revenge. But the damage was done and the man was so mad that backing off now would be the same as signing her death warrant. "Step away from your horse and start walking toward the ranch, Scofield." "You're out of your mind!" "Maybe,but I bet you'll think twice before threatening to poke that puny thing at another lady." "You? A lady? Ha!" Willow's temper flared anew. "Walk, Jack. Real fast. Cuz if you don't, I'm gonna use your puny thing for target practice." Her bullet kicked up the dust at his feet and started him on his way.
Charlotte McPherren (Song of the Willow)
Efren’s mouth was busily chattering away, his body animated as though narrating some fascinating storybook adventure. The Braetic’s eyes were glued on the Viidun, sparked with interest. “Betcha a meal Ef gets that necklace for the same purse of worthless coins Kira tried to trade,” Eena heard Kode whisper to his girlfriend. “Betcha he pays up far more than that,” Niki whispered back. “No way. He’s got the idiot eating out of his hands. Ef’s a freakin’ master!” Right on cue came the predictable slap to the head. “Ouch!” Then the cursing. Followed by another smack. “Sadistic witch!” “Filthy bonehead.” A minute of pouting silence ensued. “So you gonna bet me or what?” “Yeah, I’ll take a free meal from you any day.” “You’re on, Niki. Ef’s not givin’ up nothin’. He’ll have that necklace for the purse, if not for free.” “You’re a fool if you believe that. That oversized, lovesick warrior’ll be givin’ up the shirt on his back for Kira’s necklace. You don’t understand Braetics, nor the powerful influence of true love.” Eena could see Kode’s eyes roll to the back of his head. They all watched, wondering who would be right.
Richelle E. Goodrich (Eena, The Tempter's Snare (The Harrowbethian Saga #5))
I don't have a care what you want, you horrid little insect," she hissed through her smile. "The Crown chose you. You are Queen of Fairyland. It's about as appetizing to myself personally as a pie full of filthy, crawling worms, but it's a fact. You can pull and pry and blubber, but that Crown won't come off until you're dead or deposed. I could cut you down in a heart's-breadth, but the rest of these ruffians would have my head. They take regicide terribly personally. Make no mistake; this present predicament is entirely your fault, you and your wretched Dodo's Egg. You will want my help to sort it limb from limb. You are a stranger in Fairyland—oh, it's charming how many little vacations you take here! But this is not your home. You don't know these people from a beef supper. But I do. I recognize each and every one. And if you show them that you are a vicious little fool with no more head on her shoulders than a drunken ostrich, they will gobble you up and dab their mouths with that thing you call a dress. You may not like me, but I have survived far more towering acts of mythic stupidity than you. I am good. I know what power weighs. If you have any wisdom in your silly monkey head, from this moment until the end of your reign—which I do hope will come quickly—you and I shall become the very best of friends. After all, Queen September, a Prime Minister lives to serve.
Catherynne M. Valente (The Girl Who Raced Fairyland All the Way Home (Fairyland, #5))
I’ll find out who’s inside. Wait here and keep alert!’ Hallam rasped. He skirted the main path to skulk towards one of the shuttered windows on the building’s eastern wall. There was a crack in the wood and he gently inched closer to peer inside. There was a hearth-fire with a pot bubbling away and a battered table made of a length of wood over two pieces of cut timber. A small ham hung from the rafters, away from the rats and mice. He couldn’t see anyone but there was a murmur of voices. Hallam leaned in even closer and a young boy with hair the colour of straw saw the movement to stare. It was Little Jim. Thank God, the child was safe. Snot hung from his nose and he was pale. Hallam put a finger to his lips, but the boy, not even four, did not understand, and just gaped innocently back. Movement near the window. A man wearing a blue jacket took up a stone bottle and wiped his long flowing moustache afterwards. His hair was shoulder-length, falling unruly over the red collar of his jacket. Tied around his neck was a filthy red neckerchief. A woman moaned and the man grinned with tobacco stained teeth at the sound. Laughter and French voices. The woman whimpered and Little Jim turned to watch unseen figures. His eyes glistened and his bottom lip dropped. The woman began to plead and Hallam instinctively growled. The Frenchman, hearing the noise, pushed the shutter open and the pistol’s cold muzzle pressed against his forehead. Hallam watched the man’s eyes narrow and then widen, before his mouth opened. Whatever he intended to shout was never heard, because the ball smashed through his skull to erupt in a bloody spray as it exited the back of the Frenchman’s head. There was a brief moment of silence. ‘28th!’ Hallam shouted, as he stepped back against the wall. ‘Make ready!
David Cook (Blood on the Snow (The Soldier Chronicles, #3))
I closed my eyes, feeling sleep steal over me; but the pleasant lassitude fled when the tent flap opened again, this time pulled by a rough hand. Cold air swirled in. I blinked up at a burly helmeted soldier. He held the tent flap aside for a much lighter-boned man, who walked in wearing an anonymous black cloak. The guard let the flap fall, and I heard the gravel crunch under his boots as he took up position outside the tent. The new arrival sank down onto the camp stool the healer had used, but he didn’t say anything, so for a short time we studied one another’s faces in the dim light. Large gray eyes surveyed me from my filthy scalp to my bandaged leg. I could read nothing in the man’s face beyond that leisurely assessment, so I just stared back, trying to gather my wits as I catalogued his features: a straight nose, the chiseled bones of someone at least Bran’s age, a long mouth with the deep corners of someone on the verge of a laugh. All this framed by long pale blond hair tied simply back, under a broad-brimmed but undecorated black hat. His rank was impossible to guess, but his job wasn’t--he had to be an interrogator. So I braced myself for interrogation. And watched his eyes register this fact, and those mouth corners deepen for just a moment. Then his face blanked again, his gaze resting on mine with mild interest as he said, “What is your name?” It took a moment for the words to register--for me to realize he did not know who I was! His eyes narrowed; he had seen my reaction, then--and I stirred, which effectively turned my surprise into a wince of pain. “Name?” he said again. His voice was vaguely familiar, but the vagueness remained when I tried to identify it. “I am very much afraid,” he said presently, “that your probable future is not the kind to excite general envy, but I promise I can make it much easier if you cooperate.” “Eat mud,” I croaked. He smiled slightly, both mouth and eyes. The reaction of angerless humor was unexpected, but before I could try to assess it, he said, “You’ll have to permit me to be more explicit. If you do not willingly discourse with me, I expect the King will send some of his experts, who will exert themselves to get the information we require, with your cooperation or without it.” He leaned one hand across his knee, watching still with that air of mild interest--as if he had all the time in the world. His hand was long fingered, slim in form; he might have been taken for some minor Court scribe except for the callused palm of one who has trained all his life with the sword. The import of his words hit me then, and with them came more fear--and more anger. “What is it you want to know?” I asked. His eyes narrowed slightly. “Where the Astiars’ camp lies, and their immediate plans, will do for a start.” “Their camp lies in their land…on which you are the trespasser…and their plans are to…rid the kingdom of…a rotten tyrant.” It took effort to get that out. But I was reasonably proud of my nasty tone. His brows lifted. They were long and winged, which contributed to that air of faint question. “Well,” he said, laying his hands flat on his knees for a moment, then he swung to his feet with leisurely grace. “We have a fire-eater on our hands, I see. But then one doesn’t expect to find abject cowardice in spies.” He stepped toward the flap, then paused and said over his shoulder, “You should probably rest while you can. I fear you have an unpleasant set of interviews ahead of you.” With that he lifted the flap and went out. Leaving me to some very bleak thoughts.
Sherwood Smith (Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1))
Last Thoughts On Woody Guthrie When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb When you think you're too old, too young, too smart or too dumb When yer laggin' behind an' losin' yer pace In a slow-motion crawl of life's busy race No matter what yer doing if you start givin' up If the wine don't come to the top of yer cup If the wind's got you sideways with with one hand holdin' on And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it And the wood's easy findin' but yer lazy to fetch it And yer sidewalk starts curlin' and the street gets too long And you start walkin' backwards though you know its wrong And lonesome comes up as down goes the day And tomorrow's mornin' seems so far away And you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin' And yer rope is a-slidin' 'cause yer hands are a-drippin' And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipe's a-pourin' And the lightnin's a-flashing and the thunder's a-crashin' And the windows are rattlin' and breakin' and the roof tops a-shakin' And yer whole world's a-slammin' and bangin' And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm And to yourself you sometimes say "I never knew it was gonna be this way Why didn't they tell me the day I was born" And you start gettin' chills and yer jumping from sweat And you're lookin' for somethin' you ain't quite found yet And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air And the whole world's a-watchin' with a window peek stare And yer good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flying And yer heart feels sick like fish when they're fryin' And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feet And you need it badly but it lays on the street And yer bell's bangin' loudly but you can't hear its beat And you think yer ears might a been hurt Or yer eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blindin' dirt And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush When you were faked out an' fooled white facing a four flush And all the time you were holdin' three queens And it's makin you mad, it's makin' you mean Like in the middle of Life magazine Bouncin' around a pinball machine And there's something on yer mind you wanna be saying That somebody someplace oughta be hearin' But it's trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer head And it bothers you badly when your layin' in bed And no matter how you try you just can't say it And yer scared to yer soul you just might forget it And yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer head And yer pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead And the lion's mouth opens and yer staring at his teeth And his jaws start closin with you underneath And yer flat on your belly with yer hands tied behind And you wish you'd never taken that last detour sign And you say to yourself just what am I doin' On this road I'm walkin', on this trail I'm turnin' On this curve I'm hanging On this pathway I'm strolling, in the space I'm taking In this air I'm inhaling Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard Why am I walking, where am I running What am I saying, what am I knowing On this guitar I'm playing, on this banjo I'm frailin' On this mandolin I'm strummin', in the song I'm singin' In the tune I'm hummin', in the words I'm writin' In the words that I'm thinkin' In this ocean of hours I'm all the time drinkin' Who am I helping, what am I breaking What am I giving, what am I taking But you try with your whole soul best Never to think these thoughts and never to let Them kind of thoughts gain ground Or make yer heart pound ...
Bob Dylan
I’m Clara Lord. I own Bloodline’s Tattoo Parlor, have a filthy mouth, no filter, and a really strong
K. Larsen (Tug of War (Bloodlines, #1))
Ichimei's fingers, capable of returning a dying plant to life or repairing a watch without looking, revealed to Alma her own rebellious, hungry nature. She enjoyed shocking him, challenging him, seeing him blush with embarrassment and delight. She was daring, he was restrained; she was noisy during her orgasms, he covered her mouth. She dreamed up a rosary of romantic, passionate, flattering, and filthy phrases to whisper in his ear or write to him in urgent missives; he maintained the reserve typical of his character and culture.
Isabel Allende (The Japanese Lover)
You rotten son of a bitch what are you doing in here off your filthy beat?” “Don’t be insulting just because you want to act like an eccentric.” “Take your dirty camping mouth out of here.
Ernest Hemingway (A Moveable Feast)
I nodded, feeling desperate, achy, needier than I’d ever been.  His filthy Russian mouth had me squirming on the bed, doing whatever he said before it even finished coming out of his lips.
Danika Dare (Mr. Bossy)
How can you look this polished and have such a filthy mouth?” I manage, even though my head is still spinning dizzily at his words. Barrett releases a deep laugh that rumbles up his chest. “You like my filthy mouth, Charlotte... especially when you're sitting on it.” Fuck. “My careful diction turns you on. Remember?” His words send another wave of pure, unadulterated lust throughout my body. I wish I could say he was lying, but he's not. His filthy mouth is my undoing.
Scarlett Avery (You're All I Think About (British Romance Trilogy #3))
stay the hell away from sick people, and watch out for kids. Kids are the germiest, nastiest, cesspool petri-dishes of viral outbreak potential and almost everyone has them or knows someone who has them. Just watch kids for a short while and see what they do. They don’t wash their filthy little hands, they put crazy things in their mouths all the time, and they touch and drool and sneeze and spit on everything.
Van Allen (Zombie Outbreak Survival: Get It Right or Die)
I pulled his hand from his eyes, and mouthed, “What the hell?” “Play along,” he mouthed back. “Please.” There was no teasing glimmer in his eyes. They pleaded with me so desperately that I felt a chill in my gut. I went to turn off the water. He grabbed my arm and shook his head. Then he moved me closer to the shower, leaned in and whispered, “Ask me to join you.” “What?” He clapped a hand over my mouth and whispered, “Trust me. Please.” I remembered Sam saying she’d stayed behind to make sure her phone call didn’t bring someone running. What if it had? What if they’d come while we were gone and cut a deal with her? Or snuck in and planted bugs, and were just waiting for the right time to nab us? I cleared my throat. “Better not stick around or I might ask you to join me.” Rafe chuckled. “If I thought you were serious, I’d take you up on that. I was just coming in to do a better job washing up. There wasn’t any water at your place and my cuts and scrapes are filthy. Guess it’ll have to wait.
Kelley Armstrong (The Calling (Darkness Rising, #2))
Judging from what I've seen so far He's filthy rich with a filthy mouth And even filthier morals
J.C. Reed (Beautiful Distraction)
MY CONFESSION FOR TODAY I will choose to guard my mind today. I will guard it from vile and filthy thoughts, and choose instead to think on God’s beauty, splendor and glory. I was made for God. I was made to encounter and glorify Him through my thoughts. I will set my mind on things above today, seeking to have the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be pleasing to Him. I pray this in Jesus’ name. Amen.
Havilah Cunnington (The Good Stuff: A Guidebook to Finishing Strong)
Kitty, I am sorry if I misled you but..." "Oh, shut up." She rolled her eyes and slid next to him placing her mouth on his ear. Evan groaned as he felt her fingers on the tent at his pants. The scent of her skin hit his nostrils like sweet, exotic perfume and right then he longed to bury his head in her shoulder, to eat her out and make her cum before he fucked her ass. "I know what you need and all those filthy things you crave to do with her. Punish her, claim her as really yours, fuck her till she screams, make her beg on her hands and knees.
Lilah E. Noir (Stroker Ace)
I want to hear all the filthy things you want me to do to you from that pretty little mouth of yours.
Dani Wyatt (Hot for Teacher Anthology: 19 Stories Filled with Lust and Love)
You’re terrified that my father will hear that you’ve taken me prisoner. No Spartan woman marries a coward!” “Watch your tongue,” Theseus growled, his hands clenched. If he hit me, I’d hit him back, no matter how bad a beating I got for it. I would not surrender. “Or what? Will you kill me? Go ahead and try. If you succeed, you lose what you really want to gain from this marriage. If I die, I take the Spartan crown with me into Hades’ kingdom. Better that than let you get your filthy hands on it!” He took a step forward. I held my ground, shifting my weight just a bit and grabbing hold of my skirt. I’d changed my mind. If he gave the slightest sign that he intended to strike me, I wouldn’t wait for the blow to land. I’d jerk up the hem of my gown and kick him so hard that--! Suddenly the hall rang with Theseus’s laughter. He held his sides, threw back his head, and brayed. “Ah, Lady Helen, the gods have been more than good to you. The three Graces gave you a face to outshine the sun, then filled your lovely mouth with these bursts of comical nonsense. We should be grateful to them. It’s all that keeps us poor mortal men from mistaking you for a goddess.” He turned his back on me and returned to his throne. From there he proclaimed, “As a reward for amusing me so well, I’m going to give the lady Helen her own lodging in the palace and her very own attendant to be responsible for her every wish, her every whim, and above all, her every movement. Now who deserves such a prize?” His eyes closed and a mean smile twisted his lips. “Telys.
Esther M. Friesner (Nobody's Prize (Nobody's Princess, #2))
What about Devon? Kathleen was maddened with worry. She tried to look into the carriage, but she couldn’t see anything with the doctor and footman blocking the way. “Dr. Weeks--” “In a moment, my lady.” “Yes, but--” She fell back a step as a large, dark, shape clambered from the carriage. It was Devon, ragged and nearly unrecognizable. He had heard her voice. “Lord Trenear,” came the doctor’s terse command, “do not exert yourself. I will see to you as soon as I assist your friend.” Devon ignored him, staggering as his feet reached the ground. He clutched the edge of the door opening to keep from falling. He was filthy and battered from head to toe, his shirt wet and bloodstained. But as Kathleen looked over him frantically, she saw with relief there were no missing limbs, no gaping wounds. He was in one piece. His disoriented gaze found hers in a blaze of unholy blue, and his lips shaped her name. Kathleen reached him in two strides, and he seized her roughly. One hand clutched the mass of coiled braids at the back of her head in a grip that hurt. A quiet groan vibrated in his throat, and he ground his mouth over hers in a punishing kiss, heedless of anyone who saw them. His body shuddered, his balance ramshackle, and she stiffened her legs to support him. “You shouldn’t be standing,” she said unsteadily. “Let me help you--we’ll sit on the ground--Devon, please--” But he wasn’t listening at all. With a primitive, impassioned grunt, he turned and pushed her against the side of the carriage and kissed her again. Even hurt and exhausted, he was unbelievably strong. His mouth took hers with bruising force, stopping only when he had to gasp for air.
Lisa Kleypas (Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels, #1))
Michael expected us to work like adults, but he also engineered horseplay in between shots. On rare occasion, he even wasted film. One blazing hot day in the Valley, I said my line, and when he turned to answer, he opened his mouth and a live bullfrog jumped out. This was no prop or product of Hollywood special effects. It was a filthy toad he’d found on the ground in between takes. I screamed in terror, no doubt only slightly less afraid than the poor frog who thought he’d turned into Michael’s lunch.
Melissa Francis (Diary of a Stage Mother's Daughter: A Memoir)
[S]omeone might be sleeping in his comfortable bed, in his quiet, warm room, and wake up naked on a bluish earth, in a forest of rustling birch trees, rising red and white towards the sky like the smokestacks of Jouxtebouville, with big bumps half-way out of the ground, hairy and bulbous like onions. And birds will fly around these birch trees and pick at them with their beaks and make them bleed. Sperm will flow slowly, gently, from these wounds, sperm mixed with blood, warm and glassy with little bubbles. Or else nothing like that will happen, there will be no appreciable change, but one morning people will open their blinds and be surprised by a sort of frightful sixth sense, brooding heavily over things and seeming to pause. Nothing more than that: but for the little time it lasts, there will be hundreds of suicides. Yes! Let it change just a little, just to see, I don’t ask for anything better. Then you will see other people, suddenly plunged into solitude. Men all alone, completely alone with horrible monstrosities, will run through the streets, pass heavily in front of me, their eyes staring, fleeing their ills yet carrying them with them, open-mouthed, with their insect-tongue flapping its wings. Then I’ll burst out laughing even though my body may be covered with filthy, infected scabs which blossom into flowers of flesh, violets, buttercups. I’ll lean against a wall and when they go by I’ll shout: “What’s the matter with your science? What have you done with your humanism? Where is your dignity?” I will not be afraid—or at least no more than now. Will it not still be existence, variations on existence? All these eyes which will slowly devour a face—they will undoubtedly be too much, but no more so than the first two, Existence is what I am afraid of.
Jean-Paul Sartre (Nausea)
You know those aren’t bluebirds.” He shrugged running his fingers through her hair. “What are they then?” “They’re swallows.” Her contagious laughter swept any last fear of loneliness into the air. “That would make for an interesting nickname, wouldn’t it?” She shifted between his legs running a slow hand over his clothed erection. Her tone suddenly dripped with a filthy timbre. “Maybe.” “Jo…” He feigned a warning in spite of the painful hard-on. She slipped his boxers off and tossed them on the floor. His cock jutted to his navel and she moved it, then lowered her mouth and kissed it once, twice. “Let’s see if the name suits the owner.” Her lips sheathed him in a slow, agonizing descent.
Nicky F. Grant (Beyond the Truth (Beyond Surrender, #2))
Holy shit, there's a decapitated cat in my bed, there's blood all over the place. What the fuck do you want? Excuse you, mind your language. Do you talk to your whore of a mother with a filthy mouth like that? The cat is a delicate reminder, is all.
Et Imperatrix Noctem
Such a charge is worthy of a philosopher, to allow no dirt on oneself, to tolerate no filthiness or stink on any part of the exposed body, especially around the mouth, which man uses so frequently and in plain view, whether giving a kiss, or holding discourse, speaking in public, or praying in a temple. In fact, all men’s actions are preceded by words, which, as the supreme poet [Homer] says, pass through the wall of our teeth. Now imagine someone with such a high command of language: in his own words he’d say along with the most authoritative men that those who take care in their speech must protect their mouths above all other parts of the body, since the mouth is the antechamber of the soul, the doorway to speech, and a gathering place for thoughts. I for my own part can say with certainty that there’s nothing less seemly for a freeborn and free-minded man than an unclean mouth. Indeed, the mouth occupies a high position on the human body, is the first thing one sees, and is a vehicle for eloquence. You’ll notice that the mouths of wild beasts and animals are positioned low and face the ground, down by their hooves, among grass and footprints, never to be seen except at death or when they’re driven to bite. With a silent man, however, it’s the first thing you notice, and there’s nothing you notice more when he starts to speak.
Nicola Gardini (Long Live Latin: The Pleasures of a Useless Language)
I had to watch my uncle get strung up when I was a child,” she finally said after she returned from the faraway place in her mind. “The white man would only sell us the rotten fruit and vegetables from their bug-infested baskets. We had to collect that mess from the back of the store like we were a pack of wild mutts picking through garbage. My uncle had had enough of his apples having maggots crawling out of them, so he started farming his own vegetables for us to eat. The white man didn’t like that. Not. One. Bit. It’s amazing how their minds work. The way their minds work is the reason we call them devils because only a devil could think the way they do. They were mad about the loss of profit because they no longer had us buying the filthy rot they peddled. “My uncle produced such a high quality of fruits and vegetables that he had white folks coming to buy from him. It wasn’t too long after this started, those devils came in their white hoods and burned his garden to ash. Then they strung him up. We were forced to watch my uncle dangle from the neck while he pissed and shit himself. God will forgive my mouth saying it because he knows I only speak the truth. The evilness that resides inside the mind of those devils still exists in the minds of the ones who wear cop’s uniforms and judge’s robes. This is what our boys are up against. Our boys are at war! They freed us from our chains, so that they could lock us in their jails.
D.E. Eliot (Own Son)
But now ye also put off all these; anger, wrath, malice, blasphemy, filthy communication out of your mouth. 9 Lie not one to another, seeing that ye have put off the old man with his deeds; 10
Zeiset (The Holy Bible - King James Version (KJV))
He moves his palm to her cheek, slowly and unsurely, like the boy that he still is even though he’s more of a man than anyone else she knows, and she gets hot across her whole face. She sees a thousand images the way it’s supposed to be when you die and not for your first kiss. She sees her mother at the foot of the stairs calling her lazy and she sees her father walking out the door, he keeps walking out the door and the door keeps closing behind him and her mother is saying, Lina clean up your filthy mess, Lina what are you going on about, Lina where are you up there, are you still in the damn bathroom, and she sees her sisters narrowing their eyes at her and she sees her pet rabbit that died in the night and in the morning her mother made her scoop it out and she wanted to bury it but she sees the trash bag with the twisty ties, and she sees her father walking out the door and then all of a sudden this beautiful man’s lips are on her lips, she feels his tongue slip inside her mouth and it’s something she’s only imagined and read about in a book she and a friend shared called How to Kiss which talked about tongues moving around like goldfish, but her tongue and his tongue are not like goldfish, they are not tongues at all but actual souls, moving against the wet bone of teeth. Lina feels that she could die right now, that if she did her life would be complete.
Lisa Taddeo (Three Women)
I own you. I own your filthy mouth. I own your dirty mind. When you get wet thinking about fucking, it’s mine. Every drop from you. I own your every thought. You are my property.
COL3.5 Mortify therefore your members which are upon the earth; fornication, uncleanness, inordinate affection, evil concupiscence, and covetousness, which is idolatry:  COL3.6 For which things’ sake the wrath of God cometh on the children of disobedience:  COL3.7 In the which ye also walked some time, when ye lived in them. COL3.8 But now ye also put off all these; anger, wrath, malice, blasphemy, filthy communication out of your mouth. COL3.9 Lie not one to another, seeing that ye have put off the old man with his deeds;  COL3.10 And have put on the new man, which is renewed in knowledge after the image of him that created him:  COL3.11 Where there is neither Greek nor Jew, circumcision nor uncircumcision, Barbarian, Scythian, bond nor free: but Christ is all, and in all.
Anonymous (King James Bible Touch)
cigarette, flipped it on the table, and began on another. “Just like this.” That was when Mama finished her soup with a clank, suppressed a cardboard burp, and answered for him. “That Saukerl,” she said. “You know what he did? He rolled up all of his filthy cigarettes, went to the market when it was in town, and traded them with some gypsy.” “Eight cigarettes per book.” Papa shoved one to his mouth, in triumph. He lit up and took in the smoke. “Praise the Lord for cigarettes, huh, Mama?” Mama only handed him one of her trademark looks of disgust, followed by the most common ration of her vocabulary. “Saukerl.” Liesel swapped a customary wink with her papa and finished eating her soup. As always, one of her books was next to her. She could not deny that the answer to her
Markus Zusak (The Book Thief)
Daydream Jethro crept closer, working his cock, a dangerous glint in his eyes. The moment I was within grabbing distance, he captured my waist. “I need to be inside you, Nila.” I put words into Jethro’s mouth, but it was his voice I heard in my heart. I moaned again, angling the showerhead harder against my clit. “How do you want it?” my fantasy whispered in my ear as he spun me around and pressed me hard against the wall. I swallowed hard, answering in my mind. “Fast and…” “Filthy?” Daydream Jethro’s nose nuzzled the back of my ear, sending shockwaves down my spine. “I can fuck you filthy.” I couldn’t speak. But I didn’t have to. My fantasy knew exactly how I needed it. Jethro bit the back of my shoulder, spreading my legs wider with his. “Fuck me, Jethro Hawk,” I whispered. “Oh, I will. Believe me, I will.” Without further warning, he dug his fingers into my hips and slammed inside me. My fingers went numb as I slid the showerhead from clit to entrance. I cried out as water shot inside at the same time as Jethro thrust into me from behind, sliding deep and fast, stretching me deliciously painfully. My heart exploded with bliss. An orgasm squeezed every atom, getting ready to hurl me into the stratosphere. Jethro thrust again and I rode my new friend the showerhead. “Oh, God. Yes,” I hissed, rocking harder. “Yes, yes…” A masculine cough sounded. “You continue to surprise me, Ms. Weaver; at least this time, I rather enjoy it.
Pepper Winters (Second Debt (Indebted, #3))
but I was determined to drive him crazy. And not with laughter. Instead, I employed a few of the tricks I knew would work on him too. I dragged my breasts over his thighs as I licked the underside of his shaft. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away from me. I shuttled my fingers down his length and licked along the pulsing vein. He was salty and hot, his skin stretched taut as his cock rose proudly. I would have that inside me again. My pussy spasmed at the thought. Every time he filled me, it reminded me what I’d been missing. My mouth watered for it, my pussy was soaked for him. I’d been so long without I was like a chocoholic being let free in a Hershey’s factory.
Taryn Quinn (Filthy Scrooge)
He dragged my head back and went at my neck as I arched to get away from the sheer emotional onslaught that chased all the pleasure. A quick fuck and run wasn’t supposed to feel like this. I wasn’t sure anything was supposed to feel like this so fast. I rolled my hips against him, and the contact drove me faster toward the pleasure that still scared the hell out of me. Letting go was against my very nature. “Stop fucking thinking.” His mouth was against mine, the words like blows. “Just feel me.” Everything inside me warned against it, but for once, my brain couldn’t override my body. I came so hard the room fuzzed around me. There was only the pulse of his body inside mine, and his eyes. Those intense, shattered eyes that saw too much. Demanded all. And I gave it. God help me, I gave up everything to him.
Taryn Quinn (Filthy Scrooge)
Pausing for a breath, he uses his hand to keep Patrick right up at the edge before shoving Patrick’s cock back in his mouth, lapping at the leaking head and sucking deep into his throat. Patrick growls, his deep voice vibrating in the back of Will’s head like an urgent, needy buzz, and humps his mouth in frustration. “Stop teasing.” Will hums and taps Patrick’s squeezing hole in rhythm to his slurps. He’s happy with Patrick’s cock in his mouth, but the low hum that starts in his veins, an emptiness he recognizes as his blood sugar dropping, means he needs to have dinner soon. So he stops teasing and reaches for the open bottle of juice on the coffee table. He takes a few swigs, and then starts sucking just the way Patrick likes best: pulling his entire shaft in, then sliding up with a long, wet drag before diving down again. “Puddin’-pop,” Patrick grits out. “Yeah, yeah—like that.” A spurt of liquid hits his tongue, and Will pulls back to lick at the slit. Patrick’s cock thrums against his palm, rigid and throbbing. “Tastes good,” Will murmurs and then swoops down again. “Ungh,” Patrick grunts, tugging Will’s hair. “Get me off.” Will hollows his cheeks, sucks back up, and uses his hand to jerk the base of Patrick’s cock as he works. “Yes, yeah.” Patrick arches his hips up and his stomach tenses as he clenches Will’s hair in his fists. “Suck it.” Will slurps hard and steady while Patrick whispers filthy things and struggles to get there or hold back, thighs clenching and stomach quivering. “Gonna come,” Patrick groans. Will gets ready to swallow, and Patrick’s thighs jump and his asshole pulses against Will’s finger. “Fuck!” Patrick curls up, his hips bucking, and his cock shoves deep into Will’s throat. Choking, tangy spurts of come fill Will’s mouth, but he swallows all of it down while Patrick shakes and curses, tugging hard against Will’s hair. “Stop, stop,” Patrick whines, holding Will down on his dick despite his words. “Too much. Stop.” Will lets Patrick’s cock twitch in his mouth until Patrick loosens his grip, and then he pulls off with a wet, sweet slurp. Patrick falls back to the sofa, panting and rolling his head limply back and forth. Sweat shines on his forehead and in the notch at the base of his neck. He’s trembling all over, and Will beams up at him, his own cock throbbing against the placket of his jeans. “Good?” “A+ cock sucking,” Patrick whimpers. “Wins all the awards.” “I know.” “Mmm.” Will
Leta Blake (Will & Patrick Meet the Mob (Wake Up Married, #5))
When the gods had defeated the Giants, Ge, whose anger was all the greater, had intercourse with Tartaros and gave birth to Typhon in Cilicia. He was part man and part beast, and in both size and strength he surpassed all other children of Ge. Down to his thighs he was human in form, but of such immense size that he rose higher than all the mountains and often even scraped the stars with his head. With arms outstretched, he could reach the west on one side and the east on the other; and from his arms there sprang a hundred dragons' heads. Below his thighs, he had massive coils of vipers, which, when they were fully extended, reached right up to his head and emitted violent hisses. He had wings all over his body, and filthy hair springing from his head and cheeks floated around him in the wind, and fire flashed from his eyes. Such was Typhon's appearance and such his size when he launched an attack on heaven itself, hurling flaming rocks at it, hissing and screaming all at once, and gushing mighty streams of fire from his mouth. Seeing him rush against heaven, the gods took flight to Egypt, and when they were pursued by him, transformed themselves into animals. While Typhon was still at a distance, Zeus pelted him with thunderbolts, but as the monster drew close, Zeus struck him with an adamantine sickle, and then chased after him when he fled, until they arrived at Mount Casion, which rises over Syria. And there, seeing that Typhon was severely wounded, he engaged him in hand-to-hand combat.
Apollodorus (The Library of Greek Mythology)
When they reached the river, he turned left. “Tohobt Pah-e-hona, Blue Water River. You call it the Brazos, eh?” He pointed ahead of them. “Pah-gat-su, upstream.” Jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, he said, “Te-naw, downstream. You will listen good, Blue Eyes, and learn. Tosi tivo talk is dirt in my mouth.” His tone set Loretta off balance. Dirt in his mouth? If he hated the whites so much, why on earth had he taken her? Upstream, downstream, she couldn’t remember the words. She didn’t want to. The language of murderers. All she wanted was to be free of the whole filthy lot of them. Another rock jabbed her insole, and she winced, missing a step. He released her elbow and swept her off her feet into his arms. He took her so much by surprise that if she could have screamed, she would have. Their eyes locked, his mocking, hers wide. Though he now bore Loretta’s weight, her position was such that her back was in danger of breaking if she didn’t loop an arm around his neck. He stood there, looking down at her and waiting. Her mouth went dry. She wished he would just toss her over his shoulder again and be done with it. Being carried like a sack of grain wasn’t very dignified, but at least that way she didn’t have to cling to him. That determined glint she was coming to know too well crept into his eyes. He gave her a little toss, not enough to drop her, but enough to give her a start. Instinctively she hooked an arm around his neck. His lips slanted into a satisfied grin, a grin that said as clearly as if he had spoken that he would have the last word, always. He started walking again. The firm cords of muscle that ran down from his neck undulated beneath her fingers, his warm skin as smooth as fine-grained leather. His hair, silken and heavy, brushed against her knuckles. Beneath her wrist she could feel the crusty cut on his shoulder from Aunt Rachel’s bullet. Remembering the wound he had inflicted on his arm last night, she wondered just how many scars he had. Strangely, the longer she was around him, the less she noticed the slash on his cheek. His was the kind of face that suffered imperfections well, features chiseled, skin weathered to a tough, burnished brown, as rugged as the sharp-cut canyons and endless plains from whence he’d sprung.
Catherine Anderson (Comanche Moon (Comanche, #1))
When they reached the river, he turned left. “Tohobt Pah-e-hona, Blue Water River. You call it the Brazos, eh?” He pointed ahead of them. “Pah-gat-su, upstream.” Jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, he said, “Te-naw, downstream. You will listen good, Blue Eyes, and learn. Tosi tivo talk is dirt in my mouth.” His tone set Loretta off balance. Dirt in his mouth? If he hated the whites so much, why on earth had he taken her? Upstream, downstream, she couldn’t remember the words. She didn’t want to. The language of murderers. All she wanted was to be free of the whole filthy lot of them.
Catherine Anderson (Comanche Moon (Comanche, #1))
Their eyes fixed on a filthy home, which stood out like a rotten tooth in a mouth full of broken teeth. The
Brandon Zenner (The After War (The After War, #1))
There lay the Count, but looking as if his youth had been half restored. For the white hair and moustache were changed to dark irongrey. The cheeks were fuller, and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath. The mouth was redder than ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the corners of the mouth and ran down over the chin and neck. Even the deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature were simply gorged with blood. He lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his repletion.
Bram Stoker (Dracula)
See, that’s what I want more of. A little spunk!’ ‘Fuck off!’ I yell, shocking myself with my vulgar language. ‘Ooh, yes, carry on, you filthy-mouthed bitch!’ I gasp and swing around, finding him grinning from ear to ear. ‘Wanker.’ ‘Cow.’ ‘Tosser.’ He grins some more. ‘Dog.’ ‘Shirt-lifter,’ I retort. ‘Tart.’ I recoil, horrified. ‘I am not a tart!
Jodi Ellen Malpas (Promised (One Night, #1))
See, that’s what I want more of. A little spunk!" "Fuck off!" I yell, shocking myself with my vulgar language. "Ooh, yes, carry on, you filthy-mouthed bitch!" I gasp and swing around, finding him grinning from ear to ear. "Wanker." "Cow." "Tosser." He grins some more. "Dog." "Shirt-lifter," I retort. "Tart." I recoil, horrified. "I am not a tart!
Jodi Ellen Malpas (Promised (One Night, #1))
What if something were to happen? What if something suddenly started throbbing? Then they would notice it was there and they'd think their hearts were going to burst. Then what good would their dykes, bulwarks, power houses, furnaces and pile drivers be to them? It can happen any time, perhaps right now: the omens are present. For example, the father of a family might go out for a walk, and, across the street, he'll see something like a red rag, blown towards him by the wind. And when the rag has gotten close to him he'll see that it is a side of rotten meat, grimy with dust, dragging itself along by crawling, skipping, a piece of writhing flesh rolling in the gutter, spasmodically shooting out spurts of blood. Or a mother might look at her child's cheek and ask him: "What's that a pimple?" and see the flesh puff out a little, split, open, and at the bottom of the split an eye, a laughing eye might appear. Or they might feel things gently brushing against their bodies, like the caresses of reeds to swimmers in a river. And they will realize that their clothing has become living things. And someone else might feel something scratching in his mouth. He goes to the mirror, opens his mouth: and his tongue is an enormous, live centipede, rubbing its legs together and scraping his palate. He'd like to spit it out, but the centipede is a part of him and he will have to tear it out with his own hands. And a crowd of things will appear for which people will have to find new name: stone-eye, great three-cornered arm, toe-crutch, spider-jaw. And someone might be sleeping in his comfortable bed, in his quiet, warm room, and wake up naked on a bluish earth, in a forest of rustling birch trees, rising red and white towards the sky like the smokestacks of Jouxtebouville, with big bumps half-way out of the ground, hairy and bulbous like onions. And birds will fly around these birch trees and pick at them with their beaks and make them bleed. Sperm will flow slowly, gently, from these wounds, sperm mixed with blood, warm and glassy with little bubbles. Or else nothing like that will happen, there will be no appreciable change, but one morning people will open their blinds and be surprised by a sort of frightful sixth sense, brooding heavily over things and seeming to pause. Nothing more than that: but for the little time it lasts, there will be hundreds of suicides. Yes! Let it change just a little, just to see, I don't ask for anything better. Then you will see other people, suddenly plunged into solitude. Men all alone, completely alone with horrible monstrosities, will run through the streets, pass heavily in front of me, their eyes staring, fleeing their ills yet carrying them with them, open-mouthed, with their insect-tongue flapping its wings. Then I'll burst out laughing even though my body may be covered with filthy, infected scabs which blossom into flowers of flesh, violets, buttercups. I'll lean against a wall and when they go byI'll shout: "What's the matter with your science? What have you done with your humanism? Where is your dignity?" I will not be afraid or at least no more than now. Will it not still be existence, variations on existence? All these eyes which will slowly devour a face, they will undoubtedly be too much, but no more so than the first two, Existence is what I am afraid of.
Sartre Jean-Paul
And then I saw something which filled my very soul with horror. There lay the Count, but looking as if his youth had been half restored. For the white hair and moustache were changed to dark iron-grey. The cheeks were fuller, and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath. The mouth was redder than ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the corners of the mouth and ran down over the chin and neck. Even the deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature were simply gorged with blood. He lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his repletion.
Bram Stoker (Dracula)
...but she knew that her father's presence at the table with a man who spewed filth from his mouth—did that make it less filthy? No. it condoned.
Harper Lee
There was a horrible, blood-freezing scream somewhere very close. I suddenly recognised it as my own, but I couldn’t stop it. And I looked at the men, the brave and beautiful men beside me, running into the guns, and God help me for thinking it, and God forgive me for saying it, but it was glorious, it was glorious, if glory is a magnificent and raptured exaltation. It was what love would be like, if love was a sin. It was what music would be, if music could kill you. And I climbed a prison wall with every running step. And then, in a world suddenly soundless as the deepest sea, my legs stopped still, and hot, gritty, filthy, exploding earth clogged my eyes and my mouth. Something had hit my legs. Something hard and hot and viciously sharp had hit my legs. I fell forward as if I’d been running in the dark and I’d smashed into a fallen tree trunk. A mortar round. The metal fragments. The shock-deafened silence. The burning skin. The blinding earth. The choking struggle for breath. There was a smell that filled my head. It was the smell of my own death—it smells of blood, and seawater, and damp earth, and the ash of burned wood when you smell your own death before you die—and then I hit the ground so hard that I plunged through it into a deep, undreaming darkness. And the fall was forever. And there was no light, no light.
Gregory David Roberts (Shantaram)
How much for a picture with the girl?” one of the men called, nodding at Lily. Another man whistled and others chortled. Oren stiffened. He tipped up his derby, and his eyebrows narrowed into a scowl. “I’ve got two rules here today, boys.” Lily stifled a smile. She’d heard Oren’s lecture plenty of times. She could only imagine what he’d say if he found out about Jimmy Neil’s attack of the night before. He’d never let her go anywhere by herself again. Oren pulled his corncob pipe out of his mouth and pointed the stem at the men. “One—you keep your filthy hands off Lily, and I’ll keep my hands off your puny chicken necks.” Except for the rhythmic ring of hammer on anvil coming from the crudely built log cabin that served as a shop for the camp blacksmith, silence descended over the clearing. “Two,” Oren continued, “you keep your shifty eyes off Lily, and I’ll keep from blowing a hole through your pea-brain heads.” With that, he toed the rifle, which he always laid on the ground in front of the tripod. She saw no need to tell them Oren had never shot anyone, at least not yet.
Jody Hedlund (Unending Devotion (Michigan Brides, #1))
The church smelled of sage and urine. Beer cans and magazines dotted the concrete floor, filthy from the sand blown through the broken walls, and faded by time. Pike guessed the urine smell was left by animals. The man with the lank hair was standing beside a lean man with the intelligent eyes of a businessman and a mouth cut into a permanent frown. A cordovan briefcase sat on the ground by the door. Pike wondered which owned the briefcase and which was the girl’s father. He positioned himself away from the windows. Bud nodded toward the man with the lank hair. “Joe, this is Conner Barkley. Mr. Barkley, Joe Pike.” Barkley squeezed out an uncomfortable smile.
Robert Crais (The Watchman (Elvis Cole, #11; Joe Pike, #1))
If his face wasn't enough (It is.), you can tell under his suits that his body is fantastic. If his body weren't enough (It definitely, definitely is.), his voice is enough to make your mouth water. In
Penny Wylder (Filthy Boss)
If you don't have anything filthy to say, do something more productive with your mouth.” The
Kit Rocha (Beyond Happily Ever After: Blank Canvas (Beyond, #6.6))
The girl—what the fuck was her name? May, Madeline, Maggie, it all blends together, their names like someone else’s pleasure—made a noise, and I glanced over to her. Smoke bled from her nostrils, the hinge of her parted lips. There was dust floating from her mouth, motes of silver in the filthy air. Her eyes had a rim of frost. Like cataracts. Like she was going blind. She blinked at me once, slow, and soaked in the backwash of Emil’s lighting, she didn’t seem completely real.
Ellen Datlow (Final Cuts: New Tales of Hollywood Horror and Other Spectacles)
It is not about the scientists and teachers and lawyers they become and the things such people accomplish for others. It is not about the immigrants like Chaya who worked and saved and sacrificed to get a decent footing in America. It is not about the wonderful peaceful days and nights you spent growing up in our house. It is not about the lovely friends you always had. No, it’s about Essie and her hammer, and Sidney and his chorus girls, and that shyster of Essie’s and his filthy mouth, and, as best I can see, about what a jerk I was begging them to reach a decent compromise before the whole family had to be dragged up in front of a goyisher judge.” “I didn’t depict you as a jerk.
Philip Roth (The Ghost Writer)
You’re the only one who makes me furious.” A smile stung his mouth. “Good.” He looked far too smug. “I’m the only bastard who gets your wrath.
R. Scarlett (Filthy Gods (American Gods, #0.5))
No shepherds. No nymphs. Maybe just one: the girl the fawn strips like a fisherman’s rose. Death turns its mouth red. It can no longer lie in the lilies. Not on my watch. The lake is filthy with silver fish sticky with leeches. Lovesick, I flick a feather into the water. No stones. Only the one in my pocket, heavy as a tongue. — Beth Bachmann, “Elegy,” American Poetry Review, 37:2.
Beth Bachmann
I felt like asking her when she thought her daughter would ever get a chance to “just be” again, but I shut my mouth. For most people the answer to that question is “when they retire.” Of course, by that time, the irresistible urge to jump in muddy puddles just to see how filthy you can get is probably long gone. (Not to mention that the window for when this is considered socially acceptable will have closed.)
Linda Åkeson McGurk (There's No Such Thing as Bad Weather: A Scandinavian Mom's Secrets for Raising Healthy, Resilient, and Confident Kids (from Friluftsliv to Hygge))
Sure,’ Mary said, putting on a smile. ‘I have to get back. But please, feel free to look around as much as you’d like.’ Roper gave her a look that said, we don’t need your permission for that, but Jamie thanked her anyway and let her walk off.  He sucked on his teeth the way he did when he wanted a cigarette, and watched Mary go out of earshot. ‘Find anything?’ he asked, turning to Jamie. She let out a long breath. ‘Don’t know yet. Looks like Grace wasn’t as faithful to Ollie as she made out.’ ‘Lover’s tiff?’ ‘Could be.’ Jamie thought about it. ‘Spurned ex, maybe. Maybe it’s the drugs. Maybe something else entirely.’ She rubbed her eyes. It’d been a long morning and she needed to eat. ‘Come on. Let’s head back to HQ, get this written up. We’ll come back when Grace shows her face.’ Roper nodded without a word and headed for the door, already reaching for his cigarettes. Chapter 6 Jamie zipped up her jacket and dug her hands into her pockets, following Roper out the door. He’d sped on ahead so that he could light up before Jamie told him not to. She didn’t like that fresh stink in her car, and she definitely wouldn’t let him smoke in there anyway. And he definitely wasn’t above running out and doing it before she had time to protest. Her effort to make him quit by forcing him to stand in the cold obviously wasn’t working. He was a seasoned smoker and spent most nights standing outside pubs, come rain or shine, sucking down smoke.  That and the fact that he was far too stubborn to give in to such a weak ploy. It was like those goats that stand on the side of damns to lick the salt off. One missed step and it was guaranteed death. But they were single minded. And so was Roper. If she cared more she might have tried harder, but she knew from experience that when guys like Roper made a decision, they’d stick to it forever. As far as he was concerned, the drinking and the smoking was as much a part of him as his belly button was. It couldn’t be changed, and trying would only invite self-loathing. Guys like him had to hit rock bottom. Only then could they start coming back up. But sometimes they just stayed there, scraping the ground until they gouged a hole deep enough to die in.  She should call her mum. It had been a while. Outside, Roper was already two drags in by the time she reached the steps. A couple of the people outside had moved on and the guy in the sleeping bag had woken up and headed inside, though the urine stain that had seeped into the stone under him still remained. Jamie tried not to breathe through her nose as she hopped down the steps, her shin still throbbing from the morning’s bout with Cake.  She opened her mouth to tell Roper to hurry up when she almost got knocked over. A guy in his forties with an expensive suit and a long lambswool coat was rushing by, his head turned towards the steps. ‘Filthy fucking cretins,’ he almost yelled at the three homeless people still perched on the steps, before colliding with Jamie. He stumbled sideways, down into the roadway, shoving Jamie backwards.  ‘Get off!’ he shouted, flapping his arms. Jamie steadied herself and stared at him. Roper even stopped smoking his cigarette and came forward. ‘Hey!’ he called. ‘You’re not having any!’ the man yelled again, striding forward away from the shelter. ‘You should all be drowned. Wash this goddamn city clean!
Morgan Greene (Bare Skin (DS Jamie Johansson Book 1))
Lorenzo steps closer, his body a breath away from mine as he whispers, "Trust me?" I have no idea what he's asking, but I nod because what else am I gonna do? We're about to go to dinner and pretend like we're happy newlyweds with someone who could blow up my entire social circle, and likely my professional life, with a single well-placed word. Lorenzo walks me backward until my back hits the wall. I gasp, surprised. But he's not done. "Trust me," he orders softly. And with that, he picks me to straddle him and slams my back against the door with a thump. It rattles loudly behind me. "Fuck, Abigail, Quick, mia rosa. Come on my cock before your friends get here or they're going to hear me fucking you deep and hard. I want your cum on me and my cum in you while we sit at this prim and proper dinner, wife." I gasp, both at his filthy talk and the ridge of his cock pressing against my core. "Ungh." I can't make words, am barely making incoherent sounds, and Lorenzo lifts one hand from my thigh to hold my head still. He meets my eyes, one of his brows lifted pointedly. If I couldn't feel his cock, I wouldn't even know what this is doing to him. For all the fire rushing through my body and turning my brain to melted goo, he's clear-eyed and has a plan. I blink and realize what he's doing. Emily needs to think we're newlyweds, and what do newlyweds do non-stop? Fuck. Now that I've caught on, he winks at me and I smile back. He thrusts against me and I bounce on the door. "Yes, hard ... just like that," I moan. He grunts, finding a pace that is actually doing a lot for me even though I just came in the shower a bit ago. I'd be embarrassed at the wet heat of my core, but his cock jumps against me. I like that he's carried away too as he dry humps me, only hinting at what we're playacting. "Take it. Take me, Abigail," he hisses through clenched teeth. Is that for effect or is he holding the reins that tightly? "Yes, my Italian Stallion!" I cry out, clawing at his shoulders for purchase. Confusion mars his face as he mouths, "Italian Stallion?" I shake me head and whisper back, "I don't know, it just came out." He grins like that's the funniest thing he's ever heard and goes back to thrusting against me with renewed furor. "That's it, mia rosa. Are you going to come for me?" Oh shit. I am. Like I am ... for real. Any sane, rational, reasonable person would tilt their hips and move away from the power of his thrusts to save a little face. Do I? Absolutely not. If anything, I'm humping him back, riding him like the pony at my sixteenth birthday party. Don't laugh ... it was an amazing blowout. Like I'm about to have ... "Yes, yes. Right there Lorenz-ohh!" He pulls me tight against him, his cock grinding against my clit as he grunts through several short strokes and says something I don't understand in Italian. Is he? Did he? As I float back to Earth and realize what just happened, there's another knock on the door. This one is harder and louder. "Hey, Abi! We have reservations, you know?" Emily yells through the wood, literally inches away from where I just loudly came on Lorenzo's cock for real.
Lauren Landish (My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon)
There will be no sex for you or me during this entire ordeal. I know you’re secretly dating Samantha Hendrix, the supermodel—i.e., Miss Private Phone Calls Every Monday, but surely she’s aware of our engagement by now. She can survive without swallowing your cock down her throat for a couple weeks.” “I didn’t know you had such a filthy mouth.” He trailed his fingers against my throat. “You have no idea what you’re talking about in regard to Samantha, though.
Whitney G. (Thirty Day Boyfriend)
I reached down, rubbed my thumb over her snatch, that tiny line of hair, and rumbled, “Who did this for you?” She swallowed, her focus on my hand, and whispered, “Someone at a salon.” “I’ll do this for you from now on.” Inessa laughed, and her eyes sparkled when she looked at me. Then, when she realized I wasn’t joking, her mouth rounded into a perfect O that made my dick weep pre-cum. “You’re not serious?” she questioned. “I’m deadly serious. No one sees this pussy but me.
Serena Akeroyd (Filthy Rich (The Five Points' Mob Collection, #2))
He would handcuff me to the one murky lone bed in that room; spread out naked as the day I was born. As you could imagine looking just like a starfish stuck on the side of a rock, yet strapped down with his belts, ropes, and his dirty underwear in my mouth so that I would not scream for help, up until then there was no one around for miles, to hear me anyway, as I would scream bloody murder. My voice would echo back through the trees at me, as it seemed, and he would cackle ruthlessly. All that was on my face! Just like his offensive nasty hot sweat from his brow, that would land on my chest and drip down my belly down me, as I got ever more repulsed, by his actions, that he was doing to me. Yet, I was seeing, feeling, and tasting it all. At all those moments in time, I felt it all. At night, he would chain me to a tree outside, with only a doghouse to sleep in and yes, I was completely nude, while he slept inside the cabin on that same filthy bed I was on, and no he did not see the need in cleaning up at all. I could not sleep from what he did, and also the fear I would not wake up the next day, and also my skin was crawling because of all the fire ants, centipedes, and worms engulfing me. Affirmatively, I had bugs in places, which a girl never wants any bug to go into, or scuttle around. I remember that I would sketch the days in the wood of the rusty red doghouse with a rock. I was there for three or more weeks, without a bath, clothing, and real food, without anyone knowing, that I was being used as nothing more than a plaything, just like a dog’s chew toy. I found myself wanting and longing to eat the bugs, which were on me, just to stay alive.
Marcel Ray Duriez (Nevaeh Struggle with Affections)
Oh, I don’t know, I’ve got a few Benjamins burning a hole in my pocket.” I pat the breast pocket of my coveralls. “Besides, my dad could sure use one of those washers. His balls are always so dirty. I don’t know how he does it, but every time he golfs, his balls get caked in mud.” I glance over at Helen, her eyes horrified, her mouth a perfect O. The look on her face is priceless — and almost as funny as how clueless Jules seems to be. Jules nods. “That’s what happens when you play on grass and dirt.” “I guess so.” I shake my head. “Still, I don’t think I’ve ever seen balls quite this soiled. Do your balls get that filthy?” “Depends
Don Calame (Beat the Band (Swim the Fly, #2))
I can’t remember a specific time when the comments and the name-calling started, but one evening in November it all got much worse,’ she said. ‘My brother Tobias and me were doing our homework at the dining room table like we always did.’ ‘You’ve got a brother?’ She hesitated before nodding. ‘Papa was working late at the clinic in a friend’s back room – it was against the law for Jews to work as doctors. Mama was making supper in the kitchen, and I remember her cursing because she’d just burned her hand on the griddle. Tobias and me couldn’t stop laughing because Mama never swore.’ The memory of it made her mouth twitch in an almost-smile. Then someone banged on our front door. It was late – too late for social calling. Mama told us not to answer it. Everyone knew someone who’d had a knock on the door like that.’ ‘Who was it?’ ‘The police, usually. Sometimes Hitler’s soldiers. It was never for a good reason, and it never ended happily. We all dreaded it happening to us. So, Mama turned the lights out and put her hand over the dog’s nose.’ Esther, glancing sideways at me, explained: ‘We had a sausage dog called Gerta who barked at everything. ‘The knocking went on and they started shouting through the letter box, saying they’d burn the house down if we didn’t answer the door. Mama told us to hide under the table and went to speak to them. They wanted Papa. They said he’d been treating non-Jewish patients at the clinic and it had to stop. Mama told them he wasn’t here but they didn’t believe her and came in anyway. There were four of them in Nazi uniform, stomping through our house in their filthy great boots. Finding us hiding under the table, they decided to take Tobias as a substitute for Papa. ‘When your husband hands himself in, we’ll release the boy,’ was what they said. ‘It was cold outside – a freezing Austrian winter’s night – but they wouldn’t let Tobias fetch his coat. As soon as they laid hands on him, Mama started screaming. She let go of Gerta and grabbed Tobias – we both did – pulling on his arms, yelling that they couldn’t take him, that he’d done nothing wrong. Gerta was barking. I saw one of the men swing his boot at ther. She went flying across the room, hitting the mantelpiece. It was awful. She didn’t bark after that.’ It took a moment for the horror of what she was saying to sink in. ‘Don’t tell me any more if you don’t want to,’ I said gently. She stared straight ahead like she hadn’t heard me. ‘They took my brother anyway. He was ten years old. ‘We ran into the street after them, and it was chaos – like the end of the world or something. The whole town was fully of Nazi uniforms. There were broken windows, burning houses, people sobbing in the gutter. The synagogue at the end of our street was on fire. I was terrified. So terrified I couldn’t move. But Mum kept running. Shouting and yelling and running after my brother. I didn’t see what happened but I heard the gunshot.’ She stopped. Rubbed her face in her hands. ‘Afterwards they gave it a very pretty name: Kristallnacht – meaning “the night of broken glass”. But it was the night I lost my mother and my brother. I was sent away soon after as part of the Kindertransport, though Papa never got used to losing us all at once. Nor did I. That’s why he came to find me. He always promised he’d try.’ Anything I might’ve said stayed stuck in my throat. There weren’t words for it, not really. So I put my arm through Esther’s and we sat, gazing out to sea, two old enemies who were, at last, friends. She was right – it was her story to tell. And I could think of plenty who might benefit from hearing it.
Emma Carroll (Letters from the Lighthouse)
My back arches involuntarily. My mouth opens wide. I convulse helplessly as Kage whispers every hot filthy thing a man can say to a woman, words of praise and sexual obsession. “I love this greedy wet cunt—" “Come for me, my beautiful slut—" “You’re fucking magnificent—" “This gorgeous pussy is mine.
J.T. Geissinger (Ruthless Creatures (Queens & Monsters, #1))
Silas!” Nathaniel exclaimed. “Do you have my—augh! What is that?” “That is Elisabeth Scrivener, master.” Nathaniel stiffened, taking in the sight of her. Emotions flashed across his face too quickly to follow. For a moment, shock prevailed. His gaze skipped over “her bruised skin and filthy clothes. Then he withdrew inward, his expression hardening. “This is a surprise,” he observed in a clipped tone, descending the rest of the stairs at a measured pace. “Why is she here? I thought I told you that I—” He cut himself off with a quick glance back at Elisabeth, his lips pressed to a thin line. “She requires a place to stay,” Silas said. “And you thought it would be an excellent idea to bring her here, of all places?” “Look at her. She is ill. She has nowhere else to go. When I found her, she was being pursued by criminals.” Nathaniel’s eyes widened, but he recovered quickly. “I suppose next you’ll be rescuing orphans and helping elderly widows across the street. This is absurd.” His knuckles had turned white on the banister. “Since when do you care about the welfare of a human being?” “I am not the one who cares,” Silas said softly. “What is that supposed to mean?” “You care about her, master, more than I have seen you care about anything in years. Don’t attempt to deny it,” he added when Nathaniel opened his mouth.
Margaret Rogerson, Sorcery of Thorns