Quotessence
Home / Quotes / Quote by Amy Andrews

Quote by Amy Andrews

“I meant what I said about sex.” His hand slid all the way up her leg, pushing what little skirt was still covering her out of the way, holding it in a bunch at her belly button. Her nudity was fully exposed to his gaze and he looked his fill, breathing out hard. “Who said anything about sex?” He leaned in, his mouth dropping to the pale slice of skin between where his hand held her skirt and the thatch of hair between her legs. She wasn’t trimmed as was the fashion among the women he usually took to his bed but Troy was not a fussy guy and here, under the stars, his head filling with the musky scent of her arousal, au naturel seemed fitting. The ragged pant of her breathing stuttered into the air as he lazily stroked his tongue down. Down. Down. Down. She roused. Shifted. Raised herself up on her elbows, her abs tightening, her thighs tensing. “I think you’ll find that still counts,” she said, obviously throwing one last-ditch effort into denying herself the pleasure she so clearly craved. He chuckled low, his warm breath fanning her belly, satisfied to feel gooseflesh stippling the soft skin. “If you think this is sex, you need to read some more textbooks, doc.”

Quote by Amy Andrews

Book:Troy

Work

Troy

Browse quotes and source details for this work. more

Author

Amy Andrews

Browse famous quotes and profile details for Amy Andrews. more

You May Also Like

“Seriously. I’ll wager you aren’t ten years older than me.” “I bet I am.” “So what? So when I’m eighty, you’ll be ninety. It’s just a number.” I relaxed on a pile of pillows on my end of the boat. Eyes closed, I enjoyed the sunshine’s warmth on my face with the intermittent quack of ducks floating on the cool breeze. “I’m just saying, I’m not sure your eighty-year-old self will enjoy being chased by a gaggle of ninety-year-old women at the old folks’ home.” “And I’m just saying if you were there, I’d let you catch me.”

“Henry's recollections of the past, in contrast to Proust, are done while in movement. He may remember his first wife while making love to a whore, or he may remember his very first love while walking the streets, traveling to see a friend; and life does not stop while he remembers. Analysis in movement. No static vivisection. Henry's daily and continuous flow of life, his sexual activity, his talks with everyone, his cafe life, his conversations with people in the street, which I once considered an interruption to writing, I now believe to be a quality which distinguishes him from other writers. He never writes in cold blood: he is always writing in white heat. It is what I do with the journal, carrying it everywhere, writing on cafe tables while waiting for a friend, on the train, on the bus, in waiting rooms at the station, while my hair is washed, at the Sorbonne when the lectures get tedious, on journeys, trips, almost while people are talking. It is while cooking, gardening, walking, or love-making that I remember my childhood, and not while reading Freud's 'Preface to a Little Girl's Journal.”

“I’m probably getting too familiar with him, but there’s something about him that makes me feel like I would tell him anything. He asks these incredibly direct questions, things that some of my closest friends have never even thought to ask, and I’m inexplicably compelled to share all these deeply personal thoughts. He’s like human Xanax or something.”

“You know that feeling when you’re suddenly startled out of a deep sleep, and you’re in that hazy middle world where you’re not sure what’s real—like maybe you actually could be chasing after an ice cream truck wearing only fishing waders and a canary yellow bridesmaid’s dress, or you’re just one answer away from winning a year’s supply of adult diapers on a Japanese game show? —SINGLE-MINDED”