Colleen McCullough Quotes

I prefer love scenes to be shot up close with a lot of focus on eyes and mouths. Otherwise it can feel uncomfortable and voyeuristic.

Normal People' is an incredibly intimate show, there are a lot of love scenes in it and it's beautifully done.

When you see a bad romantic comedy, you see the script, the director, and the actors trying to create this warmth and this pathos and this feeling that you care about them. That cannot be manufactured - it's either there or it isn't.

I want a kiss to be so believable it gives the reader shivers.

Kissing - and I mean like, yummy, smacking kissing - is the most delicious, most beautiful and passionate thing that two people can do, bar none. Better than sex, hands down.

I think women love a passionate love story.

When a new generation watches the films, people might mention that it has improved their lovemaking. I guess it's because it isn't threatening. It was very sweet and delicate.

I wanted to make a love story without being nerdy.

So many times you see beautiful lovemaking scenes with a lot of exposure or an awkward lovemaking scene, but I think it's very rare that you see it private.

Sensuality without love is a sin; love without sensuality is worse than a sin.

When writing sex scenes, there is often no pleasing anyone, except perhaps the writer herself.

If I didn't write sex scenes, all my characters would head to the kitchen and make cups of tea.

Lack of romance is my real objection to writing on a computer.

I want to kiss her without counting the seconds. I want to hold her so long that I get to know her skin. I want, I want, I want.

We efface an hour by passionate love, without twists, without aftertaste. When it is finished, it is not finished, we lie still in each other's arms lulled by our love, by tenderness -- sensuality in which the whole being can participate.

With a gentle pressure, our lips met. His hands slipped more firmly about me, and I held myself back, not afraid, but wanting to feel everything slowly as I leaned in, tasting the wine on him, feeling the warmth of his body pressing into mine, breathing in our scents that were mingling and changing with the warmth. My hands rose to find his hair, and I relaxed into him as the silky strands brushed through my fingers. I wanted more, and I leaned into him as our lips moved against each other.

Then let amourous kisses dwell On our lips, begin and tell A Thousand and a Hundred score A Hundred and a Thousand more

We lie in each other's arms eyes shut and fingers open and all the colors of the world pass through our bodies like strings of fire.

“Simon,” she whispered, vaguely surprised that she had just used his first name, for she had never used it even in the privacy of her thoughts. Moistening her dry lips, she tried once more, and to her astonishment, she did it again. “Simon…” “Yes?” A new tension had entered his long, hard body, and at the same time, his hand moved over the shape of her skull in the softest caress possible. “Please… take me to my room.” Hunt tilted her head back gently and regarded her with a sudden faint smile playing on his lips. “Sweetheart, I would take you to Timbuktu if you asked.“

Sweet, can I sing you the song of your kisses? How soft is this one, how subtle this is, How fluttering swift as a bird's kiss that is, As a bird that taps at a leafy lattice; How this one clings and how that uncloses From bud to flower in the way of roses.

his thumbs ran over my cheeks. Our foreheads touched. My dreamscape scorched. He set fire to the poppies

They dream of men with gentle hands, eloquent with tenderness, fingers that brushed along a cheek, that outlined open lips in the lovers' braille. Hands that sculpted sweetness from sullen flesh, that traced breast and ignited hips, opening, kneading. Flesh becomes bread in the heat of those hands, braided and rising.

I'm a writer who never writes about sex. It's so far from my own fictional world.

If I could dream, I know I'd dream about you.I'd dream about the way you smell and how your dark hair feels like silk between my fingers. I'd dream about the smoothness of your skin and the fierceness of your lips when we kiss. Without dreams,I have to be content with my own imagination—which is almost as good. I can picture all those things perfectly.

Tira begins to sing "I'm No Angel" to him as the screen fades: Baby, I can warm you with this love of mine. I'm No Angel. Aw, let me feel my fingers running through your hair, I can give you kisses. . . .