Bassinet Skirt Quotes

Hey, Rhubarb, we may need to rethink our approach."
"No, we don't."
"I've only got one hand here, kiddo. Maybe if I grab the middle-"
"If you grab the middle, it'll be the last thing that hand ever does!"
He pondered that as if it explained something. "So I'm guessing then you don't get a lot of company down here."
"Bobby, so help me, I will rip your arm off and beat you with it, do you hear me?"
"Okay, geez. Let me just get a look - " He picked her skirt up and pulled it over his head.
"Bobby!" She was actually too mortified to even scream so it came out like a squeak from a dying rat.
"Dammit, there's no light under here, can't see a thing."
Thank God for small blessings. "Get out of there!"
"Tell you what, how about you use your spare hand and I use mine on either side of your hips and we yank together. ~ Dee Tenorio

Paris is a sensuous woman every man has loved, even if only in his dreams. Once he has been deep inside her, walked her streets and tasted her delights, he can never forget her. Yet no matter how strong the memory of her remains, it cannot prepare him for the sheer beauty of her nakedness as he gazes upon her for the second time; the intoxicating fragrance of her hair as it brushes against him as it did when she let him love her; the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips as he strokes her breathtakingly graceful form; or the searing fire which courses through every fiber of his soul now that she is within reach.

For every man blessed with a woman's love, she is a shrine to his happiness now that he need search no more. But for those who reside in obscurity within the lonely domicile of an empty heart, she is the hope of finding love. In his tortured heart, love waits for him at a corner cafe in the woman's smile two tables away; it lingers in the melodic laughter of a girl riding past him on a bicycle; and sometimes, when the woman is smiling at someone else, and the girl rides past him without notice, he finds love beneath the skirt of the darkly sensual woman waiting for him under a streetlamp. ~ Bobby Underwood

I like to move fast, and wearing high heels was tough, and low heels with a skirt is unattractive. So pants took over. ~ Katharine Hepburn

I'm so excited to meet you, Emma," she says. "Now I know why Galen won't shut up about you." Her smile seems to contradict the decades' worth of frown lines rippling from her mouth. In fact, it's so genuine and warm that I almost believe she is excited to meet me. But isn't that what all moms say when introduced to their son's girlfriend? You're not his girlfriend, stupid. Or does she think we're dating, too?
"Thanks, I think," I smile generically. "I'm sure he's told you a million times how clumsy I am." Because how else am I supposed to take that?
"A million and one, actually. Wish you'd do something different for a change," Rayna drawls without looking up.
Rayna has outstayed her welcome on my nerves. "I could teach you how to color in the lines," I shoot back. The look she gives me could sour milk.
Toraf puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses the top of her head. "I think you're doing a great job, my princess."
She wiggles out of his grasp and shoves the polish brush back into its bottle. "If you're so good at it, why don't you paint your toes? They probably stay injured all the time from you running into stuff. Am I right?"
Yeah? And? I'm about to set her straight on a few things-like how wearing a skirt and sitting Indian-style ruins the effect of pretty toes anyway-when Galen's mom puts a gentle hand on my arm and clears her throat. "Emma, I'm so glad you're feeling better," she says. "I bet dinner would just about complete your recove ~ Anna Banks

With the last of the sun flickering orange light across her face, she hitched up her long skirt and started the steep climb to the stone circle. ~ Valerie Biel

No way," he said, shaking his head, shaking the image of Lise, bare-legged, her skirt hitched high, from his thoughts. "Lise, she's a sister to me."
"Oh," she said, fingertips making circles just above the waist of her skirt. Wider and wider circles.
"A sister," he repeated. He looked at her. There was something scratching again, in the corner above his eye, like those metal probes at the dentist clawing at your teeth. ~ Megan Abbott

She begins to strip like a roommate and climb into bed.

They have fallen asleep. Dean wakes first, in the early afternoon. He unfastens her stockings and slowly rolls them off. Her skirt is next and then her underpants. She opens her eyes. The garter belt he leaves on, to confirm her nakedness. He rests his head there.

Her hand touches his chest and begins to fall in excruciating slow designs.

He lies still as a dog beneath it, still as an idiot.

The next morning she is recovered. His prick is hard. She takes it in her hand. They always sleep naked. Their flesh is innocent and warm. In the end she is arranged across the pillows, a ritual she accepts without a word.

It is half an hour before they fall apart, spent, and call for breakfast. She eats both her rolls and one of his.

"There was a lot," she says.

She glistens with it. The inside of her thighs is wet.

"How long does it take to make again?" she asks.

Dean tries to think. He is remembering biology.

"Two or three days," he guesses.

"Non, non!" she cries. That is not what she meant.

She begins to make him hard again. In a few minutes he rolls her over and puts it in as if the intermission were ended. This time she is wild. The great bed begins creaking. Her breath becomes short. Dean has to brace his hands on the wall. He hooks his knees outside her legs and drives himself deeper.

~ James Salter

I did not actually accuse you of being beautiful. I said you looked beautiful tonight. A subtle but significant difference."
"Yes, the gown," she started to say.
He stepped closer. "Is my eyesight failing? Let me take a closer study." He took another step, until she had to tilt back her head to look at him. "Hold still," he said, amusement softening his tone. He touched her chin.
Eliza froze.
Gently the earl tipped her face from side to side, his dark eyes intent upon her. "A few freckles," he said thoughtfully. "But I find those charming." His thumb brushed along her cheekbone and Eliza's hands fisted in the folds of her skirt. "Your lashes are very long," he murmured. "And your eyes... Your eyes are lovely. Like the fields of Rosemere under a summer sky, when the grasses are tall and verdant, and golden finches swoop in and out. ~ Caroline Linden

For a woman, love is the highest dream, and if a man promises to build a ladder tall enough to reach it, she believes him, hikes up her skirt, and follows him to the stars. Now ~ Adriana Trigiani

If we happened to be in rehearsal downstairs in my room and a neighbor padded across the lawn to rap gently on the window and ask us to please be more quiet, Natalie might simply lift up her skirt and mash her vagina against the window while extending her middle finger. ~ Augusten Burroughs

I hear you've been with every Rephaite in a skirt.'
Crap. Where did that come from?
'Who told you that?' HIs smile shifts into something less amused. 'Daniel. Who else? The prick.'
'Is he a liar?'
Rafa leans against the pale wall. 'I haven't been with everyone.'
'What about Taya?'
'Hell, no. I'm no monk, but I have standards.'
I wonder what else Daniel was wrong about. 'What about me?'
Rafa's teasing smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. 'You had standards too. ~ Paula Weston

The concrete highway was edged with a mat of tangled, broken, dry grass, and the grass heads were heavy with oat beards to catch on a dog's coat, and foxtails to tangle in a horse's fetlocks, and clover burrs to fasten in sheep's wool; sleeping life waiting to be spread and dispersed, every seed armed with an appliance of dispersal, twisting darts and parachutes for the wind, little spears and balls of tiny thorns, and all waiting for animals and for the wind, for a man's trouser cuff or the hem of a woman's skirt, all passive but armed with appliances of activity, still, but each possessed of the anlage of movement. ~ John Steinbeck

Love hurts.

Think back over romance novels you've loved or the genre-defining books that drive our industry. The most unforgettable stories and characters spring from crushing opposition. What we remember about romance novels is the darkness that drives them. Three hundred pages of folks being happy together makes for a hefty sleeping pill, but three hundred pages of a couple finding a way to be happy in the face of impossible odds makes our hearts soar. In darkness, we are all alone.

So don't just make love, make anguish for your characters. As you structure a story, don't satisfy your hero's desires, thwart them. Make sure your solutions create new problems. Nurture your characters doubts and despair. Make them earn the happy ending they want, even better…make them deserve it. Delay and disappointment charge situations and validate character growth. Misery accompanies love. It's no accident that many of the stories we think of as timeless romances in Western Literature are fiercely tragic: Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde, Cupid and Psyche… the pain in them drags us back again and again, hoping that this time we'll find a way out of the dark.

Only if you let your characters get lost will we get lost in them. And that, more than anything else, is what romance can and should do for its protagonists and its readers: lead us through the labyrinth, skirt the monstrous despair roaming its halls, and find our way into daylight. ~ Damon Suede

I flush at the waywardness of my subconscious - she's doing her happy dance in a bright red hula skirt ~ E.L. James

You don't look like a Rupert."
Startled,he raised a black brow at her. "Dare I ask what I look like to you?"
"A hungry wolf."
He didn't laugh at the description, but he did abruptly release her. "Wolf, perhaps," he said drily. "Hungry? Not at the moment."
She had enough sense to guess she'd just been insulted. Had she touched a nerve perhaps? Good,because he was certainly touching too many of hers.
Regaining her balance after stumbling back from him,she went to straighten her skirt in an indignant manner,but forgot she wasn't wearing one.How could she appear to be offended while she was wearing britches? She settled for grabbing the hat off the floor and shoving it back down on her head.
The very idea! Not hungry at the moment? As if she didn't know he was implying she wasn't to his taste. ~ Johanna Lindsey

Next thing I know I'm hiking that sweet, short skirt up over her sweet round ass, breaking my own rules, gonna screw a brunette, on the highway to Hell. ~ Karen Marie Moning

The Bone Keeper presides over the festival. She rules the lowest level of the Lowerworld where she keeps watch over the bones. They say she has a skull for a face,wears a skirt made of serpents,and her mouth is extra wide in order to feed off the stars during the day.And yet,despite my numerous journeys to the Lowerworld,I have yet to run into her.But maybe you will, nieta,who knows?"
"A skull faec,a snake skirt,and a steady diet of stars?" I shake my head and balk. "No thanks.I'd prefer to avoid her if it's okay with you."
"You don't always get the journey you want, nieta. Though you always get the journey you need," she says-yet another sage statement in a collection of many.
"You paraphrasing Mick Jagger now? ~ Alyson Noel

Murderess is a strong word to have attached to you. It has a smell to it, that word - musky and oppressive, like dead flowers in a vase. Sometimes at night I whisper it over to myself: Murderess, Murderess. It rustles, like a taffeta skirt across the floor. ~ Margaret Atwood

But here Billy Chope arrived to demand what the 'ell Sam Cardew was doing with his gal. Now Sam was ever readier for a fight than Billy was; but the sum of Billy's half pints was large: wherefore the fight began. On the skirt of a hilarious ring Lizerunt, after some small outcry, triumphed aloud. Four days before, she had no bloke; and here she stood with two, and those two fighting for her! Here in the public gaze, on the Flats! For almost five minutes she was Helen of Troy. ~ Arthur Morrison

Bend over and lift your skirt, i'm going to show you what it's like to spend Christmas on the naughty list ~ Lili Valente

But what I kept wondering about is this: that first second when she felt her skirt burning, what did she think? Before she knew it was candles, did she think she'd done it herself? With the amazing turns of her hips, and the warmth of the music inside her, did she believe, for even one glorious second, that her passion had arrived? ~ Aimee Bender

Arthur narrowly avoided tripping over his own skirt as he hurried out of the ladies' powder room in full pursuit. ~ Graham Moore

That's beautiful,' Valkyrie said, looking at it.
Isn't it? This necklace has cost two very fine men their lives. At times, I wear it in tribute to their sacrifice. Other times, I wear it because it goes with this skirt. ~ Derek Landy

He wore pantysuits. Women's pantysuits. He wore high heels too, or medium heels at least. Panty hose. And angora sweaters. I never saw him in a dress or a skirt, but he loved those pantysuits. He used to sit in his office with a cigarette, striking a very masculine pose. But he had on a pantsuit with pantyhose–heavy beard–he was a very typical ex-marine, to some degree. He had a very deep voice, physical mannerisms like a man and he was totally ludicrous. Yet he was completely at ease. He was a very self-confident man. He said that he was already into being a transvestite by the time he enlisted in the Marines. And when he was making a landing in the Pacific, he was wearing bra and panties under his uniform. ~ Harry Medved

The gauzy skirt that flutters in strips over my hips and thighs provides the illusion of risqué without actually threatening to reveal my lacy panties to the world. Those are meant for Aron's eyes only, but only if he asks nicely. And by nicely, I mean I'm fantasizing about him begging. While on his knees. And maybe naked. ~ Mila Ferrera

The Highland men and women certainly dress differently than we do, even when we're out in the country. Why do you think the Scotti9sh men wear those ridiculous skirts, George?"
Enough was enough. Fagan approached the table and gave her a roguish grin. "'Tisnae a skirt, lass. If I wore something under it, then it would be called a skirt. ~ Victoria Roberts

What would it be like to fall all that way? Would you scream? Would you have time to shut your eyes before you hit the ground? And when you landed, you would look like a crumpled thing – not real, kind of like a rag doll in clothes – and one of your shoes would have fallen off and you wouldn't move at all. There wouldn't be much blood, only a thin trickle from the corner of your mouth. People would rush over to you, bend over you, and someone would pull out a mobile phone and call an ambulance. By the time the ambulance arrived, a small gaggle of bystanders would have formed and one of the would be looking up, pointing at the third-floor balcony. When the ambulance arrived, the green paramedics would put a fat white collar around your neck, press your chest and blow in your mouth. But after a while they would stop, look at their watches, write something down, lift you onto a stretcher, replace your missing shoe, smooth down your skirt, then cover you with a white sheet and lift you into the ambulance. And you would never see her again. ~ Tabitha Suzuma

Now isn't this role more fun than nun?" Gabrielle sauntered into the room, casting a sideways glance at the skirt she had personally hemmed.
Hamish nodded, "Kat ... you have ... legs."
"And boobs," Angus added, staring quite directly at the section of the white blouse that Gabrielle had made a bit too form-fitting for Kat's personal taste.
"Seriously Kat," Simon said, inching closer, "When did you get boobs?"
Hamish looked at Hale, "The boobs are new." He said as if that point hadn't already been thoroughly made.
"Is that padded?" Simon held out his hand as if to cop an oh-so-scientific feel.
"Hey!" Kat slapped his hand away.
"Her dad's going to get out of prison one of these days boys." Hale added, amused. ~ Ally Carter

It's my manifest destiny to wear a skirt in all countries. ~ Eddie Izzard

One of my favorites is 'The Sound of Music'. When Julie Andrews runs through the hills singing her head off, I always wish that a gust of wind would blow her skirt up. ~ Mark Roberts