Much as she hated to admit it, they tasted good.
He tasted the toast and nodded approvingly.
I asked as I tasted my bourbon on the rebound.
She tasted like honey, and he reveled in the warmth of her body, her hot mouth.
He tasted blood and spit it out, rolling onto his back with a belly laugh.
Though his blood didn't ensnare her as Damian's did, it tasted familiar.
She tasted his skin, but it, too, wasn't enough.
She tasted slightly sweet, the heat of her mouth contrasting with the chill of her skin, and smelled of lake water.
His lips were warm and tasted of sweetened coffee.
She touched, smelled and tasted everything she could, determined to remember every pleasurable part of every day she had left.
It tasted like a plain jelly bean, until she swallowed, when it felt like a stream of water spilled from the back of her mouth to her gullet.
No blood could sate him as his mate.s could, and he hadn.t tasted her in weeks.
It certainly tasted like beef, though the tangy spices were unfamiliar.
Now that he'd tasted the fires that burned in her voluptuous body, no other woman could ever so satisfy him.
It tasted even sweeter than that from the carafe.
He kept his hands behind his back and tasted her, enjoyed her, tested her without pushing either of them over the edge.
I don't think he's ever tasted one!
Nothing tasted good or settled on her stomach.
A cheeseburger had never tasted so good.
I never tasted it.
He managed to catch a few stray rats for food, but they tasted different.
Every Italian artist and man of letters in an age of singular intellectual brilliancy tasted or hoped to taste of his bounty.
He took the piglets from his pocket and let them run on the grass, and Jim tasted a mouthful of the green blades and declared he was very contented in his new surroundings.
I have never so much as tasted a grub worm.
I walked over each farmer's premises, tasted his wild apples, discoursed on husbandry with him, took his farm at his price, at any price, mortgaging it to him in my mind; even put a higher price on it--took everything but a deed of it--took his word for his deed, for I dearly love to talk--cultivated it, and him too to some extent, I trust, and withdrew when I had enjoyed it long enough, leaving him to carry it on.
His hearers expected a story of how beside himself and all aflame with excitement, he had flown like a storm at the square, cut his way in, slashed right and left, how his saber had tasted flesh and he had fallen exhausted, and so on.