Quotes About Intimacy

Daniel reaches out and grabs my hand to steady me. His skin is warm and soft, and holding his hand sends an electric sensation up my right arm. He holds my hand firmly until I regain my balance, which takes me a heartbeat longer than it should have. "Thanks for keeping me from falling," I say. He smiles warmly. "Sometimes we just can't stop ourselves from falling, cher.

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.

Suddenly I'm no longer aware of the people around us, just the feel and the warmth and the scent of Daniel, and the way he's holding me near to him

He stops rocking and looks into my eyes. We're inches apart and I'm mesmerized by the tiny flecks of indigo in his blue eyes. A girl could drown in those eyes. And it wouldn't be the worst way to go.

He gently takes the lead, and I trail behind him up the narrow spiral stairway at the back of the kitchen. His hand is warm, and holding it feels like the easiest thing in the world. Too easy. I'm going to get myself in trouble.

I rock in his arms under the stars and the blanket of night air, unwilling or unable to tear myself away.

For a long time we sit there not saying anything, enjoying the quiet of the bay and the occasional steamy knee bump.

So far, here's the picture I've painted of adolescent girls: aloof, withdrawn, and, sometimes, surprisingly mean. There's truth to this picture, but for parents it's not the whole story. Being pushed away is only the half of it. Raising a teenage girl becomes that much more stressful when she interrupts days of distance with moments of intense warmth and intimacy.

I slide down between the sheets beside him, like a secret letter slipped into the safety of an envelope. And dream of ancient places, where everyone is young.

Here's a little secret: ironically, people with dominant Seductor Imposters might seem to crave intimacy—they certainly draw people into their orbit with the promise of it—but what actually animates them behind the scenes is fear of it.

The best gift anyone can give, I believe, is the gift of sharing themselves.

We want intimacy with others. In fact, we might crave it. But since we've never fully experienced bonds of trust, we don't allow intimacy into our lives. So we keep it at bay.

following Christ wasn't about religion; it was an intimacy with his Creator that had him constantly hungering for more.

you are the only woman I have ever met who I would want to be in a little house with, do you see? Other women make me want to get on boats and run away. You, you make me want to stay somewhere, so that I can see your face everyday. So that I can hold you everyday and watch you grow older. You make me want to be an adult man. You make me want to settle down.

You knew I would, didn't you?' She smiles sadly. 'Oh, I don't know, I suppose it occurred to me. I would have said something. Soon. I was on the verge. It just didn't seem like first-date kind of fodder.' 'No,' he says softly. 'I get that.' She turns the mug round and round, not sure where to head next with this development.

even though Im no longer with her, she's still a part of me? You know, the part of love that isn't about sex, it doesn't automatically die. Or at least it doesn't have to.

She remembered the intensity of her desire to undress him, to be naked with him, the way she felt like she could say whatever she wanted and be fully understood and do whatever she wanted and be totally accepted. She remembered how easy it had all been, how open and bright, like being in a whitewashed room with all the windows wide open.

There is nothing worse than a man who can't spell — it takes all the romance out of cards and love letters and things.

And, as any good honeymooners, should – particularly honeymooners who have known each other only a few months – they spent quite a lot of their time having sex.

You. You and your fucking "tie me up" bullshit. You and your other guys. Guys who've done that to you. Every time I shut my eyes, there they are. Lined up. And I can't, I cannot get them out of my head, Rachel. You put them there. Bunch of fucking creeps.

It's the money thing,' he said after a short, murky moment of post-coital silence. 'It's … I'm not used to this. I'm not used to being poor. I'm not used to having to take money from the woman I love. I'm just … I'm emasculated, Rachel. I'm fucking emasculated.

the one that didn't involve tiptoeing around a middle-aged man's fragile masculinity, bringing his flaccid penis back to life like a paramedic every night.

There's a heat contained within their exchange, created from the energy of desperation and loss and frustration and misguided hope, but also from the intimacy that's built up between the two of them as everything else has peeled away from them and the thing that unites them.

Wearing nice underwear. Ready for sex. But that wasn't what he wanted. He raped me in his kitchen. He pushed me into broken glass. Look.' Lucy pulls up her T-shirt to show Rachel the small livid scar that is still there, over a year later. 'I was bleeding and in pain and he kept raping me and there was this knife. The knife I'd been using to slice the tomatoes.