Quotes About Intimacy

I had a feeling you'd like that," he said with a satisfied grin. "Why do I feel it . . . everywhere?" "Everywhere?" he murmured. His fingers moved between her legs. "Or here?" "Everywhere," she said breathlessly, "but there most of all.

Grace-" He scowled, then laughed. "What the devil is your middle name?" "Catriona." she whispered. "Grace Catriona Eversleigh," he said, loud and sure, "I love you.

Full lips are better for kissing.

I want you. I want you now, in every way a man can want a woman.

A gentleman might have stopped then. She had climaxed, and she was still a virgin, and he was probably a beast for wanting to make love to her fully, but he simply couldn't...not. She was his. But not, he was coming to realize, quite as much as he was hers.

In this room,in this minite,she was his everything

Every time he thought he knew everything about her, had unwillingly memorized every last detail, something inside her flickered and changed, and he felt himself falling anew.

If he hadn't married Iris, he'd want her for a friend

Billie laughed at that, full and throaty, and once again she became so incandescently beautiful that George was half-tempted to throw a blanket over her, just to stop anyone else from wanting her.

He always smelled like warm wood and brandy, even when he hadn't had a drop of drink. Funny how he managed that. Funny how his smell was in her bed. Henry's eyelids fluttered open. Funny how he was in her bed.

Alex strode through a doorway and kicked the door shut, finally dumping Emma down upon a large four-poster bed. She immediately made a mad dash for the door, but Alex ably blocked her, redeposited her on the bed, crossed the room, and locked the door with a resounding click. "Why you-" Alex tossed the key out the window.

Lucy," he whispered. She closed her eyes. "Be with me," he said. Slowly, she shook her head. "Please don't." He tugged her closer and pulled the candlestick from her slackening fingers. "Be with me, Lucy Abernathy. Be my love, be my wife.

I'm home'', he said against her skin, and she realized it was the truth. ''I'm home, too''.

And that was when she finally allowed herself to cry. Funny how she could hold herself together, keep it all inside until she saw him. But now that he was here, all she could do was bury her face in the warmth of his chest, snuggle closer as his arms wrapped around her. As if somehow he could make all her problems go away by his presence alone.

What do you feel?" he asked. "Everything!" she said, laughing. "What do you hear?" "The music." Her eyes widened with excitement. "I hear the music as I've never heard it before." His hands tightened, and the space between them diminished by several inches. "What do you see?" he asked. Sophie stumbled, but she never took her eyes off his. "My soul," she whispered. "I see my very soul.

His hand was on her arm, and he could feel her skin, feel the soft warmth of it, and then when he looked down, her face was tilted toward his, and her eyes, deep and blue but so completely unmysterious, were gazing up at him, and in truth there was no way—simply no way—he could do anything in that moment but kiss her. Anything else would have been a tragedy.

She'd spent seven long years without so much as a hug, and she was starved for physical affection. She had known what it was like to be touched and kissed, and she had no idea how much she'd missed it until that very moment.

You may love me more, but I will love you better.

He knew her, he realized. He truly knew her. Not just the usual things. In fact, he didn't know the usual things. He did not know her favorite color. Nor cold he guess her favorite animal or food. But somehow it didn't matter if he didn't knw if she preferred pink or blue or purple or black. He knew her heart. He wanted her heart.

He didn't know if there was a word to describe what he felt in that moment, how he saw the lines of his own heart when her eyes met his.

What are you doing?" she whispered against his lips. He gave her a lopsided grin, as one of his fingers slid inside. "Making you feel really, really good?" She moaned, which pleased him. If she'd managed intelligible speech he would have known he wasn't doing his job correctly. -Kate & Anthony

It was that spark. That damnable spark that never seemed to dim between them. That awful prickle of awareness that burned every time she entered a room, or took a breath, or pointed a toe. That sinking feeling that he could, if he let himself, love her.

Ella pareció indecisa, de modo que le tironeó la mano, acercándola más, no más de una pulgada, pero en cierto modo tuvo la impresión de que ella estaba a sólo la distancia de un beso.

He tried not to notice that her hair was loose. He tried not to see that she was wearing her nightclothes. They were demure, yes, but still meant to be removed, and his gaze kept dipping to the silken hem, which brushed the top of her foot, allowing him a tantalizing peek at her toes. Good God, he was staring at her toes. Her /toes/. What had his life come to?