Quotes About Intensity

It is time that determines the intensity of love.

Voltage crossed the distance between Sheila and Webster. A current composed of anger and remorse and something else-the last flicker of attraction

Carmen was bad at loving. She loved too hard.

She had never had a boy talk to her like that. There was no cover of bullshit, no flirtation, no added charm, but his look was searing. He was different from anyone she had known.

She was bad at love. She loved too hard.

I burn for you. Do you know what that is, lass? To feel a yearning that makes you burn both inside and out?

It feels like I have a raging fever, like my insides are melting. This must be what it feels like the moment before you die.

I feel racing and suspension all at once.

I found that the last line in my Concordance and the last line in my six long volumes is Johnson's quotation of Goldsmith's fine saying; 'I do not love a man who is zealous for nothing.

How true is the observation that unrequited love turns to deepest hate.

To see him act is like reading Shakespeare by flashes of lightning.

Moving between her thighs, he stretched out above her, then thrust into her. Once. Because, as he did everything, he acted without hesitation or apology to claim her entirely. Her eyes went wide and her breath caught. Holding her gaze, he pressed himself deeper, barely easing back before pressing deep again.

He had to admit: She'd got to him. This demure second-grade schoolteacher, who'd been faithful to her husband, but who had fucked him with the same fervor with which she'd fought him two days ago, had crawled under his mean ol' hide.

He kissed her like he meant it, like this kiss was going to be the last thing he ever did on earth, and he was going to do it right, thoroughly, and leave nothing wanting.

Chris cursed lavishly. He sped up, then shouted, "Hold on!" Less than a second later, he stamped on the

when her eyes shifted to him, it was a repeat of

Whoever he is who opposite you sits and listens close to your sweet speaking and lovely laughing – oh it puts the heart in my chest on wings for when I look at you, even a moment, no speaking is left in me no: tongue breaks and thin fire is racing under skin and in eyes no sight and drumming fills ears and cold sweat holds me and shaking grips me all, greener than grass

you burn me

That crazy kind of laughing that feels almost the same as crying.

Disaster survivors and their neighbors instantly place whatever food they can collectively hunt and gather in common. There is no class, no race, no political orientation. Such meat sharing lies at the root of humans' remarkable egalitarian tendencies. Those tendencies are reinforced every time the ritual is enacted—especially at moments of vivid intensity

What did it feel like, I wondered, to love someone that much? So much that you couldn't even control yourself when they came close, as if you might just break free of whatever was holding you and throw yourself at them with enough force to easily overwhelm you both.

Everything he feels, he feels strongly. Too strongly, sometimes. I think he freaks people out.

Hearing this, I had that feeling again, like the conversation was a pack of wild horses pounding out ahead of me, leaving nothing but dust behind. Trifecta?

Why did you lift your top the other night in my office? Why did you flash your breasts at me like that?" he asked, his voice very low, his grey eyes intent on her. "I don't know," she whispered. "Liar," he said, and then he closed the distance between them and his hands were cupping her face and his mouth was lowering toward hers and her heart was beating so hard and fast it was a wonder it didn't explode.