Quotes About Passion

Soy demasiado esclavo de mis propias obsesiones y de mi propia fascinación.

She liked all things that were sensual and which involved beauty.

I had to know who this painter was. I had to see his work. I had fallen in love with him. Was he young? Was he old? Was he alive? Was he dead? I had to know.

Listen, keep your eyes wide,' Lestat whispered to me, his lips moving against my neck. I remember that the movement of his lips raised the hair all over my body, sent a shock of sensation through my body that was not unlike the pleasure of passion.…

Sybelle is obsessed with one thing, and that is playing the piano. For the first time she laid her hands on the keys she has wanted nothing else.

The heat in me was delicious and unendurable, and I wanted nothing more than to take Amadeo, bring him over to me now, and yet he sat before me, the tears streaming down his face.

But let me be a lover in the Savage Garden with you, and the light that went out of life would come back in a great burst of glory. Out of mortal flesh I would pass into eternity. I would be one of you.

I loved Amadeo as I had loved Pandora. I loved him as I had loved Botticelli. Amadeo was among these, the great loves of my long life.

Sometimes I could scarcely breathe with the knowledge that for the rest of my life, whenever we wanted, Peter and I could lie down and do whatever we wished.

He caught up with her outside her doorway, when she almost gave up. He said nothing, simply pulled her into his arms, against his strong, hard body, and his hand slid beneath her hair, tilting her face up to his. "No more running away?" His voice was rough. His eyes glittered down into hers, and if she wanted tenderness it wasn't there. Simply a dark, naked heat sparking between them. "No more running away," she said.

He wanted her hands on him, he wanted her mouth on him, he wanted to take her from behind, leaning over the bunk, he wanted her to go down on him, he wanted everything he could possibly think of and more. He wanted it hard and nasty, gentle and sweet. But most of all he wanted it now.

He needed to keep as far away from her as possible, or they'd end up back in bed together or she'd kill him. And he wasn't sure which he preferred.

I don't love you," he said. And he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, a kiss of passion and desperation, a kiss of deep currents and longing. "I don't love you," he said again. "Of course you don't," she murmured happily. And she followed him out the door, into the lion's den.

He barely hesitated. Then shall I ruin you, dragon? Yes please, she said. And she let the brown dress drop on the floor between them, closing her eyes once more.

He was accustomed to women wanting him. What shocked him was the simple fact that he wanted her. Not hot, energetic sex. Not a blow job from a novice. He wanted her with a perplexing intensity he hadn't felt in years. He was the King of Death, and she was his consort. And no amount of common sense could distract him.

And there was nothing left between them but love, neither pure nor simple, but love it was.

You're right about something else," he said, his voice ragged. "I'm scared to death of you. Because I want you, when common sense and a lifetime of experience tells me I should kill you. I want you, and if I give up then you'll own me, and I'll have nothing left to fight with.

He was a man who fucked in silence. And when he climaxed, long, hard, endlessly, inside her tight body, he heard his voice in the darkness. Calling her name.

She felt hot, strong, alive against him, and he found he had this crazy urge to move his mouth down to the side of her neck, to press it against her, to taste her skin. He wanted to feel her breasts, wanted to pull her T-shirt up and feel her hot skin against his. Damn, he wanted her.

He kissed the salty tears from her cheeks, her jaw, her neck. And then he kissed her mouth, slowly at first, tasting her pain and despair. Tasting her desire. He didn't know whether he turned her in his arms, or whether she shifted herself. He only knew she was astride him, facing him, her long legs wrapped around his hips, and the kissing had gone long past comfort.

He slid his arm under her waist, hauled her up, and entered her that way, sliding in deep, so deep, and her guttural cry was a heartbreaking pleasure. He couldn't stop. She wouldn't let him. She twisted her head around and kissed him, and he wanted to keep on and on, to fill her mouth, her body, her soul with him. To have her take everything and then want more.

Mind you she was quite exquisite when she wasn't on a tirade.

He slid his hands under her butt and she could feel him pressing against her, hot and hard and sleek. And then he thrust inside, deep, fast, burying himself inside her, breaking past whatever trace of innocence she still had remaining.

He touched her, and she came again at his touch, her mouth pulling at him. He was beyond gentleness. He shoved her back against the blanket of clothes and moved between her legs. He went in hard, fast, deep, only barely able to control himself. She wrapped her legs around his, and he reached down and pulled them higher, up around his hips, so that he was deeper still, and she was tight, clasping, milking him with the power of her climax, which was almost sweetly painful.