Quotes About Passion

Murchaud's hands lightened on his hips; Murchaud's teeth closed on the nape of his neck like a stallion conquering a mare. He cried out, but Morgan's mouth muffled the sound.

Lady, if it would not kill me, I should kiss thee.

Thinkst so little of me, Sir Poet, that I must srve the agenda of my mother or my Queen, and I have no passions of mine own?

David was a featherweight in his arms, a frail thing that smelled of citrus-musk and and lilac cologne and filled him with rasping, heated pulse. David stifled a sob against his throat, jaws working, lacerating Sebastien's skin as Sebastien bore them both down on the couch.

Thinkst so little of me, Sir Poet, that I must serve the agenda of my mother or my Queen, and I have no passions of mine own?

We all have our own purposes in seducing thee, Sir Poet. Thee, and that which thou dost harbor.

He felt her moving, tasted her sweetness like venomed blood.

It would heal quite perfectly. And the sensation of the thick salvaged blood beating from his wounds into David's mouth as David knelt over him, his blond locks stuck willy-nilly between the clenching knuckles of Sebastien's hand-that was a passion worth anything.

I hauled my heart out of my pants with both hands and followed it through the breachd hull, and into the night.

I hauled my heart out of my pants with both hands and followed it through the breached hull, and into the night.

He leans over Cathoair, his felted woolen cloak falling forward to enfold them both. Bending down, he breathes across the other's face, hand still heavy on the place where Cathoair's neck runs into his shoulder. Cathoair trembles, but raises his face to the wolf's, eyes coldly defiant and full of savage light. The wolf sees also the way Cathoair's lips half-part at the taste of Mingan's breath, and the fury that follows weakness.

The hand trembled like any human's, with spent passion and frustration.

Kit reached up and over, felt down the spring plane of his shoulder blade. His left arm with its old injury wouldn't flex so far; he reached with the right. Blood-gorged flesh heated his fingertips. He could feel, almost, the outline of each tooth, the roughness of a seeking tongue. Right where someone might bite a lover take from behind- Right where a wing would take root, if he had wings.

Great passion led so easily to great tragedy.

she'd never experienced for Chandler the kind of feeling a woman should have for a man she thought about marrying, that breathless kind of wanting, that aching sort of yearning, that endless, ferocious passion, that insistent, frenzied, needy demand, that hot, sweaty, wanton arousal that made a woman just want to rip off her clothes and wrap her naked body around a man and feed herself to him whole, that... that…

One has to commit a painting,' said Degas, 'the way one commits a crime.

Being a poet is one of the unhealthier jobs--no regular hours, so many temptations!

I must have something to engross my thoughts, some object in life which will fill this vacuum, and prevent this sad wearing away of the heart.

First love, with its frantic haughty imagination, swings its object clear of the everyday, over the rut of living, making him all looks, silences, gestures, attitudes, a burning phrase with no context. This isolation, young love and hero worship accomplish without remorse; they hardly know tenderness.

Young girls like the excess of any quality. Without knowing, they want to suffer, to suffer they must exaggerate; they like to have loud chords struck upon them. Loving art better than life they need men to be actors; only an actor moves them, with his telling smile, undomestic, out of touch with the everyday that they dread. They love to enjoy love as a system of doubts and shocks. They are right; not seeking husbands yet, they have no reason to see love socially.

Everything ungirt, artless, ardent, urgent about Louie was to the fore: all over herself she gave the impression of twisted stockings.

He left her and looked round for his glass again. Meanwhile, he said to himself in a quoting voice: "We are minor in everything but our passions." "Wherever did you read that?" "Nowhere: I woke up and heard myself saying it, one night." "How pompous you were in the night. I'm so glad I was asleep.

Love is obtuse and reckless; it interferes.

In you there may persist some spark of what's everywhere else gone out: who knows why else I've loved you? Through love you've lit me – don't quarrel now with which way the fire blows.