Quotes About Passion

And, Sassenach, he whispered, your face is my heart.

Do you know how rare such a thing is?" he asked quietly. "That peculiar sort of mutual passion?" The one-sided kind was common enough.

I am thinking that you're verra beautiful, Sassenach, he said softly. Maybe if one has a taste for gooseflesh on a large scale, I said tartly, stepping out of the tub and reaching for the cup. He grinned suddenly at me, teeth flashing white in the dimness of the cellar. Oh, aye, he said. Well, you're speaking to the only man in Scotland who has a terrible cockstand at sight of a plucked chicken.

I felt the tributaries of his veins, wished to enter into his bloodstream, travel there, dissolved and bodiless, to take refuge in the thick walled chambers of his heart.

Does it ever stop, Claire? The wanting?

My body is out from my control," he said softly. "She was the half of my body—the very half of my soul.

Then kiss me, Claire," he whispered. "And know that you are more to me than life, and I have no regret." I couldn't answer, but kissed him, first his hand, its crooked fingers warm and firm, and the brawny wrist of a sword-wielder, and then his mouth, haven and promise and anguish all mingled, and the salt of tears in the taste of him.

Damn you, Sassenach! his voice said, from a very great distance. His voice was choked with passion. Damn you! I swear if ye die on me, I'll kill you!

There is nothing more delightful in life than a feather bed and an open fire—except a feather bed with a warm and tender lover in it.

He said the greatest thing in a man's life is to lie wi' a woman he loves

Love for a child cannot be free; from the first signs of movement in the womb, a devotion springs up as powerful as it is mindless, irresistible as the process of birth itself. But powerful as it is, it is a love always of control; one is in charge, the protector, the watcher, the guardian—there is great passion in it, to be sure, but never abandon.

I'm honest enough to say that I dinna care what the right and wrong of it may be, so long as you are here wi' me, Claire," he said softly. "If it was a sin for you to choose me Ã¢â'¬Â¦ then I would go to the Devil himself and bless him for tempting ye to it." He lifted my foot and gently kissed the tip of my big

He came through the front door just as I barreled into the hallway, and grabbed me round the waist, kissing me with sun-dusty enthusiasm and sandpaper whiskers. "You're back," I said, rather inanely. "I am, and there are Indians just behind me," he said, clutching my bottom with both hands and rasping his whiskers fervently against my cheek. "God, what I'd give for a quarter of an hour alone wi' ye, Sassenach!

My love," he whispered. "Oh, my love. I do want ye so.

Does it ever stop? The wanting you?" His hand came around to caress my breast. "Even when I've just left ye, I want you so much my chest feels tight and my fingers ache with wanting to touch ye again.

I want to hold you hard to me and kiss you, and never let you go. I want to take you to my bed and use you like a whore, 'til I forget that I exist. And I want to put my head in your lap and weep like a child.

His head bowed and his lips fastened softly on my nipple. I groaned, feeling the half-painful prickle of the milk rushing through the tiny ducts. I put a hand behind his head, and pressed him slightly closer. "Harder," I whispered.

In bed," she said calmly. "I want you to come to bed with me.

He came through the front door just as I barreled into the hallway, and grabbed me round the waist, kissing me with sun-dusty enthusiasm and sandpaper whiskers.

his weight pinning me to the bed.

Oh, many and many a time," he whispered. "When I saw you. When I took ye, not caring did ye want me or no, did ye have somewhere else to be, someone else to love.

Je t'aime, it said: I love you. Un peu, beaucoup, passionnément, pas du tout: A little, a lot, passionately—not at all.

One never stops to think what underlies romance. Tragedy and terror, transmuted by time. Add a little art in the telling, and voilà! a stirring romance, to make the blood run fast and maidens sigh.

Jamie was real, alright, more real than anything had ever been to me, even Frank and my life in 1945. Jamie, tender lover and perfidious blackguard.