Quotes About Yearning

her touch fire and bliss. He couldn't hold out against her much longer. His defences were dropping with each passing second and now he teetered on the edge of surrendering to her seduction.

That is why I brought you here, to keep you with me, where you can please make . . . everything . . . stop.

he ran a finger along the bottom side of her breast as if it helped clarify his thoughts. All it did for her was heat up her insides and make her want him even more.

I wished I could be a statue. I wanted to be the statue of Joan of Arc without actually having to have been Joan of Arc… And I thought, I must really hate my life if I can get jealous of a statue.

It was intensely infuriating the way it always is when you call a man you shouldn't be calling.

Dear God, you are beautiful. I tried to forget, to pretend I did not need you, but it was no use. You haunt my waking hours and my dreams, and though I know if I stay with you my soul my soul will be lost and my life damned, I cannot stay away, nor can I put you from me. So come and let me drown in your bewitching angel's eyes. Some things bought dearly are worth the price.

Moistening her lips, she asked, "That's what this is all about? Bringing me here?" His hesitation was so slight she almost missed it. "It could be. Probably is, after all." "You still want to seduce me." "I want whatever you can give me," he murmured against her ear. "Where we go from here may depend on what I can give you.

She moistened her lips. "I only thought, that is, I am so confined, so endlessly guarded. I sometimes feel desperate to be free of it. It seems that there would be no need for such close watch if I were no longer… chaste.

As much as he needed the sweet surcease to be had in her body, he yearned to know her mind, to seek deep within it and sense a welcome for him there. He wanted to share her thoughts, her dreams, her secrets. He wanted her to come to him with desire, to reach inside him and discover how open he was to her.

know what it is to want something so badly, you feel like your cells aren't properly bonded together without it. At any moment you might just crumble apart.

It's kind of amazing, how nostalgic you can feel for memories that never actually happened.

A trip to Paris had sounded so adventurous when I was first talking about it a year earlier. People spoke about the city with dreamy longing, as though Paris possessed a magic that could not be found elsewhere. I'd never heard anyone talk about Paris without sighing. The city was a Promised Land that held appeal for most everyone: artists, lovers, even people who just liked cheese.

People who are incapable of having any kind of intimate relationship have to turn to feeling this incredible hunger and void, have to turn to some quantifiable external product to make them feel whole.

The rain comes down harder as I write. It sheets off the roof in torrents. I wish it would pound against me. Pound the life from my body. The flesh from my bones. The pain from my heart.

The guitar's still around me. I slip it off and put it down. I want to feel him. To feel his breath on my neck. The warmth of his skin. To feel something other than sadness. Hold me, I tell him silently. Hold me here. To this place. This life. Make me want you. Want this. Want something. Please

I did not want His cold love. I wanted human love—clasping, selfish, and hot. I wanted to smell the rank sweat of the men… I wanted love—reeking, drunken, hungry love.

Sometimes it's easier to say that you hate what you can't have rather than admit how badly you want it.

It was more than a book, more than a story. It was like nothing she'd ever known. And everything she'd ever wanted.

His arms around her felt like nothing she'd ever known and everything she'd ever wanted.

All I'd need is a minute. Not major time. Not the kind of time it takes to compose a symphony. Build a palace. Fight a war. Just a few crappy seconds. The kind of time it takes to tie a shoe. Peel a banana. Blow your nose. But I haven't got it. And I never will.

A veces es más fácil decir que odias lo que no tienes que reconocer cuánto lo quieres.

A lo largo de su vida siempre había querido y amado lo que no debía. Lo que le rompía el corazón. Todo aquello no era para ella, el mundo se lo había dicho. Entonces ¿para qué pedirlo? No serviría más que para hacerle daño de nuevo.

They wait. For what? They do not know. But they can feel it coming. Splashed by carriage wheels, they feel it. Outside cafes, looking in, they feel it. At night, in their narrow beds, they feel it. Counting the days snubs and mocks, they feel it. And it fires them.

the hunger that hides in our hearts is the one that kills us" ~Isabelle, Step sister