Quotes About Yearning

What is going to happen between you and me in that time? Are we going to do what we both want to do?

Being with them had always filled him with a yearning for a similar sort of love. He had tried to find it, but he had never come close.

You cannot make a romantic lover of me, my dear. Or a noble character. I want you. In bed, do you understand? And I mean to do everything in my power during the next two weeks to have you there. Nothing else. No romance.

It's not enough. There has to be something else. And there is nothing else between you and me.

It seems almost as if you want me to reject you. As if you wish to be saved from yourself.

Perhaps it was the knowledge that she was beyond him that had made his love of her such a lasting, painful thing.

There is no such thing as the love you are looking for. It is only in your dreams. If that is so . . . then I think I would prefer my dreams to your reality, Jack.

But if he let himself think too deeply, he could still dream of finding someone like her.

I could not possibly want anything more.

But in the meantime, he said, there is the loneliness and the emptiness to be dealt with. His lips touched hers again, but she drew back. Do you mean mine or your own? she asked.

Henry wanted to hate him. She did hate him! But she could not stop herself from caring. She had grown to enjoy his companionship, to need his attention and approval. She had come to love him and want his caresses. She had given herself to him completely on that one night they had had together, and had believed that for him it had been as earth-shattering an experience as it had been for her.

I fell in love with you when I saw you that summer, he said. I adored you for years afterward. You were so lovely, so pure, so totally unattainable.

I loved you passionately. I always dreamed of your loving me, far back where dreams are kept.

She would not live with him day by day, aching for every kind word or chance touch.

He always felt a pang of something—anger? bitterness? loneliness?—when he heard Christina laugh. She seemed able to do it with everyone except him.

And all the time he stood there . . . he was aware of Christina beside him, beautiful, elegant, gracious, smelling of lavender—and for this evening and a few more days his to look at, to admire, to yearn for.

It is a trial to live in such a retired corner of the country, where one rarely sees anyone worth seeing.

unguarded moment she pictured herself waltzing with Viscount Whitleaf

He could not do it. It was as simple as that. He had known it there at the castle as he held her in his arms, his head bent back against the stone pillar, his body aching and aching for her. He could not do it. She had done nothing to deserve him and the kind of destruction he could bring into her life.

One day I am going to share the sort of love with a man that poets write of.

The next few days were all she could ever have of him.

And there was that other thing too—that thing that dominated his every waking moment and kept him from sleep at night and haunted his dreams when he did nod off. There was Allie.

He knew that after tomorrow he would try to remember what she looked like and not always succeed.

He was not sure how many minutes passed while they held each other and kissed each other as if they could never be close enough to satisfy the craving of their hearts. The depth of their very obviously mutual passion left him shaken and disoriented.