Quotes About Romance

And remembered—all he'd nearly forgotten, all her wild responses had driven from his mind. This was one seduction he had to, needed to, manage perfectly—this time, there was meaning beyond the act. Seducing Patience Debbington was too important to rush—conquering her senses, her body, was only the first step. He didn't want her just once—he wanted her for a lifetime.

and so the lion fell in love with the lamb.

You know, you're hot and you've got that badass manly man thing going and I'm crazily attracted to you, but honestly, I suspect you're going to be a little too bossy for my tastes. Thanks for the offer on the whole love-me-die-for-me thing, but I'll pass.

Apparently, I'm a senstive guy. You didn't notice that about me right away?" He moved closer, carefully, slowly encroaching on her space. "I cry at chick flicks and weddings.

I learned the truth at seventeen, That love was meant for beauty queens, And high school girls with clear skinned smiles, Who married young and then retired.

Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe, all were for me, in the kiss of one girl.

Imagination, whatever may be said to the contrary, will always hold a place in history, as truth does in romance. Has not romance been penned with history in view?

The truth is I have had, for whatever reason, several movie-star boyfriends.

Men like to chase and you have to let us chase you. I know. It's insulting. It's frustrating. It's unfortunately the truth.

If a man, sitting all alone, cannot dream strange things, and make them look like truth, he need never try to write romances.

We love being in love, that's the truth on't.

A first kiss in the book stacks. Now that was romantic.

The truth is, I always want to kiss you.

Do you believe in love at first sight?I don't know but it saves an awful lot of time

When you're playing a romantic version of a real person, you're playing a version of the truth.

His youth had been so long ago that he could remember nothing of it but he presumed, erroneously, that he had tasted the purple fruit, had broken hearts and hymens, had tossed flowers to ladies on balconies, had drunk champagne out of their shoes and generally been irresistible.

But he believed that every great love was in some measure a terrible mistake.

Other than along certain emotional tangents there was little in the book that felt as if it had actually been lived. It was a fiction produced by someone who knew only fictions, The Tempest as written by isolate Miranda, raised on the romances in her father's library.

Rosa's brush caught the rime of ash on his lapel, the missed button of his waistcoat, the tender, impatient, defiant expression in his eyes by means of which he is clearly trying to convey to the artist, telepathically, that he intends, in an hour or so, to f*ck her.

He took a step toward her, than another, tentatively, gathering all his strength, as though about to throw a heavy switch that would, if his calculations were correct, bring light to a hundred cities and ten thousand darkened rooms. He was going to ask her to dance - that was all.

Valetta, he said, thinking she still looked good, then abandoning his Spidey sense long enough to let her take him in her arms, the skin of her bare shoulder in a halter top cool against his shoulder, the lady most definitely giving off that heavy 1978 Spencer's smell of love candles and sandlewood incense but, laid over top of it, the stink of cigarette, the instant-potatoes smell you might find in the interior of a beat-to-shit Toronado. Damn.

He had yet to fall in love to the degree that he felt he was capable of falling, had never written villanelles or declaration veiled in careful metaphor, nor sold his blood plasma to buy champagne or jonquils, nor haunted a mailbox or a phone booth or a certain café, nor screamed his beloved's name in the streets at three in the morning, heedless of the neighbors.

I have a boyfriend now. A real one. We're totally dating, it's very strange.

It is an absurd expression of romantic hope.