Quotes About Desire

She had forgotten—ah, yes, she had forgotten just how much he could stir her blood and make her ache with longing for him.

She wanted this to happen, had wanted it from that first moment of meeting him on the laneway home a couple of weeks before. She wanted him. She loved him. He was Christopher, and she did not care about anything else. She did not care.

Her heart ached on.

The passion in his face might have been love, might have been hate, might have been both.

When she had been in his arms, his mouth on hers, she had surrendered completely to a physical longing that should have died years before. She had wanted him and given in to that desire. She had loved him.

It is just that I have always been determined, you see, to marry someone I loved.

Had he really held her and kissed her, not in anger, but in real need? Had there been tears in his eyes when he first lifted her against him? Had he called her 'darling,' as he had done during those days in Devon? And he had been going to take her to bed. She could have made love with Robert last night. Her needle paused above her work as shivers sizzled up her arms and along her spine.

Oh, Robert, please kiss me, she begged suddenly. Make me forget all my fears.

For there is no guilt in harboring a forbidden love.

The need to cry was almost a pain.

They always quarreled bitterly when they were alone together—or they made love.

She thought for one moment that he was going to kiss her and longed for the touch of his lips.

She might have said yes. It was a shameful admission to have to make even in the privacy of her own thoughts. Perhaps especially there. He exerted a very powerful magic over her. Even more powerful than when she had first known him.

She wanted his very soul, it seemed. Well, she would have it. He had no more use for it himself.

He did not immediately answer. Their eyes locked and neither looked away. Camille swallowed as he pushed away from the counter and came toward her. He set one hand on the table beside hers and the other on the back of her chair. He drew breath as though to say something, but then leaned over her instead and kissed her.

She had kissed him back, eagerly, inexpertly . . . and had rashly gazed into his eyes afterward and told him with passionate conviction that she loved him, that she would always, always love him.

If only he had been any other man in the world.

There is no other woman as lovely as you . . . And only you can satisfy my soul.

You are right, he said, his words slightly slurred. I have been drinking. And drink makes me sentimental. Tomorrow I shall be able to see you as you really are again and I shall despise myself for having detained you here. But for tonight, Elizabeth, I find you infinitely desirable.

Painting for him, she had realized then, was neither a hobby nor just a way of earning a living. It was a passion and a compulsion. In a certain sense it was who he was. She envied him. She had never been passionate about anything in her life. She had never allowed herself to be. She had deliberately shunned any excess of feeling as ungenteel. It was almost as though she had feared passion and where it might lead her.

Life could never offer what she most dreamed of.

Without even realizing it, he had come running to her.

He needed her. He needed her now.

She longed for it and dreaded it.