Quotes About Desire

He could no longer prolong the sweet agony.

Piers had only ever been for her remotest dreams, anyway.

And you are all the home I will ever long for . . . Now and for the rest of my life even if I do not see you again after tonight.

He chattered on with the larger group, reclining indolently on one elbow on the blanket, sucking on the end of a blade of grass, and resisting with all the power of his will the urge to jump to his feet and stride off through the trees alone. He felt rather as if he were suffocating.

She gave up the struggle. She gave up everything. Nothing mattered any longer except this moment. She raised her head and sought his mouth.

Do you love me? she asked him, lifting her face to his . . . He kissed her. She clung to him, tasting his answer in his mouth.

But body and mind knew alike that he was Piers, that she had given all of herself to him, with nothing held back. She knew it, and she reveled in the knowledge. For all her life she would know that they had been lovers for one brief and glorious night.

She had had to decide between one glorious night of love and a lifetime of friendship. She had chosen the night of love.

Teddy. Diana floated on a cushion of fuzziness and wanted him. She wanted the terrible loneliness to go away. But Teddy was dead. He would never be there again.

She looked more fragile and more lovely than ever in the moonlight. He felt that stirring of desire he had felt the first time he had touched her and she him.

Ah, something about young love, I believe. There is no stopping it, apparently.

She was suddenly plagued by a thoroughly novel desire to rush across to where he still sat in his chair, and cradle his head against her breast. She had never seen him vulnerable, had never even dreamed that he had any weakness.

He hovered at the edge of a kiss, just as a few nights before he had hovered . . .

I could not crave any other woman when there was you.

Do you not know that I love you more than is good for me?

I find myself decidedly breathless when I am so close to you.

He wanted her. He did not say so, but the evidence was there for her, and it was indisputable. He wanted her. And she wanted him, with an ache that drugged her mind again. It had been so long. So very long. And it had never been exciting. Never anything but briefly and mildly pleasurable. But she ached to be possessed again, to feel her femininity affirmed again. And with him. With him it would be good. Very good.

It would be a challenge worth undertaking . . . to rid your face of that look of longing . . . and to replace it with a look of—something else.

But she did not want to break away. This moment was the whole of life. Tomorrow he would be gone.

And he must have felt her desire. And her surrender. He might have made her his.

Light flirtation was in danger of giving way to something less comfortable.

She wants him to stay. She wants to be persuaded.

For the rest of her life she would miss him and love him. But for this moment she was here in his arms and nothing else mattered. If he were a murderer and a traitor, it would not matter at the moment. Now was all that was important.

That kiss! The memory of it, brief as it had been, so consumed her with embarrassment that her mind shied away from it altogether—and could think of nothing else. Not just the kiss but the mortifying knowledge that she had burned for him, that her womb had throbbed with the need to feel him there. Mortifying indeed!