Quotes About Desire

I wanted to fuck her and protect her all at the same time. I wanted to keep her and push her away. I was everything in opposites, and I felt torn apart by her.

Listen to me," he said. "I will never hurt you or touch you. I won't put my hands on you unless you ask me. Beg me." I gasped and fell back against the door, strength leaving my legs. "And I want you to beg me," he said, still closer. "And I think someday you will.

It wasn't sex. It wasn't just sex. It was her. I wanted her and I wanted the honor of being wanted by her. And fuck if I hadn't made my whole life about getting what I wanted.

This is where I lived – she lived there, too. I could see it in her face. Her eyes. The way she carried herself. In the place between what we wanted and what we had. And this is where all the pain lived.

I've never been wild." "You want to be, don't you? That's why you're calling me.?" "Yeah, I guess…maybe…" "Yes or no. There's no one else here to hear you and I ain't judging." "Yes. Yes, I'd like to be wild.

Save your act for other people. The lies and the show – I don't want it. I want you. Fucked up and crazy. I want you.

You want to fuck, let's do it. Let's burn down the fucking place. We got that in us…between us. But when it's over…all I'll leave you are bruises. Because that's all I have to give you.

Our eyes were locked, I couldn't look away. I was a fly in his web and he was coming for me – I knew it. But I couldn't do anything to stop it. I didn't want to do anything to stop it.

We'd been fucking each other for months without touching. And the last few days had this thing between us strung so tightly it was amazing we could move. He was going to wreck me. Break me. And I'd never needed anything more.

And that the surest way to bring destruction upon the things she wanted was to want them in the first place. Her

That's the answer, Rosa. That you will always be the answer about whether or not I want you. I will always want you. I will die wanting you.

What do you want?" she asked, like she honestly didn't know. "What I've always wanted. What I'll want for the rest of my life," I told her with the same intensity I'd used to say my vows four years ago. "You.

We were two fucking animals eyeing each other up. It shouldn't be sexy. But it was. Because it was dangerous and wrong and that was just the way I liked my sex. This was my favorite flavor. O'Keefe, M.. Burn Down the Night (Kindle Locations 1443-1445). Random House Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.

I'm not letting you go," I told her. "And it's selfish and wrong and sooner or later you're going to wake up and realize that I can't love you the way you should be loved. Or want to be loved, and it doesn't matter.

I'm scared that the way I want you will tie me to you when I know that's not what either of us wants. Or needs. But I'm must so…" I trailed off because there were so many words that could fill in that blank. Lonely. Needy. Broken.

And it was like he couldn't hold her close enough, or hard enough against him, and I've…I've never been held like that. Not once. Not ever. And I wondered what that would feel like. What would it be like to have someone want me that much that he…just grabbed me and held on as hard as he could.

I've never…" she whispered as I kissed her neck. Her hear. The skin under her chin. She really was soft all over. "This isn't like me." I leaned back. Looked deep into her startled and wary blue eyes. "You looking for permission to fuck the way you like?" I asked. "It's yours.

What I feel in that kitchen is the way humans are so flawed and so perfect, and I want to share bodies. You know your old dog? That's how I feel—I want to climb on people, breathe their breath, lick the inside of stranger's mouths. I don't know these two, but who do we ever know, really, past the skin? How do we get there?

And she thought, Who the hell are you, Mister? But his eyes were blue and his hair was thick, and his arms were strong and sinewy. He had a Nevada tan, desert tan, wherever he'd been living, wherever he sometimes went. He was gorgeous, that hothead. She put an orange segment in her mouth, held it out toward his mouth, leaned in, rolled on top of him, her body over his, and he bit into the orange, gulped it even, made his mouth ready for more, for her, like he'd been starving.

My whole life, I wanted to be dead, but I didn't actually do anything about it. I guess I didn't want to be dead; I wanted relief. I wanted to be happy and peaceful." "That's it," she said. "It's not about dying; it's about stopping the pain." (289)

That's the way it is with dreams. They scratch at your door. You see them through the peep hole: a stray dream looking for a home. You think it might go away if you ignore it. Wrong. It's still there when you open the door, smiling. Wagging its tail.

The irony of acquiring a foreign tongue is that I have amassed just enough cheap, serviceable words to fuel my desires and never, never enough lavish, impudent ones to feed them.

As a father, he was generous. More or less. The "less" was because he never gave me what I wanted. He gave me only what he wanted me to have. I found this was often true with philanthropy and with love. The giver's desire and fulfillment played an important role.

The irony of acquiring a foreign tongue is that I have amassed just enough cheap, serviceable words to fuel my desires and never, never enough lavish, imprudent ones to feed them. It is true, though, that there are some French words that I have picked up quickly, in fact, words that I cannot remember not knowing. As if I had been born with them in my mouth, as if they were seeds of a sour fruit that someone else ate and then ungraciously stuffed its remains into my mouth.