Quotes About Connection

I asked him then: 'What are you after?' 'To be in hell with you,' he said.

And you, my friends! So few of you remain That you are dearer daily. I rejoice In you. How short the road has become, That once appeared the longest road of all.

True Tenderness" True tenderness is silent and can't be mistaken for anything else. In vain with earnest desire you cover my shoulders with fur; In vain you try to persuade me of the merits of first love. But I know too well the meaning of your persistent burning glances.

Oh, my home is not my own – I lament and rue. Answer, stranger yet unknown, I am seeking you!

On Hemingway: Have you noticed how lonely all people in his works are - no relatives, no family?

He never asks for endearment, all quiet, Only gazes at me all the time, And he bears with a blissful smile This distressing oblivion of mine.

Is this why, for countless days, In my arms I carried you, Is this why your strength had blazed Through your lively eyes of blue!

You haunt me still somehow, I've saved each word from you. — Anna Akhmatova, White Flock: Poetry of Anna Akhmatova . Translated by Andrey Kneller (CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform July 30, 2013)

As the presence of those we love is as a double life, so absence, in its anxious longing and sense of vacancy, is as a foretaste of death.

We can sometimes love what we do not understand, but it is impossible completely to understand what we do not love.

He had never said her name. Indeed, he couldn't say it. Not because he's forgotten it. Mot certainly he hadn't forgotten it. It was the dread of the capitulation of it, of the handing over of himself in it, of what it might take from him to pay her the compliment of letting her know he really knew her name.

He had never said her name. Indeed, he couldn't say it. Not because he'd forgotten it. Mot certainly he hadn't forgotten it. It was the dread of the capitulation of it, of the handing over of himself in it, of what it might take from him to pay her the compliment of letting her know he really knew her name.

You love me," he said slowly, wonderingly. Then with greater certainty, "By God, you love me." His astonished laugh ended on a choked note as he snatched her hand. "So much," she said huskily. Her fingers curled hard around his. "So very, very much.

Open your mouth, tesoro." He angled her face higher. "Open your mouth for me." At his raw demand, her eyes flared wide. For a drunken moment, he drowned in glorious brown, rich, autumnal, sensual.

He'd called her a sparrow. If he made the slightest untoward movement, his wild bird would fly away into the forest and he'd never find her again. And the strangest result of the last days was the certainty that if Miss Philippa Sanders left his life, it would be immeasurably poorer.

Hell," he whispered. He swept her into his arms and leaned down to claim those plump, glistening lips. Her glorious taste thundered through him. Salty and tart like a mixture of green apples and the sea. He discovered without any real surprise that he'd craved the flavor of Charlotte Warren all his life. For

All he noticed was Grace. Her exquisite skin, her slender curves wrapped in silk the color of sky, her lush mouth. He ripped himself from his distraction and crossed to the sideboard to pour her wine. But invisible wires connected him to her. Wires that tightened infinitesimally with every breath so the effort of keeping his hands off her became more onerous by the second.

She blinked and with surprising reluctance, stepped apart from him. Another horrid blush stained her cheeks, and she only just stopped herself from raising a hand to touch where he'd kissed her. Her skin burned where his lips had touched.

Tell me more about your home. I can hear in your voice how you love it." He smiled. "You'd love it, too, mo chridhe." "What do you call me?" He wasn't quite ready to tell her, so he pretended not to hear the question.

He was looking at her. At her... there . She couldn't mistake the unalloyed yearning on his face as he knelt between her white thighs. It should disgust her. He should disgust her. But the idea of him seeing that hidden part of her made her shake with raw excitement.

He should laugh, tease, treat her lightly, keep her guessing. But instead his words rang with unstrategic truth. "I remember everything you've ever said to me.

She clenched into climax, clutching at him, imperiously demanding he stay inside her. Still he rode her. Taking her higher into blinding pleasure. The blazing rapture sent her reeling. At the peak, she called out his name. This time when her passage gripped him, she held on until he joined the glorious conflagration. She milked him until he was spent. Even then quivers of ecstasy shook her.

Seeing her was like standing in sunlight after a long, hard winter, but he couldn't be easy meeting her in such surroundings. "Oh, Jonas," she said in a broken voiced started to cry. "Tesoro... sweetheart... my love," he choked out, cradling her in his arms. "Don't cry. Please don't cry.

Seeing her was like standing in sunlight after a long, hard winter, but he couldn't be easy meeting her in such surroundings. "Oh, Jonas," she said in a broken voice and started to cry. "Tesoro... sweetheart... my love," he choked out, cradling her in his arms. "Don't cry. Please don't cry.