Quotes About Tenderness

What happened, honey?" She melted at the endearment, at the look in his eyes. "I fell in love with you." Her words left her mouth on a rush of air. Something flared in his eyes. He pulled off his gloves, his eyes never leaving her, and cradled her face. His hands were warm and rough against her cold cheeks. "Eden . . .," he whispered. "I love you too.

Jimmy looked back over at his wife, and Celeste could feel the tenderest of aches in the look. She could feel another teardrop piece of Jimmy's heart detach and free-fall down the inside of his chest.

I do not live in you, I bear my house inside me, everywhere until your winters grow more kind by the dancing firelight of mind where knobs of brass do not exist whose doors dissolve in tenderness House that lets in, at last, those fears that are its guests, to sit on chairs feasts on their human faces, and takes pity simply by the hand shows her her room, and feels the hum of wood and brick becoming home.

And do you care for me?" He kissed her without answering "Tha mun goo, let me dust thee," he said. His hand passed over the curves of her body, firmly, without desire, but with soft, intimate knowledge.

She is stirring a pot of leben yogurt, which is heated slowly, carefully, tenderly, and hopefully, layered with butter and onions and heady and rich as a high summer night. She cannot stop stirring because it is a fragile, temperamental sauce, given to breaking and curdling if given its way. So she must wait and stand and stir and stir and stir and look and look.

As yet too hungry and too clumsy for tenderness, still he made love with a sort of unflagging joy that made me think that male virginity might be a highly underrated commodity.

Don't cry, Sassenach, he said, so softly I could barely hear him.

Well, I'll tell ye, Sassenach, 'graceful' is possibly not the first word that springs to mind at the thought of you. He slipped an arm behind me, one hand large and warm around my silk-clad shoulder. But I talk to you as I talk to my own soul, he said, turning me to face him. He reached up and cupped my cheek, fingers light on my temple. And, Sassenach, he whispered, your face is my heart.

Within an hour, I had gone from anguish at the thought of losing him in Scotland, to a strong desire to bed him in the herbaceous borders, and from that to a pronounced urge to hit him on the head with an oar. Now I was back to tenderness.

the ancient savagery that men call motherhood, who mistake its tenderness for weakness.

I love you," he murmured. "Oh, Bree, I do love you." She didn't answer, but a hand floated up from the dark and lay along his cheek, gentle as a tendril of seaweed. She kept it there while he took her, laid open in trust, while her other hand held his beating heart.

His head bowed and his lips fastened softly on my nipple. I groaned, feeling the half-painful prickle of the milk rushing through the tiny ducts. I put a hand behind his head, and pressed him slightly closer. "Harder," I whispered.

Mm, you're nice to croodle wi', he murmured, doing what I assumed was croodling.

I cried then, holding nothing back. For empty years, yearning for the touch of a hand. Hollow years, lying beside a man I had betrayed, for whom I had no tenderness. For the terrors and doubts and griefs of the day. Cried for him and me and for Mary MacNab, who knew what loneliness was—and what love was, as well.

He grabbed her and held on, thinking that nothing in his life had ever felt better than the weight of her against him and the taste of her mouth, in spite of the fact that she'd plainly eaten onions for lunch

Her breath was warm on his cheek, smelling of fried egg.

Gently, he turned me away from him and fitted himself to my back so we lay nested together. His hand cupped my breast, not in invitation or demand, but because it seemed to belong there.

like that! Here, just let me tuck that bit in for ye.

She was entirely calm, no more than a conduit for the ancient savagery that men call motherhood, who mistake its tenderness for weakness.

The impulse to touch a sleeping child never fades, no matter that the child is a good deal larger than her mother, and a woman - if a young one - in her own right.

But I talk to you as I talk to my own soul," he said, turning me to face him. He reached up and cupped my cheek, fingers light on my temple. "And, Sassenach," he whispered, "your face is my heart.

squeezed her heart. Claire murmured something

But mad passion wasn't a necessary prerequisite for tenderness or consideration, was it?

He wrapped his arms about his