Quotes About Emotion

She felt the pain of his loss inside her like a savage hook. She wanted to reach into him and take it out, as though it were shrapnel. But the pain was old to him, and somehow it had become a part of him. He could bear it and speak of it. It had shaped him; he had accommodated it. He had loved and he had lost and it had made him who he was.

And before he knew what he was doing, he reached out and with a thumb brushed away one teardrop glistening in that mauve crescent beneath her eyes. And then he looked down at his thumb, and rubbed the tear out of existence, right into his skin.

I took a fall," he confirmed evenly. After a hesitation doubtless only Phoebe noticed. And Phoebe didn't know whether it was the sort of fall Lucifer took, or the sort poets wrote about when love struck, or even if it was an innuendo at all, because she suspected everything was destined to sound like an innuendo from now on.

Fear did rather play havoc with one's self of time.

i can only think god is responsible for passion,for god gives us bodies with which to express it and heart in which to hold it

She wanted to buckle, lie on her side and gasp like an eviscerated fish. She held her breath against it, but her mouth parted. She cared naught for living in the moment, but apparently her body was sensible. It wanted to breathe.

How had she ever thought his blue eyes placid as a lake? But there was untold power in any water: to buoy, to drown, to toss, to carry one to the safety of shore.

He composed himself inwardly. Sparing the world his awkwardness, hiding vulnerability. Preserving his pride.

Her mind was obsessively playing and replaying his words of five minutes ago. And finally she could contain them no longer. 'Was she pretty?' she mimicked the vicar's creaky tones. 'Very,' she answered, in a very good imitation of the viscount's own baritone. Kit snorted a laugh. But really, Kit had waxed almost lyrical about Caroline Allston--- Caro, no doubt. Susannah wondered of Caro was carved on the viscount's heart the way it was on the oak, scarred and thick with age.

there was a sudden easing in him, as if someone had finally played a note that harmonized with the one he sounded every day.

I couldn't see it because you are my heart, damn you! And how can I see my own heart if it's beating in my own chest?

Rebecca stared back at him, still dazed. She'd forgotten how to speak; it seemed an unimportant skill, anyhow, when such kisses were to be had, when a whole world could be made from a kiss.

It's . . . Titian, Genevieve breathed. I'm sure of it. A slow, awestruck, disbelieving smile took over her face. Stunned pleasure shone from her eyes. And he was certain her heart was racing with the sheer delight of being in the presence of the thing. Because his heart was racing at simply watching her love it.

The line of Miss Eversea's spine seemed positively 'alive' with... something. Outrage? Horror? Hilarity? He noticed the very fine line of hair traveling up the fragile nape of her neck, and something about that intimate little trail made the back of his own neck tingle as though she'd brushed her fingers there. Something entirely unexpected was happening in the region of his solar plexus.

sex always changed things between people, a bit the way an earthquake shifts a landscape.

Her heart was walloping away in her throat, and she was certain he could feel it, as his fingers lingered there. Nearly everything on her body that could stand erect was erect now, clamoring for his touch. The hair on the back of her neck, her arms. Her nipples. Are you afraid, Genevieve? No. You do enjoy saying my name. It has a lilt. I see. Her voice was faint. Because you should consider being a little afraid.

Only two things kept her from loathing him. The expression on his face when he'd said, France. And the expression on his face when he'd said, home.

she echoed with longing, like struck crystal.

Murmured to him nonsense, which is the language of love

Trust was freedom, she understood now. It was a luxury. Without it, life was a cell. No emotion could ever get through unfettered and it seemed a hellish way to live.

They regarded each other somberly, making internal adjustments to accommodate the mere glorious fact of each other.

Love.' What a wilderness of pain, of yearning, of loss could be contained in that word. Patient and kind nonsense, is how Lady Fennimore had put it. Love wasn't for cowards; he wondered if it was for the wise. He supposed love itself made you stupid at first, or no one, no one would ever fall in love at all.

They really 'did,' you know, he said softly, suddenly. Did? She was puzzled. The roses. Remind me of you. They're precisely the sort of flowers you ought to have. Those spectacular, throbbing, lush blooms that now stood guard over her bed. With petals unconscionably soft.

But she bravely kept her eyes open; she was both lost and found in the soft, burning depths of his eyes.