Quotes About Emotion

She flew in, all fiery flashing eyes and flushed cheeks, her bosom heaving beneath black wool. She was magnificent. Tell them to let her go! Séraphine ordered him imperiously. Tell them to let her go right now . She stood over him, her lips wet, her body shaking with her rage, and he wanted to take her and roll her beneath him and fuck her into the mattress.

Miss Greaves drifted behind them, silent as a wraith. He had the most persistent urge to turn and confront her—make her say something to him.

I need you. He licked her bruised lip to soothe it. I can't think straight without you. My world is all turned around, and I go through it in pain, wanting to hurt someone.

Then I wish I had it in my power to make him live without the sun for the rest of his pitiful life." She stopped and glanced at him. "That's a romantic thing to say." He shook his head. "I'm not a romantic man, Miss Greaves. I don't say things that I don't mean. I find it a waste of time.

If she'd been quizzed as to His Grace's eye color, she would've had to reply simply that they were dark. Which they were. Very dark, nearly black, but not quite. The Duke of Wakefield's eyes were a deep, rich brown, like coffee newly brewed, like walnut wood oiled and polished, like seal fur shining in the light, and even though they were rather lovely to look at, they were as cold as iron in winter. One touch and her very soul might freeze.

He looked down the table again and felt an irrational urge to push poor Mr. Watts out of his chair when Miss Greaves tilted her head toward him to hear something he'd said. He caught her eye briefly and she stared back in defiance, her mouth twisting tragically before looking away again. Something was wrong. She was leaking emotion.

She glanced at the man quickly. "Thank you." She meant to say more, but something was caught in her throat. Her eyes stung. "Weep not, proud Diana," Maximus murmured. "The moon will not allow it." "No." She agreed, swiping fiercely at her cheeks. "There's no need for tears yet.

Have you no care for your reputation?" She stepped toward him until she was so close he fancied he breathed the same air as she and when she tilted her face up to look at him he saw that she wasn't nearly as calm as he'd imagined. "No," she murmured, her voice a siren's song, "none at all." "Then I'll be damned if I will," he muttered and kissed her.

I want to make you weep. I want all your pleasure, Iris, all your pain, everything you are. Come for me. And she felt herself bow with the stark white bliss of her epiphany, the shattering realization of his words and his hands and his mouth. She was gasping for breath, shaking, lost, unseeing. The center of her being pulsing with pleasure.

winter?" She traced a circle on his breastbone, her touch

He took a deep breath and wished irritably that she would call him by his given name. He longed to hear her say Edward. But no. It would be highly inappropriate for her to call him by his Christian name. He gathered his scattered thoughts. "We should return to work." He stood and strode from the room, feeling as if he were fleeing fire-breathing monsters rather than one plain little widow.

He rose up suddenly and turned her, so that she lay on the bed. He pushed up her skirts, found the ties to her panniers, and yanked them off and threw them to the floor. Then he was on her again, trailing his mouth down her neck, biting at her collarbone. She ran her fingers into the hair at the back of his head, grasping, trying to hold on as he moved on her so intently. He'd always been in control when he'd made love to her. Now he seemed moved by a sort of compulsion. An animal need.

His eyes narrowed to slits.Make love. Make love to me. Now

Fuck, you mean? His eyes narrowed to slits.Make love. Make love to me. Now

Fuck, you mean? His eyes narrowed to slits.Make love. Make love to me. Now

I see a woman who has a deep curiosity. Who wants to feel but is worried- of herself? Of others? I'm not sure. But I think she has a fire banked within her. Maybe it's only embers now, glowing in the dark, but if tinder were to be put to those embers... oh, what a conflagration that would be.

He remembered Mrs. Dews' light brown eyes last night. The way they'd closed in bliss when he'd fed her the plum tart… Her emotion was foreign, wild and exciting, and entirely fascinating--and she tried so very hard to hide it. Why? He wanted to spend time with the source of such powerful emotion. Wanted to experiment, poke and prod, see what else made her cheeks flush her breath come fast.

Fuck, you mean?His eyes narrowed to slits. Make love. Make love to me. Now

Never underestimate the fury of an angry mother, Caspar. They're the most vicious creatures in the world.

I know that you're a virgin and as bodiless as any paralytic. I know I'm old and not as handsome as I once was. But I know you love me as I love you.' And he kissed the angel.

Doesn't every love express itself this way, with the seeds of both its flowering and its ruin in the very first words, the first breath, the first though?

People seem to believe that despair is the same as anguish, but it is not. It's true that despair is surrounded by anguish, but at its core, despair is silent, a blank page.

A broken heart is not the same as sadness. Sadness occurs when the heart is stone cold and lifeless. On the contrary, there is an unbelievable amount of vitality in a broken heart.

He kissed her palm and said simply, "They're brilliant." Cat drew a ragged breath, realizing that it was the first one she had allowed herself for a long time. "Ashcroft didn't think so," she said. "He told me they were cold and empty. Like me." "Ashcroft has the aesthetics of diarrhea.