Throes Of Passion Quotes

Han made no effort to put up a brave front. Most of the time he just screamed himself hoarse, though a couple of times he amused himself by screaming Fionas's name as if he were in the throes of passion. FEEE-OHHH-NAAA! Lord Bayar made him pay for that, but afterward, Fiona didn't come down anymore, which Han appreciated.

In the throes of passion, I threw out an I love you. Did I mean it? Does a dictionary mean what it says?

Hetty turned her attention back to her subject’s face and was quite surprised to see a meek little submissive, almost ashamed of the orgasm she was about to have, panting and heaving for breath whilst nearly foaming at the mouth. Indeed she looked quite tortured in the throes of passion and any Master would be extremely pleased with that particular look during training.

I look at him and my body reacts in a way that it never has before, even in the throes of passion. I look at him and I start aching so deep inside it takes all I can to think, to breathe, to speak. He’s like the brightest flame and it takes everything in me to resist its call. I know that if I give in, I’ll get burned so deeply, there might be nothing left once I come out the other side. But, god, I want to step into that flame.

So Jesus in the throes of his Passion is an image of hope: God is on the side of those who suffer.

Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900. To You WHOEVER you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams, I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands; Even now, your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you, Your true Soul and Body appear before me, They stand forth out of affairs—out of commerce, shops, law, science, work, forms, clothes, the house, medicine, print, buying, selling, eating, drinking, suffering, dying. Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem; I whisper with my lips close to your ear, I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you. O I have been dilatory and dumb; I should have made my way straight to you long ago; I should have blabb’d nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing but you. I will leave all, and come and make the hymns of you; None have understood you, but I understand you; None have done justice to you—you have not done justice to yourself; None but have found you imperfect—I only find no imperfection in you; None but would subordinate you—I only am he who will never consent to subordinate you; I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself. Painters have painted their swarming groups, and the centre figure of all; From the head of the centre figure spreading a nimbus of gold-color’d light; But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of gold-color’d light; From my hand, from the brain of every man and woman it streams, effulgently flowing forever. O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you! You have not known what you are—you have slumber’d upon yourself all your life; Your eye-lids have been the same as closed most of the time; What you have done returns already in mockeries; (Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries, what is their return?) The mockeries are not you; Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk; I pursue you where none else has pursued you; Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustom’d routine, if these conceal you from others, or from yourself, they do not conceal you from me; The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these balk others, they do not balk me, The pert apparel, the deform’d attitude, drunkenness, greed, premature death, all these I part aside. There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in you; There is no virtue, no beauty, in man or woman, but as good is in you; No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you; No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for you. As for me, I give nothing to any one, except I give the like carefully to you; I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I sing the songs of the glory of you. Whoever you are! claim your own at any hazard! These shows of the east and west are tame, compared to you; These immense meadows—these interminable rivers—you are immense and interminable as they; These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of apparent dissolution—you are he or she who is master or mistress over them, Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements, pain, passion, dissolution. The hopples fall from your ankles—you find an unfailing sufficiency; Old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest, whatever you are promulges itself; Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing is scanted; Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are picks its way.

I wanted desperately to get all hot and sweaty with this guy, but I knew from experience that hormones affected my sensibilities like alcohol or pot. In the throes of passion I tend to vow my eternal love to a penis I might use and abuse, with little regard for the man connected to it. I'm trying to keep that habit.

Why? What kind of man would pleasure his woman by hurting her.' Angus paced across the path. ''Tis a man's duty, nay, his privilege, to give his woman all the pleasure she can bear. She should be panting and writhing with pleasure.' Emma remained silent, staring at him. Did she not believe him? He walked toward her. 'A real man would take all night if need be to make sure his woman was fully sated. She should be screaming that she canna endure any more.' Emma's eyes widened. 'It should be a man's greatest pleasure to see his woman shuddering in the throes of passion.' She took a deep breath and shifted her weight from one foot to another. He paced back and forth. 'Only when she is begging for him should a man see to his own needs. And he should never, ever harm her.' He stopped in front of her 'Am I totally wrong in this?' 'No,' she squeaked.

When one finds their soul mate, they will cleave to them, will abandon all else to be with their other half. Where, in the throes of passion, their need to satiate an endless desire, they will starve and wither in each other’s embrace.

I spent a lot of time wondering why the boys in my life never felt an inclination to stand up for me, and now I’m face-to-face with a man who’s made it his mission to do it. Even in the throes of passionate argument he makes me feel more secure than I ever have before.

I spent a lot of time wondering why the boys in my life never felt an inclination to stand up for me, and now I'm face-to-face with a man who's made it his mission to do it. Even in the throes of passionate argument he makes me feel more secure than I ever have before. It's...overwhelming. It's heart-rending. It's safety.

Sex only makes people more like themselves. A powerful, secretive woman becomes only more powerful and more secretive in the throes of passion.

You are a delight in the throes of passion, did you know that? I could watch you all day.

Vampires were incredibly good at having conversations, deep or shallow, while in the throes of passion. It was madness, but did make his history lectures very enjoyable.

I want to hear you say cock.” Lenora’s eyes flash to mine. And she frowns. “Those are cheap words. Vulgar words.” “They’re real words. Hot words. Sensual words real people use in the throes of passion and fucking and lust and love. If you can’t bring yourself to say it, sweetheart, you’ve got no business getting anywhere near it. Lenora lifts her chin and lets out a shuddery breath. And then she looks me right in the eyes – stunning in her stubbornness – and that beautiful bud of a mouth gives me exactly what I want. “Cock.” And it’s fucking sublime.

Enjoyment is the first sign of a great talent, my dear! ... Take it from me. I'm a writer! I know the throes of passion and joy that come from doing what you love- the ecstasy, the despair!

Whenever I close my eyes, I see her. Scarlet. I see her smiling. I see her crying. I hear her laughter flowing through me, sending chills down my spine. The sound of her moaning creeps through my bloodstream, the face she makes in the throes of passion the pulse that spurs it on. Whatever this is I’m feeling, I want it to stop. I want it to go away. I want to stop fucking seeing her every time I blink. I want to stop fucking thinking about her every time I pause to take a deep breath. She’s like an infection that’s settling into my chest. I would rip out my own organs if I thought it might purge her from my system.

Over these many years, I have observed both profound folly and breathtaking wisdom among humankind. They balance each other like dancers in the throes of a passionate tango. It is only when the brutality of the dance overwhelms the beauty that the future is threatened. It is the Scythedom that leads and sets the tone for the dance. I often wonder if the Scythedom realised how fragile are the spines of the other dancers.

Oh, God.” She sighed. “I know it’s a difficult distinction since we have such similar qualities. . .” Ryder held her limp body to his. “However, I’d like it if you at least got my name right in the throes of passion.

Your true soul and body appear before me. Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem, I whisper with my lips close to your ear, I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you. O I have been dilatory and dumb, I should have made my way straight to you long ago, I should h ave blabb'd nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing but you. I will leave all and come and make the hymns of you, none has understood you, but I understand you, none has done justice to you, you have not done justice to yourself, none but has found you imperfect, I only find no imperfection in you, none but would subordinate you, I only am he who will never consent to subordinate you, I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits instrinsically in yourself. O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you! You have not known what you are, you have slumber'd upon yourself all your life, Your eyelids have been the same as closed most of the time. I pursue you where none else has pursued you. Conceal you from others or from yourself, they do not conceal you from me. I give nothing to any one except I give the like carefully to you. These immense meadows, these interminable rivers, you are immense and interminable as they, these furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of apparent dissolution, you are he or she who is master or mistress over them, Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements, pain, passion, dissolution.

I’m going to kiss you . . . everywhere. I’m going to kiss you until you swoon with pleasure, until you melt like sugar beneath my lips, until you cry out my name in the throes of passion. I am in love with you, Pirate Queen, whether or not you believe in the notion.

I don't know what you do about sex and I don't want to know, but this is not the way to go about it. You're what – fifty-two? Do you think a young girl finds any pleasure in going to bed with a man of that age? Do you think she finds it good to watch you in the middle of your...? Do you ever think about that?" He is silent. "Don't expect sympathy from me, David, and don't expect sympathy from anyone else either. No sympathy, no mercy, not in this day and age. Everyone's hand will be against you, and why not? Really, how could you?" The old tone has entered, the tone of the last years of their married life: passionate recrimination. Even Rosalind must be aware of that. Yet perhaps she has a point. Perhaps it is the right of the young to be protected from the sight of their elders in the throes of passion. That is what whores are for, after all: to put up with the ecstasies of the unlovely.

What have we done?” Lizzie whispered. He had no acceptable answer for that, other than that it had been stunning. She suddenly propped her chin on his chest and looked up at him with eyes still warm with the glow of lovemaking. “I think I’ve lost my fool mind, aye?” “If you have, it has gone the way of mine,” he said, stroking her cheek. “What are we to do now? Go on as if nothing has happened between us?” “Go on,” he said, aware of how incredibly alive he was feeling, how impossibly tender his heart. “But without forgetting this moment.” He really had no idea what he was saying. He could not look in her blue eyes and recall them in the throes of passion and imagine walking away from them.

After the fierce midsummer all ablaze Has burned itself to ashes, and expires In the intensity of its own fires, There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin days Crowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze. So after Love has led us, till he tires Of his own throes, and torments, and desires, Comes large-eyed friendship: with a restful gaze, He beckons us to follow, and across Cool verdant vales we wander free from care. Is it a touch of frost lies in the air? Why are we haunted with a sense of loss? We do not wish the pain back, or the heat; And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete.

He was one of those idealistic Russian beings who are suddenly struck by some powerful idea and immediately, then and there, seem to be crushed by it, even sometimes permanently. They are never equipped to deal with it, and instead come to believe in it passionately, and so their entire life from then on passes in its final throes, as it were, under the stone that has fallen upon them and already crushed them half to death.

Merrill Hartweiss scales a rocky incline toward Renna. The noon sun bakes the hillside as Merrill's boots dig into the broiling sands. Yet another gypsy tune enters his head. It starts off slowly. A lone guitar, its strings strummed with the lustful passion of a young man brushing his fingertips softly against the breasts of his lover. Another guitar joins, like a second hand, exploring her hot flesh, stroking the side of her bare abdomen, and gradually moving upward toward her chest. Then, a female voice joins the guitars; it is slightly raspy, yet sultry; filled with a fiery allure. The guitars pick up in intensity and tempo. There is a rhythmic clapping now, in synchronization with the strumming. The man has entered his lover. Sweat begins to form on Merrill's forehead, then quickly turns to vapor, dissipating into the blistering heat from the sunlight reflecting off the sands. Steady clapping, louder still. The tempo quickens, progressively and with a vigorous intensity. The man arches his back, cresting then falling; cresting, arching, rising and falling deeper again and again into his lover. The clapping, now faster, still rhythmic, but so much more intense. The guitars keep pace with increasing ferocity. In the woman's voice, short, quick breaths form words as she cries out her lover's name from deep within the throes of a forbidden love

Two aspects of thinking in particular are pronounced in both creative and hypomanic thought: fluency, rapidity, and flexibility of thought on the one hand, and the ability to combine ideas or categories of thought in order to form new and original connections on the other. The importance of rapid, fluid, and divergent thought in the creative process has been described by most psychologists and writers who have studied human imagination. The increase in the speed of thinking may exert its influence in different ways. Speed per se, that is, the quantity of thoughts and associations produced in a given period of time, may be enhanced. The increased quantity and speed of thoughts may exert an effect on the qualitative aspects of thought as well; that is, the sheer volume of thought can produce unique ideas and associations. Indeed, Sir Walter Scott, when discussing Byron's mind, commented: "The wheels of a machine to play rapidly must not fit with the utmost exactness else the attrition diminishes the Impetus." The quickness and fire of Byron's mind were not lost on others who knew him. One friend wrote: "The mind of Lord Byron was like a volcano, full of fire and wealth, sometimes calm, often dazzling and playful, but ever threatening. It ran swift as the lightning from one subject to another, and occasionally burst forth in passionate throes of intellect, nearly allied to madness." Byron's mistress, Teresa Guiccoli, noted: "New and striking thoughts followed from him in rapid succession, and the flame of genius lighted up as if winged with wildfire.

Over these many years, I have observed both profound folly and breathtaking wisdom among humankind. They balance each other like dancers in the throes of a passionate tango. It is only when the brutality of the dance overwhelms the beauty that the future is threatened.

Some kisses pronounced themselvesthe judgment of conviction love,Some kisses are given with an eyeSome kisses are given with the memory.There are silent kisses, kisses noblesThere enigmatic kisses, sincereSome kisses are given only soulsThere forbidden kisses, true.Some kisses calcined and hurt,Some kisses captivate sensesThere mysterious kisses that have leftthousand wandering and lost dreams.There problematic kisses enclosinga key that no one has decipheredSome kisses engender tragedyfew have defoliated roses brooch.There perfumed kisses, warm kissesthrobbing in intimate longings,Some kisses on the lips leave tracesas a field of sun between two ice.Some kisses seem liliesby sublime, naive and pure,There treacherous and cowardly kisses,There cursed and perjured kisses.Judas kisses Jesus and leaves printin the face of God, felony,while Magdalena with kissesfortifies pious agony.From then kisses throbslove, betrayal and pain,in human weddings they seemthe breeze playing with flowers.There are kisses that produce ravingsloving hot and mad passion,you know them well are my kissesinvented by me, for your mouth.Flame kisses printed on trailThey take the grooves of a forbidden love,kisses storm, wild kissesour lips only been tested.Do you remember the first ...? Indefinable;Your face covered with blushes luridand in the throes of terrible emotion,Your eyes were filled with tears.Do you remember that one evening in excess crazyI saw you jealous imagining grievances,He flunked you in my arms ... a kiss vibrated,and then ... did you see? Blood on my lips.I taught you to kiss: cold kissesThey are impassive rock heart,I taught you how to kiss with my kissesinvented by me, for your mouth

In the fury of their assault, Ilyin’s ideas clarify individualism as a political virtue, the one that enables all the others. Are we individuals who see that there are many good things, and that politics involves responsible consideration and choice rather than a vision of totality? Do we see that there are other individuals in the world who might be at work on the same project? Do we understand that being an individual requires a constant consideration of endless factuality, a constant selection among many irreducible passions? The virtue of individualism becomes visible in the throes of our moment, but it will abide only if we see history and ourselves within it, and accept our share of responsibility.

And even though body has entwined with body, vows have been whispered into the lover’s ears in the throes of unimaginable passion, there’s a pang still. One has not felt understood by the lover. And that is a different quality of loneliness. A constant dull hammering. Like static hum. Dissonance. Ultimately it translates into a plain inability to see the other’s view. We shout betrayal. We shift blame. We feel inadequate. When it is plain inability. So their intimacy has a narrow gap running across, like a rift between two continents and it’s only when you examine it from above, do you really see it. You realize that the gap could be the breadth of a hairline but it is deep. It’s darkness stretches all the way down into a free falling abyss.

Over the many years, I have observed both profound folly and breathtaking wisdom among humankind. They balance each other like dancers in the throes of a passionate tango. It is only when the brutality of a dance overwhelms the beauty that the future is threatened. It is the scythedom that leads, and sets the tone for the dance. I often wonder if the scythedom realizes how fragile are the spines of the dancers.

But I imagine somewhere in one of the darkened windows there’s a couple who are still in their first throes of passion on this weeknight at 9: 00 P.M. I imagine they’ll stay up most of the night, lost in each other’s presence and wondering if this might be for real. It’s entirely possible this couple will never need my help. But while I have them in mind, I silently make them the following wish: Pay attention to this moment. It won’t come again. Moments like these have their mission, which is to inspire you to love. Love each other deeply and well. Be patient and kind to each other. In the place where you came together just now, you were as honest as small children, and just as vulnerable. The small children of your inner hearts will show you the way to heaven, if you let them. Let them run all the way up to heaven together, holding hands.

There is no one who has not noticed in himself that the soul – and the wonderful complexity of its pervasive oneness is hereby demonstrated – has this strange capacity for reasoning almost calmly in the direst extreme, and it often happens that disconsolate passion and profound despair in the very throes of their bleakest monologues deal with issues and weigh up arguments. Logic marries with turmoil, and the syllogistic thread runs through the dismal tumult of thought without breaking. This was Marius’s state of mind.

Death was everywhere in the House of Night. Parents killed their children. Children killed their parents. Lovers took each other’s lives in the night, gone too far in the throes of passion. Even the stories of our gods were vicious, lesser deities frequently murdered for little more than sport.

One day in November, I moved Skittles into color-specific piles on his chest while a murderer chopped away at teenagers having sex onscreen. Doesn't even make sense, Jeffrey said. He's not exactly quiet. They would have heard him coming. Too busy listening to each other coming, I said. Jeffrey coughed so hard he dislodged the Skittles. Could you be more vulgar? he said. Actually, yes, I could. It's just the truth. Who's going to notice an ax murderer sneaking up on you when you're in the throes of passionate sex in a dirty, disease-ridden barn? If you're horny enough to get it on in there, you're not going to notice anything.

And yet, compared to some others, she was fortunate. At least she died in the throes of passionately sacrificing herself for an ideal.

Rule 1: When a man said he loved you, he meant you belonged to him. I knew better than to mistake that for real love. I just didn't know what real love felt like, but I did know it wasn’t heavy panting in my ear, hearing someone else's name whispered in the throes of passion. “Rule 2: No sex. It didn't work anymore. Everything inside me was broken, head to toes, and I felt nothing. “Rule 3: It was time to heal.

Hardly. He is seduced by a sorceress, who makes herself a queen with the power to conjure fire from the air. Together they wreak terrible ruin on the world until her fire consumes him in the throes of their sinful passion.

Quinn dropped her hand and avoided Thalcu’s eye. “I . . . I don’t want to kill you,” she said to the floor. “Not if I could save you.” The woman smiled gently at Quinn, her lips curling behind her oxygen mask. “I will not really die,” she said, drawing Quinn’s surprised gaze. She looked at Quinn contently a moment and went on, “Do you know how worlds are born? From the first breath of a star. We are made of starlight. We can not bear to look into the sun, into the thing that birthed us, anymore than we can bear to look upon our parents in the throes of passion. It is our point of origin, and to it, we all must return.

My BB got out of bed, grabbed his camera and handed it to Josef asking him to snap away, while we were in the throes of passion. As we resumed our play, Josef took photographs with one hand, and with his other he began masturbating. He captured some beautiful moments. I gave myself completely to Nikee that night, like the very first time we made love by Swan Lake at Daltonbury Hall. I look at the photographs to this day and reminisce about Nikee, my beloved big brother in his prime!

Let’s take for instance our love making last evening; if I am with you and we are in passionate throes of intimacy, not wanting a 3rd party involvement, if Oscar loves us unconditionally, he will allow us time alone and not be jealous or demand participation in our love duet unless we invite him into our inner sanctum. Similarly if I see you and Oscar in the act of passionate lovemaking and if the two of you don’t want to be intruded upon, I will retreat without jealousy, knowing full well that the both of you love me nonetheless, but at that particular moment, the two of you want to be alone together. The same applies to you if you witness me and Oscar during our moments of intimacy. “I understand this can be difficult for us and one might suffer the feeling of rejection. That is why I stress that the individuals must be secure in themselves in order not to feel threatened by the other two lovers.

I want to know that the only person I’ve ever felt from the inside out, the only person whose eyes I’ve looked into in the throes of passion, in the most intimate moment two people can share…. I want to know the person I have all that with is the one I love more than anyone or anything else in the world, forever.” My brain shorts out. That may be the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard in my life He

Although the two men were deep in the throes of passion, Ubaid noticed I was standing nearby, watching their every move. My arousal showed underneath my thobe. I voluntarily lifted my garment, exposing my erect penis to my Guide, while they continued their kisses. Ubaid motioned me to join them. Being an obedient Oasis student, I did as was told.

Furi feverishly jerked his own cock. His hand moving so fast on his length, it was a blur. Syn wished he could see his lover’s face, see him in the throes of passion. His head was too heavy to lift and Furi’s face was buried in his damp pubic hair, his red, swollen mouth still hovering near Syn's sensitive dick, panting hot breaths on him as he howled his own release into the red-lit room, coating Syn’s thigh with wet heat. Furi dropped between his thighs and rested his head on his groin, his chest rapidly rising and falling as his orgasm left him weak as well. Syn absently ran his hand through Furi’s long tresses, while they both came back down to earth. Syn

Kenzie Denune pedaled the bicycle harder, her thighs burning from the exertion. Thanks to a car that refused to start, she was going to be late for her job interview at Iverson Loch Manor. Grunting and pounding from the shrubs ahead, near the road's edge, snagged her attention. Naked shoulders glistened in the afternoon sun. Back muscles bulged and undulated with every thrust. “Bloody hell. Come fer me. Come.” In all of Mathe Bay in the Scottish Highlands, only one deep masculine voice had the power to raise the hair on her arms like this. A man with braided russet-colored hair that brushed broad shoulders inked with a bear's claw marks, woven into an intricate tribal design - Bryce Matheson. Damn him to hell. Who's he shagging in broad daylight? Out in the open, no less. Has he no shame? ... “I canna keep pounding at ye like this all bloody day. Me back is about to give out.” Bryce moaned and groaned again, obviously in the throes of ecstasy. The bear-shifting bastard. She eased up on the brakes to whiz past his love nest of bushes and brambles. “I'll not give up until I get ye wild cherry. Let me push both me thumbs and most of me fingers in here and....." My God, what's he doing to her? Kenzie couldna resist one fleeting glance over her shoulder. Her front wheel plunged into a pothole and the bike pitched... as she toppled across the grit. The force of the impact, combined with the slant of the narrow road, caused her to roll toward Bryce and his current conquest. No! No, God, no!

James explores the psychological implications of belief - how a climate of ideas can invade, affect, mingle with, and be used, both consciously and unconsciously, by a person in the throes of passion.

I scrub my hands over my face, groaning, squeezing my eyes shut, but I instantly regret it. Whenever I close my eyes, I see her. Scarlet. I see her smiling. I see her crying. I hear her laughter flowing through me, sending chills down my spine. The sound of her moaning creeps through my bloodstream, the face she makes in the throes of passion the pulse that spurs it on. Whatever this is I’m feeling, I want it to stop. I want it to go away. I want to stop fucking seeing her every time I blink. I want to stop fucking thinking about her every time I pause to take a deep breath. She’s like an infection that’s settling into my chest. I would rip out my own organs if I thought it might purge her from my system. I need a witchdoctor to break the spell this woman has on me.

Specifically, animal forms in Er’s vision serve to transmute passions into virtues. Ajax, nursing his grievance over the arms of Achilles, chooses the life of a lion, spurning the human form (620b). Plato obviously comments here upon the fit of insane rage in which, in Sophocles’ tragedy, Ajax slaughters sheep and cattle, thinking them the Greek leaders who have disgraced him. A hero become ignoble in the throes of passion becomes here a creature who kills dispassionately to survive. Ajax can more easily manifest virtue as a lion than as a human who would begin from the place where the son of Telamon ended; he can be a just lion who could no longer be a just human.

Delmar was almost fishlike in his dank lack of passion, and his ocean eyes were empty of expression. He came alive only in his element, or in the throes of a trance.

You can’t tell the size of a man’s penis by his attitude,” Rina said, shaking her head and smiling. “No freaking way.” “I disagree. There are a few men who just have it. You just know they’re packing, right?” “Name one.” Delilah raised a brow and crossed her arms over her chest as if the whole conversation was absurd. Which it was, but I loved every second of it. “Hugh Reynolds. My God, have you seen the hands on that man? I’ll bet women tear at that long hair when they’re in the throes of passion with that sexy god.

Being in the throes of passion is something we’ve all been through and it’s something we all remember.

Blood, sex, death. Love, hate; power thrives in the throes of all passions. And power is notoriously enamouring

My hands trace her curves. If she wasn’t hurt, I would grab on, right above her hips, and thrust into her. Instead, I continue exploring her, worshiping her. Whenever I see a mark or bruise, I leave a light kiss next to it. The only marks that should ever mar her body are the ones I put there in the throes of passion. Her moans grow louder as I get closer to her shorts. Below her navel, I kiss her skin and blow across it, making her shiver. I reach for the waistband of her shorts ready to remove them and keep the promise I made to myself of making her scream. However, my promise is broken when a metaphorical ice bucket is dumped over my head with three little words from a confused male voice. “What the fu--?

By the way, you're even prettier in the throes of passion, you know?