Veronica Roth Quotes

To have her here in bed with me, breathing on me, her hair in my mouth—I count that something of a miracle.

Stuart stands and says, 'Come here,' and he's on my side of the room in one stride and he claps my hands to his hips and kisses my mouth like I am the drink he's been dying for all day and I've heard girls say it's like melting, that feeling. But I think it's like rising, growing even taller and seeing sights over a hedge, colors you've never seen before.

He closed his eyes as she put her hand on his shoulder, and in that instant, nothing else mattered. Not the song, not the place, not the other couples around him. Only this, only her. He gave himself over to the feel of her body as it pressed against him, and they moved slowly in small circles on the sawdust-strewn floor, lost in a world that felt as though it had been created for just the two of them.

Love is made by two people, in different kinds of solitude. It can be in a crowd, but in an oblivious crowd.

I want to kiss her without counting the seconds. I want to hold her so long that I get to know her skin. I want, I want, I want.

We walked back to iDEATH, holding hands. Hands are very nice things, especially after they have travelled back from making love.

One might have supposed that the true act of love was to lie together and talk.

Do you know what friendship is... it is to be brother and sister; two souls which touch without mingling, two fingers on one hand.

At best, love is simply the slipping of a hand in another's, of knowing you are where you belong at last, and of exchanging through the eyes that all-consuming regard which ignores everybody else on earth.

And then he was kissing her, and she was struck by his nearness, his solidity, his smell. It was of the garden and the earth and the sun. When Cassandra opened her eyes, she realized she was crying. She wasn't sad, though, these were the tears of being found, of having come home after a long time away.

Of lovers whose bodies smell of each other Who think the same thoughts without need of speech

When your hands leap towards mine, love, what do they bring me in flight?

We lie in each other's arms eyes shut and fingers open and all the colors of the world pass through our bodies like strings of fire.

When you find your soulmate, you could sleep under their armpits.

Only he who loves and is loved for his own sake can be happy, and what produces that happiness is not so much the sense of sexual communion as of two people being together ... the sexual act viewed as a whole probably affords less happiness than a totally ordinary kiss or often indeed one simple word from the one you love.

He holds my face in both hands and kisses me back. I press into the distance between us until it is gone, crushing the secrets we have kept and the suspicions we have harbored-for good, I hope.

She could've looked at the tiny miracles in front of her: my feet, my hands, my fingers, the shape of my shoulders beneath my jacket, my human body, but she only stared at my eyes. The wind whipped again, through the trees, but it had no force, no power over me. The cold bit at my fingers, but they stayed fingers. "Grace," I said, very softly. "Say something." "Sam," she said, and I crushed her to me.

A year. A thousand kisses. And now a thousand one, a thousand two. There are so many other place we could have ended up, but I have to believe none of them would have felt this right. "All I want is you" is not entirely true. I want so much more, and with you I think I can get it.

Love is reaching out to try to get to the other person.

Friendship is a word, the very sight of which in print makes the heart warm.

There is a silence, the child of love, which expresses everything, and proclaims more loudly than the tongue is able to do.

When a man's hand touches the hand of a woman, they both touch the heart of eternity.

I'd never expected my first time to be in a cabin in the woods, but I realized the place didn't matter. The person did. With someone you loved, you could be anywhere, and it would be incredible. Being in the most luxurious bed in the world wouldn't matter if you were with someone you didn't love.

You know you're in love with somebody when you wake up next to them, comfortable despite your breath smelling like the week-old water at the bottom of a vase, when you are terribly excited to see them, to talk to them again, having missed them after all that sleep.

He kisses me again, more insistent this time, his hands squeezing my waist. His breaths, his body, my body, we are so close there is no difference.