Hands In Hands Love Quotes

“Leaning against my car after changing the oil,
I hold my black hands out and stare into them
as if they were the faces of my children looking
at the winter moon and thinking of the snow
that will erase everything before they wake.
In the garage, my wife comes behind me
and slides her hands beneath my soiled shirt.
Pressing her face between my shoulder blades,
she mumbles something, and soon we are laughing,
wrestling like children among piles of old rags,
towels that unravel endlessly, torn sheets,
work shirts from twenty years ago when I stood
in the door of a machine shop, grease blackened,
and Kansas lay before me blazing with new snow,
a future of flat land, white skies, and sunlight.
After making love, we lie on the abandoned
mattress and stare at our pale winter bodies
sprawling in the half-light. She touches her belly,
the scar of our last child, and the black prints
of my hand along her hips and thighs.”

— B.H. Fairchild

“It will be a welcome change for her to feel his hands on her hips and his breath in her hair; She's been forlorn, but like all emotions, even loneliness doesn't last. She has fallen in love with the man with the quiet strength, the confident humility and the hands that show the flame of the heart.”

— Donna Lynn Hope

“Before I could flinch, he planted his warm lips against mine, wrapping his arms around my waist. I didn't know what to do with my hands. I thought about putting them in his hair, stopping inches away from his head. I thought about putting them around his neck, but I stopped myself midflight. So there I was, being kissed by a boy I was falling hopelessly in love with and making a complete fool of myself, because I looked like I was flagging someone down with my hands. Concealed”

— Sang Kromah

“No. No!" he says.
"I ... " He looks wildly around the room. For inspiration? For divine intervention? I don't know.
"You can't go. Ana, I love you!"
"I love you, too, Christian, it's just-"
"No ... no!" he says in desperation and puts both hands on his head. "Christian ... "
"No," he breathes, his eyes wide with panic, and suddenly he drops to his knees in front of me, head bowed, long-fingered hands spread out on his thighs. He takes a deep breath and doesn't move. What?
"Christian, what are you doing?"
He continues to stare down, not looking at me.
"Christian! What are you doing?"
My voice is high-pitched. He doesn't move.
"Christian, look at me!" I command in panic. His head sweeps up without hesitation, and he regards me passively with his cool gray gaze-he's almost serene ... expectant.
Holy Fuck ... Christian. The submissive.”

— E.L. James

“There was a time Jeff and Helen loved each other and touched each other's hands and ate breakfast in cafes together and secretly fucked in public, the way people in like do. Then came a time they made each other crazy and beat their hands on steering wheels and tore up love letters and photographs and said goodbye.”

— Amy Guth

“Here is a paradox for the creator: if you love your work, let it go.15 Because if you grip it too tightly, you will strangle it. If you hold it in open hands, you may actually find that the work has a life of its own. Creativity is more about listening and following than it is about forcing or manipulating. The truth for the creator is that you have a very limited control over anything in the world, even your own creation. You can work on it. You can help mold and shape its form. But there will come a point in the creative process where your creation is what it is. There comes a point where there is nothing left to do but to rest. To open your hands and let it go. You cannot control how others will receive it. They”

— Michael Gungor

“My Father Still Sleeping After Surgery
In spite of himself,
my father loved me. In spite
of the hands that beat me, in spite
of the mouth that kept silent, in spite
of the face that turned cruel
as a gold Chinese king,
he could not control the love
that came out of him.
The body is monumental, a colossus
through which he breathes.
His hands crawl over his stomach
jerkily as sand crabs on five legs;
he makes a fist
like the fist of a newborn.”

— Toi Derricotte

“If you had gone around the table last night ticking off the Ten Commandments and asking for a show of hands to indicate transgression, you would have thought we were doing the wave. A gloss of the New Testament rules and you would have heard the rotator cuffs snapping. But if you had asked a simpler question
"Who among you is proud of this?"
I think you would have seen no hands, and this is what I love about that crew. Chipped and profane, they have taught me that there is a certain vocabulary you learn only through attrition and heartache.”

— Michael Perry

“There were moments when something rose within him, not a thought nor a feeling, but a wave of some physical violence, and then he wanted to stop, to lean back, to feel the reality of his person heightened by the frame of steel that rose dimly about the bright, outstanding existence of his body as its center. He did not stop. He went on calmly. But his hands betrayed what he wanted to hide. His hands reached out, ran slowly down the beams and joints. The workers in the house had noticed it. They said: That guy's in love with the thing. He can't keep his hands off.”

— Ayn Rand

“God wants to take the fears that you and I are holding onto with both hands. He throws them aside, effortless, and then takes our empty hands in His and fills them with his love. He is not a hard driver. He wants to provide.”

— Anna White

“I want to make you really happy."
My heart fluttered. "Really happy?"
He dropped his hands to my outer thighs, his long fingers slipping under the material. "Exceedingly, insanely happy."
I was breathless. "There you go again with the adverbs.
His hands inched up, causing heat to flood my body. "You love it when I whip out the adverbs."
"Maybe."
He trailed his lips in a hot line down my throat. "Let me make you exceedingly, insanely happy, Kat.”

— Jennifer L. Armentrout

“Both of my trembling hands went up to cup her perfect, oh so beloved face. My voice was somehow steadier than my hands as I asked her my question. Do you love me at least as much as you hate me?”

— R.K. Lilley

“Beth hates me."
I chuckled, loving Echo for calling it straight. I framed her face with my hands, letting my fingers enjoy the feel of her satin skin. "You 're my world, so i'd say that evens things out."
Echo's eyes widened and she paled. Why was she upset? My mind replayed every moment carefully and then froze, rewound, replayed and froze again on the words i'd said.
It had been so long since i'd let myself fall for anybody. I gazed into her beautiful green eyes and her fear melted. A shy smile tugged at her lips and at my heart. Fuck me and the rest of the world, I was in love.
Echo's gloved hands reached up and guided my head to hers. I let myself bask in her warmth and deepened our kiss, enjoying the teasing taste of her tongue and the way her soft lips moved against mine. Very easily, i could lose myself in her ... forever.”

— Katie McGarry

“Noah rests both of his hands below my butt, and before I can move closer to him, he lifts me and props me onto the sink. I suck in a breath and pop open my eyes. Noah smiles at me in a way that makes me fall in love with him all over again.
"You said you'd only do that if I didn't lower my hands and look at you," I tease.
"What can I say? After I spoke the words, it was a done deal. I'm all about making my fantasies realities with you, Echo.”

— Katie McGarry

“Still, the future of civilisation lies, he thought, in the hands of young men like that; of young men such as he was, thirty years ago; with their love of abstract principles; getting books sent out to them all the way from London to a peak in the Himalayas; reading science; reading philosophy. The future lies in the hands of young men like that, he thought.”

— Virginia Woolf

“This hand says you spend the rest of your life with me," he said, holding out his left hand, "and this one says I spend the rest of my life with you. Choose."
She bit her lip, tears welling in her eyes. She took both of his hands in hers and he shuddered. "I will die protecting you," he says.
There was a look of dismay on her face. "Just like a man of this kingdom, Finnikin. Talking of death, yours or mine, is not a good way to begin a-"
Isaboe gave a small gasp when he leaned forward, his lips an inch away from hers. "I will die for you," he whispered.
She cupped his face in her hands. "But promise me you'll live for me first, my love. Because nothing we are about to do is going to be easy and I need you by my side.”

— Melina Marchetta

“I read, go for walks and I love to garden. My hands are such a mess. People think I should have movie star hands, but they're just gardening ones. Always slightly grubby and with a bit of dirt under the fingernails.”

— Amanda Donohoe

“Hands are no longer hands. They are caresses. Mouths are no longer mouths. They are kisses. My name is no longer a name, it is a call. And love is no longer love - love is you.”

— Lang Leav

“Her poetry is written on the ghost of trees, whispered on the lips of lovers.
As a little girl, she would drift in and out of libraries filled with dead poets and their musky scent. She held them in her hands and breathed them in
wanting so much to be part of their world ...
It was on her sixteenth birthday that she first fell in love. With a boy who brought her red roses and white lies. When he broke her heart, she cried for days.
Then hopeful, she sat with a pen in her hand, poised over the blank white sheet, but it refused to draw blood ...
She learned too late that poets are among the damned, cursed to commiserate over their loss, to reach with outstretched hands
hands that will never know the weight of what they seek.”

— Lang Leav

“I have murdered the lovely and the helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept, and grasped to death his throat who never injured me or any other living thing. I have devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love and admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that irremediable ruin. There he lies, white and cold in death. You hate me; but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself. I look on the hands which executed the deed; I think on the heart in which the imagination of it was conceived, and long for the moment when these hands will meet my eyes, when that imagination will haunt my thoughts no more.”

— Mary Shelley

“Would you please just talk to me? Please?" Sally's voice was beginning to take on a high-pitched whine.
"Oh, good grief. For the love of healthy ears everywhere, quit your belly aching," Jen snapped, the clothes in her hands growing more wrinkled by the second. "Sally, there is nothing to talk about, okay? It is what it is."
Sally threw her hands up in the air as she exhaled loudly. "No, it is not what it is, whatever the hell that means. It's a whole freaking lot more complicated than 'it is what it is'.”

— Quinn Loftis

“Put this on." He pushed the coat into her hands. "I'll go get the quilt because you're going to need all the warmth you can get." "What about you?" "So you'd like me to warm you up too?" Her face bloomed crimson. He grinned. "I'd love to warm you up, but your sisters are watching." "Th-that's not what I meant. I was worried about you being cold." "It's nice to know you care." He pulled the coat from her hands and draped it around her shoulders. "I didn't say that.”

— Lorna Seilstad

“Everything, except boredom, bores me. I'd like, without being calm, to calm down,
To take life every day
Like a medicine
One of those medicines everybody takes.
I aspired to so much, dreamed so much, That so much so much made me into nothing.
My hands grew cold
From just waiting for the enchantment
Of the love that would warm them up at last.
Cold, empty
Hands.”

— Fernando Pessoa

“Old hands soil, it seems, whatever they caress, but they too have their beauty when they are joined in prayer. Young hands were made for caresses and the sheathing of love. It is a pity to make them join too soon.”

— Andre Gide

“Adultery often happens, I am sure, because you are on a sinking ship, and you need to leap but can't leap. You are too spineless, maybe, to leap.The water is too dark and choppy and the sea is too large. Saving your own life, even, isn't enough reason to jump- no, you need the hands at your back, pushing, the hands of something as unavoidable and inevitable and imperative as love.It's got to be something that big, you know, to get you to jump.”

— Deb Caletti

“Then why are you crying?"
"Because of you!" I beat my fists on his chest. "Because I love you, and I don't know what to do! I can solve almost any problem, but I can't solve this. I don't know how to deal with that. And I'm afraid! Afraid for you! Do you know what it'd do to me if something happens to you?" I stopped hitting him and clasped my hands over my own chest, as though there was a danger my heart might fall out. "This! This would break. Shatter. Crumble. Crumble until it was dust." I dropped my hands. "Blown away on the wind until there was nothing left.”

— Richelle Mead

“I was crying for joy, my Sassenach,' he said softly. He reached out slowly and took my face between his hands. And thanking God that I have two hands. That I have two hands to hold you with. To serve you with, to love you with. Thanking God that I am a whole man still, because of you.”

— Diana Gabaldon

“I was her daughter, but more. I was Karen, Cheryl, Leif. Karen Cheryl Leif. KarenCherylLeif. Our names blurred into one in my mother's mouth all my life. She whispered it and hollered it, hissed it and crooned it. We were her kids, her comrades, the end of her and the beginning. We took turns riding shotgun with her in the car. "Do I love you this much?" she'd ask us, holding her hands six inches apart. "No," we'd say, with sly smiles. "Do I love you this much?" she'd ask again, and on and on and on, each time moving her hands farther apart. But she would never get there, no matter how wide she stretched her arms. The amount that she loved us was beyond her reach. It could not be quantified or contained. It was the ten thousand named things in the Tao Te Ching's universe and then ten thousand more. Her love was full-throated and all-encompassing and unadorned. Every day she blew through her entire reserve.”

— Cheryl Strayed

“A story: A man fires a rifle for many years, and he goes to war. And afterward he turns the rifle in at the armory, and he believes he's finished with the rifle. But no matter what else he might do with his hands, love a woman, build a house, change his son's diaper; his hands remember the rifle.”

— Anthony Swofford

“Conversion is the act of joining our hands to the pierced hand of the crucified Saviour. The new life begins with the taking of Christ's hand, and His taking hold, in infinite love, of our weak hands.”

— Theodore L. Cuyler

“God works for man through man and seldom, if at all, in any other way. He asks for our voices to speak His truth, for our hands to do His work here below, sweet voices and clean hands to make liberty and love prevail over injustice and hate.”

— Joseph Fort Newton

“I love a man who knows how to walk. I do like a gentleman, a man who opens the door and a man who walks on the proper side of the street with you. There's something safe about it; he's protecting you. That's a really nice quality. You don't see it as often anymore. I pay attention to those things. I know it sounds silly, but I love that. I'm fortunate to say that I have a good guy. Oh, and he has to have great hands. There's a lot I find sexy in a man, but strong, manly hands are very important.”

— Lana Parrilla

“Let us put our hands today again at (God's) disposition and pray that he takes our hands to guide us. Let his hand take ours so we won't sink, but will serve life which is stronger than death, and love which is stronger than hatred.”

— Pope Benedict XVI