Do Little Stories Help Kids Sleep?

YEARNERS delivers addictive short stories filled with building tension and passionate moments. Each tale is a complete journey spread over 7 to 10 chapters. You’ll find slow teasing that leads to overwhelming encounters, touches turning into strong claims, and characters who lose themselves completely in the wrong person. Expect deep emotional games, secret conflicts, and characters who give in to what they know is wrong. Open the book… if you dare to surrender.

> ️ Warning: This collection is sinfully explicit. Just glancing will make you squirm. If you can’t handle moans, ropes, or hands where they shouldn’t be turn back now. You’ve been warned. They say it’s just fiction... but these stories burn too real. Every page drips with lust, danger, and forbidden desire. There are no love stories here, only raw need, untamed passion, and the kind of encounters that leave your pulse racing and your body aching for more. Inside these pages, you’ll find hotel hookups, forbidden age gaps, dominant bosses, naughty students with teachers, moaning nurses, lesbians, stepfathers who cross the line, and desperate daughters who let them and vice versa. From BDSM dungeons to office desks, from late-night threesomes to risky public play... no fantasy is off-limits. Midnight Pleasures is a no-limits collection of erotic short stories meant to tease, tempt, and utterly satisfy. Quick hits. Slow burns. Rough rides. Dangerous desires. Even the ones you’ve never admitted out loud. Quietly, let's go on a journey full of pleasure. Cloud nine is overrated, there's a next cloud after that. Let's show you.

A diverse collection of short romantic stories and erotica to fulfill your fantasies. THIS BOOK IS INTENDED FOR 18+ AUDIENCE ONLY!

I understood babies. The baby in Room 403 cried out, "My butt itches! It is not a stomachache!" A newborn in the ER screamed, "Something is stuck under my belly button!" A preemie babbled softly, "I want my mommy..." None of that prepared me for that day. Dr. Margot Aldrich, the country's foremost authority in pediatrics, stood before a packed auditorium and examined a baby who had screamed himself purple. "We will keep observing." The mother fell to her knees. "Please, my baby is dying..." Margot let out a short laugh. "Am I the expert here, or are you?" The room went silent. In my ears, a tiny voice raged. "Are you grown-ups blind? Something is stuck under my belly button! It is not a stomachache! Somebody cut me open already!" I did not stop to think. I pushed through the crowd, dropped beside the crib, and looked Margot in the eye. "Dr. Aldrich, let me try."

My dad always calls me a lazy bum. It is because I often fall asleep without warning. I sleep in class, while eating, and even while crossing the street. My homeroom teacher, Yvonne Smith, suggests that he take me to a hospital for an examination. But Dad scoffs and says, "He's just staying up all night playing on his phone." After that, he confiscates my phone and removes the lock from my bedroom door. Every time I get sleepy, he slaps me. I don't want to be hit, and I don't want to make Dad angry. So, I start pinching my thighs, pulling out my hair, and even rubbing hand sanitizer spray under my nose to stay awake. But whenever the overwhelming drowsiness hits, nothing can stop it. On the day of the final exams, Dad happens to be one of the invigilators. I bite my lip until it bleeds and silently beg myself inwardly, "Just this once, please stay awake." Still, I fail to fight off the sleepiness. Suddenly, someone flips over my desk. The chair tips with it, and I crash to the floor. My temple slams into the corner of the desk, and darkness instantly floods my vision. Dad stands over me, furious and disappointed. "Zach Davies, are you really so obsessed with sleeping that you don't even care about your final exams? If you're that lazy, then stay down there and keep sleeping!" I lie sprawled across my exam paper as my vision slowly fades away. Dad, I think I am going to sleep for a very long time…

Four days after my death, my four-year-old daughter finally sensed that something was terribly wrong. The fridge door slammed into her forehead when she tried to get a snack. Normally, I would've been there in a heartbeat—arms open, kisses ready, whispering, "You're okay, sweetheart, Mommy's here." But this time, I just lay on the bed, cold and still.​ She didn't understand. She thought the sweet treat would make me respond. So she held the final piece of chocolate up to my mouth. "Here, Mommy. Have some chocolate..." But I didn't even blink. She climbed into my arms, clutching my clothes tightly. "Mommy... Mommy, wake up..." She waited for me to stroke her hair, to tell her that everything was going to be fine. There was only silence.​ Completely lost and scared, she found my phone. "Daddy, why is Mommy still sleeping?" she asked, her voice filled with desperation.​ In response, Oliver sent a photo of himself having Christmas Eve dinner with his childhood sweetheart. His voice was icy cold when he replied, "She's just sleeping, not dead. It's Christmas Eve, and I'm busy. Tell her to stop playing games and come apologize when she's done sulking." Then he hung up.​ But when the truth finally hit Oliver—when the coroner's report came, when the police knocked on his door right in the middle of his laughter, when he realized I'd been lying dead for four days while he toasted—he broke.