A Mothers Warmth の小説・ストーリー

a deep voice whispered, but I couldn't make out the words. All I knew was that I needed that safety. I reached out blindly, grabbed onto the heat source, and pulled it into my arms. Suddenly, the world spun. I hit something hard and hot—a wall of muscle—and we fell onto the soft bedding together. It was so warm. The heat started chasing away the chill in my bones. It had to be my mother protecting me. "Mom..." I pressed closer to the heat, seeking more warmth. "Mom, I missed you so much..."

"It's about what happened between you and your mum this morning. I know how you feel about Nichole. We love you and will not do anything to hurt you. We just want you to be cautious. We will tell you whatever you need to know at the right time, dear. Just give us some time dear." "Okay dad..." she replied with a smile. Rosita drew her daughter closer to her, caressing her face "As your mother, I care about you a lot. You are my source of joy and will not do anything that will cause you pain. I just want anything to happen to you dear. You're my everything and I love you so much." "And I love you to mum.." she answered with a smile. Riley sat silently for a while and took her mother's hands i

She felt the warmth coming from it like a mother’s embraced she longed for. “Mother, Father… I’m back.”

Mom was in a rather youthful attire, wearing a pair of high-waisted hot pants today. Despite being in her forties, Mom still had the body of a 20-year-old, probably because she only had me. She exuded the charm of a mature lady. That was probably why Bryan screwed her. “I need a word with you, Carys,” Mom uttered out of the blue. I was still shell-shocked by it all. She took a glance at Bryan. “I’m pregnant.” I dropped my plate with a plop. Getting down to the floor, I immediately picked up the broken shards while my mind replayed what Mom had just said.

"Well don't you pity your mother and her cold breasts? I mean your hands are so very warm . . . so nice and toasy." "You know what they say, warm hands means a warm heart." "Yes they do say that. So why don't you use those warm hands of yours to" -- she has guided his hands right up to the lower edge of her pretty crop top--"warm your Mommy's poor little boobies up sweetie."

This lake, revered and whispered of in awe-struck tones as the Emerald Lake, was a sanctuary to the elusive and entrancing Emerald mermaids, whose legends ebbed and flowed like the very tides they commanded. With a sigh borne from the depths of wisdom, my mother would press a gentle finger to her lips and usher me into silence, guiding me to sit before the dancing flames of the hearth. The warmth of my mother's embrace enveloped me like a cozy blanket, providing a sense of security and comfort. Her arms held me tightly, offering solace and reassurance. I could feel her love, like a gentle pressure against my skin, as if her touch had the power to mend all wounds.

“Stay right here, Angie. Drink this herbal broth,” Mom said softly, pressing a warm bowl into my hands. Her voice was gentle but carried the weight of centuries of maternal instinct. “It's good for the little one.” “Mom, you really don't have to—“ “Hush now, just drink,” she whispered, her hand resting briefly on my hair. Her eyes held a world of unspoken worry and fierce determination. “You're not nearly strong enough yet. Let your mom handle things for a while.”

Always the gentleman. “You look beautiful,” my mother said, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “Thanks, Mom. So do you.” Adrian sat back down, and for just a second, our eyes met. His expression gave nothing away. “I already ordered wine,” my mother said, pouring me a glass. “The Pinot Noir. You’ll love it.” I took a sip. Then another. Liquid courage. “So,” my mother beamed, looking between us. “How was your first week working together? Adrian said you’re doing wonderfully.”

She could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady, and the warmth of his mother’s arms wrapped tightly around him. The gentle sway of a rocking chair cradled them both, the creak of its wooden frame lulling the baby to sleep. Amani saw the world through his eyes, soft and blurry at the edges, but the love he felt was clear as day. His mother’s face hovered above him, her dark hair cascading like a waterfall around them. Her eyes, deep pools of warmth and devotion, reflected the purest love—a love that wrapped around them both like a protective shield. She hummed a soft lullaby, her voice a soothing balm that made the baby’s tiny heart swell with contentment. He cooed, reaching up with chubby f