A Touch Of Sweetness Free นิยาย & เรื่องราว

But he doesn't pull away. The moment my skin connects with his, an electric tingle shoots straight down my arm. A sizzling, soothing warmth rushes through our newly sealed bond, washing over the painful edges of his spirit. Through the touch, my Lunara pheromones soften, filling the harsh, sulfur-heavy air of the cell with a sweet, calming haze.

Rebecca stands at the top of the stairs, just inches from where I halted with one of her sweetest smiles plastered to her pretty face. “I have something for you,” she says in that sickly sweet tone that drives me insane. The thing about Rebecca, besides her being the Beta's daughter and Ace’s girlfriend, is that her sweetness is saccharine. It’s fake and too sweet then leaves you with a bitterness on your tongue and in your soul. It’s like she is trying too hard to win Miss Congeniality in a beauty contest.

Iris finally parts her lips slightly, and I don’t waste a single moment, taking her silent invitation with complete, roaring gratification. She tastes incredibly sweet, just like every other single thing about her. Her taste is like gentle, rich honey that perfectly matches her scent in name. It makes me groan again at the sheer, unadulterated delight it causes within my system. I needed more of it; I knew with absolute certainty that I could no longer live without it. Our tongues caress gently, small, precious whimpers escaping Iris as she presses her body closer to mine, as if trying to physically merge us into one being.

A moan caught in my throat as I squeezed myself, as sweet pressure offered a hint of relief. "Please. Liam. Touch me." I closed my eyes and imagined. Imagined her tight grip stroking me, teasing me, milking the come from his heavy, desperate balls. Imagined her sweet, filthy mouth pressing kisses over my fevered skin. Imagined her whispering my name, that she wanted me, only me, because it was him... And then I heard her. For real. A soft little gasp.

Wish I could say that. "Yeah..." I whispered. "Just don't bury your face to my neck." "Oh you mean, like this?" and he dipped his mouth in my neck. I can really feel his mouth! I almost hear myself squeak. He chuckled. "You sounded like a kid. Can I do it again?" He whispered. "If you don't stop, I'll break your fingers one by one..." I threatened. "Hmm, fine then..." This is too much. Every time he opens his mouth, my whole body is on fire!

It was ownership—her grip tightening around the last thing she could still keep from him. The room tilted again as he tried to push himself forward—tried to make his body obey the urgency in his mind—and his strength betrayed him in the same instant. He drew in a breath too quickly, too shallow, the way drowning men do when they break the surface. At first he only tasted the usual bitterness—herbs, wax, medicine—familiar as a prison. Then something sweeter threaded through it. Faint. Almost imagined. He blinked hard, breath hitching. The sweetness lingered anyway, clinging to the back of his throat like a film. It didn’t belong with the herbs. It was too smooth for sickness. Too deliberate.

I approached her as she handed me a Marc Jacobs Beauty Le Marc Lip Créme Lipstick. "Do you think it would look good on my skintone?" I asked as I looked at the shade name, it was in the shade Shush Blush. "Yes, look!" she exclaimed as she reached for the lipstick sample and swatched it on her wrist. It had a cream finish, a warm tone, and a medium plum color lipstick. I thought that would be wonderful for gradient lips, so I nodded and smiled at Zeiara, telling her that I thought it was nice.

"Uhmmm! A long growl escaped Nica's mouth as her husband's kiss crawled on her neck. His wide palm was still caressing one of her healthy chests. Even though she was still wearing a bra, the heat was already penetrating there from his palm. She moaned again when the young man's hot lips were already on the tip of her nipple. It was as if electricity was flowing from the top of her chest to between her thighs. She parted her two thighs when one of his legs was in the middle of it. She wasn’t born yesterday so as not to predict what hard object was pounding in her abdomen. She was intoxicated by the sensation she felt when Chris's lips covered the pinkish nipple of her breast. The veil was als

​She lifts her gaze and looks at me. ​"Your turn. Turn around." I do as she asks with a foolish smile on my face. She passes her small hands and the soap-filled sponge across my broad back, scrubbing my arms, moving her hands under my arms until she reaches my chest and abdomen. Feeling her breasts pressed against my back—that simple, mundane touch—makes me feel safe. Even more so when she begins to leave a rain of kisses from my shoulders up to my neck. ​"You are my eternal dream, Mr. Ashford." I turn my head just in time to capture her mouth, our tongues brushing. I groan with bliss.

The good utopian, on the other hand, thinks that because it would be desirable to free men from the divisions imposed by languages, there is little probability that it can be attained; therefore, it can only be achieved to an approximate measure. But this approximation can be greater or lesser, to an infinite degree, and the efforts at execution are not limited, for there always exists the possibility of bettering, refining, perfecting: ‘progress,’ in short. All human existence consists of activities of this type. Imagine the opposite: that you should be condemned to doing only those activities deemed possible of achievement, possible in themselves. What profound anguish! You would feel as i