Book Delicate Novels & Stories

The air in the bedroom felt electric. Elena’s hands slid down my waist as we kissed again, deeper this time. Her mouth was soft but eager, and the way she sucked gently on my bottom lip made my knees feel weak. I tugged at her blouse, and she helped me unbutton it, letting it fall to the floor. Underneath, she wore a lacy black bra that barely contained her full breasts. I pushed the robe off my shoulders, letting it drop. I was completely naked now. Elena’s eyes darkened with lust as she looked at me.

Lanterns lined the path from the edge of the resort to the shoreline—each one glowing with a soft, amber light, like the stars had decided to wait with me. The restaurant staff was already setting up. I could see them from the window—careful, quiet, respectful. Champagne chilling in a silver bucket. A plate of her favorite seafood pasta waiting under warmers. And the cake—God, the cake. Small, simple, shaped like a book. A callback to our second date when we’d argued over which novel had the better ending and ended up laughing until we forgot what we were even talking about. I ran a hand through my hair and stepped back from the window. She’d be here soon.

The kind of meal meant for people who mattered. I'm healing, she realized. Not just my hands. Something deeper. She ate slowly, savoring each bite, the lip gloss leaving faint pink crescents on her water glass. Evidence. Proof of existence. Small rebellions that whispered: I'm still here. The notebook appeared that afternoon. Beverly had been resting when she noticed it—a leather-bound journal sitting on the dresser that definitely hadn't been there that morning. No note. No explanation. Just blank pages waiting to be filled.

And then Donato stopped. Because the shadows finally peeled back enough for him to see it. A stone pedestal alone. Centered beneath a beam of pale blue light like moonlight trapped underground. And resting on that pedestal… was a single book. Black, old, bound in rough, darkened leather. Its surface cracked like something had clawed it. And around it circling like frost drifted a faint, ghostly mist. Donato's breath left him in a shocked, trembling exhale. "The Black Great Book…" he whispered.

Sending love and well wishes to you all xx A trail of water dripped behind Bellamy as he emerged from the shower, a towel hung loosely around his waist as he ruffled another towel through his now damp curls. “Whatcha reading gorgeous?” he nodded to Thea. Placing an intricately carved silver bookmark in between the pages, she placed her book down on the bedside table. Letting out a contented sigh, she stretched her arms and legs out on the bed. “It’s called ‘Her Fae Lovers’ by one of my favourite authors, Jane Knight.” A sleepy smile danced across her face as she dragged her eyes over Bellamy’s wet, exposed torso. Little pearls of water clung to his taught, tanned skin making him glisten unde

It was an intricately carved feather, it looked a bit like a peacock feather, and it had been singed gently to add depth to the wood, it was very thin, and the eye of the feather had a dragon’s breath opal, which he recognises from the cover of her phoenix book. “Honey, this is beautiful.” She grins, and nods “I hope I’m not being ignorant, but does it serve a purpose?” “It’s a bookmark. You love reading, and it’s better than dog-earing pages.” He grimaces at the thought of bending the page corners over and smiles broadly at her, “It’s wonderful, thank you, Honey.” He rests his forehead against hers, and closes his eyes as he purrs softly at her, she rests a hand on his neck, pulling him a l

she stuck out her pinky. “RIde or die.” I said hooking my pinky with hers as we had done since we were kids. Albert came flying back in the room with a large, old book in his hands. The book was big and thick, the leather on the outside was cracked and the pages had yellowed. He laid it on the coffee table with a thud. He opened the book and I could hear the spine of it cracking as he laid it flat. He flipped through the pages carefully, the musty smell of old books wafted into my nostrils. The pages looked to be made of some sort of old papyrus paper that had turned yellow and become brittle over the years. It was then that I noticed Albert was wearing gloves while handling the book. I won

She stepped aside; her eyes held pity for me. I gave her a nod and stepped out of her room. Later that evening, I returned to the library with purpose. I hurriedly scanned the shelves for any book with botanical knowledge, and luckily, I found one. It had a faded green cover titled 'Botanica Obscura: The paralytics'. I pulled it out, my trembling wet fingers swiped through the pages until I stopped on a drawing of a delicate flower with jagged petals and veined leaves: Atropa belladonna.

Lifting the worn book, her lashes began fluttering behind her crystal lenses as she read the paragraphs: But there was one—a night blooming cereus—which was a particular favorite of Grace’s, and which, even after she knew she had not long to live, she hoped she would be spared to see bloom. But when she perceived she was failing so rapidly—quietly, peacefully, sinking to rest—she said—

The villa’s sunroom smelled faintly of old books and fresh citrus. Celeste sat cross-legged on the low couch, a loose linen wrap knotted at her waist, hair pulled back with a clip that kept slipping free. The breeze rustled the sheer curtains behind her as she flipped through the second draft of Still Life.