Romans & histoires Book Reviews London

Any excuse to fuck her mouth was a good one. Her eyes narrowed in a glare, but she didn’t say a word. I turned back to my book, ignoring her on the other couch despite how hard my cock was. While I was a sexual man, I wasn’t obsessed with women. They came and went, pleasing me and then disappearing. It took a lot to grab my full attention. Since I was thirty-two and it had never happened before, I assumed it would never happen. But London made me reconsider. “I never see you drink anything but scotch and coffee.”

Abigail I didn’t hear the library door open. Curled in the wide armchair by the window, a thick blanket tucked over my legs and a mug of lukewarm tea long forgotten on the little table beside me, I was too deep in the roaring chaos of 1920s London to notice anything else. The novel I’d found, The Blood of Mayfair, was a fever dream of a book with gangsters in bowler hats and singers with too much rouge and too many secrets. I had stumbled across the book purely by chance this afternoon while scanning a high corner shelf. What began as idle curiosity turned into a feverish need to unravel the killer’s identity before the protagonist, a fashion journalist moonlighting as a private investigator

“Since you’re back, are you going to pick the next book?” I blinked. “Me?” “Of course,” she said, smiling. “You’ve been gone. You deserve the honor.” Everyone nodded expectantly. I looked down at the stack of books on the table, my fingers brushing across their covers. My hand paused on a novel about love, identity and societal expectations. This book will give them a glimpse of what I passed through during my absence. I smiled softly. “How about this one?” Brent groaned. “Oh no, not another depressing tragedy. Can’t we read something with a hopeful romance?”

The library’s floor is polished, and it has a granite fireplace and a comfortable, well-worn sitting arrangement. I heave a sigh, relieved that Ms. Lennie isn’t around to reprimand me. I’ve always loved reading and collecting romance books at home, so seeing these shelves just makes my heart soar. I start my journey inside, searching for cookbooks. Instead, I stumble upon a book placed in a glass cage in the middle of the classics section. I lean forward, touching the glass as I try to read the title. It’s Macbeth and Hamlet by William Shakespeare. The air instantly abandons my lungs when I catch sight of the leather-bound cover. It’s very old but still stunning.

Love Jac. I sat down and opened my present, very carefully unwrapping it. I placed the book down and folded the newsprint neatly. I picked up the book, looking it over carefully. Jac always found obscure books on his research trips for me, something new to add to my library. I wonder if this is the last book he will get me, now that he’s a mated man. I sighed lightly, I would miss this. I flipped the book over to the cover. The Country and the City by Raymond Williams. The book was greyish in color, always a hard cover. I went over to my shelf where I kept the books of urban citylife. I picked up the newsprint and went to my window, where a box sat on a shelf. I unlocked the box with a littl

London, 1863 A new morning in London, as cold as foggy as only the British Isles could be, the smell of baked goods, wet pavement, carriages making their rounds and the children screaming in the streets trying to sell the morning paper. And did they ever have the most intriguing of headlines to keep the readers interested "Lord Reginald found dead under mysterious circumstances" What a hook for readers that was, apparently one of the Queen's richest of friends was found dead it was impossible not to grab a copy.

Leading the way into the living room, she added, "And there's a couple of new radio shows that debuted last month. Nothing that stands out though. I think you're right. I miss Alias Jimmy Valentine too." "Oh! Not there, please, Lily! Those have to go back to the library." With an annoyed flick of a brow, Lily lifted her coffee mug to give Evelyn time to move the books aside. "The Roman Revolution. Diplomacy," she commented drily, tilting her head to one side, reading the titles along the book spines. "The Empire of the Steppes. The Wimsey Papers. Why can't you just read Agatha Christie like everyone else?"

"You’re still a baby in my book. I’ve lived long enough to watch a thousand kids like you stumble over their own paws. Hell, I did plenty of it myself." "You?" I couldn't help the skepticism in my voice. It was impossible to picture London as a child. In my mind, he had simply manifested into existence as a grumpy, terrifying drill sergeant, born with the sole purpose of screaming at out-of-shape wolves until they fainted. "I figured you were born old and angry." "You need to fix your perspective," London said, his eyes turning sharp and observant. "But I like what I see in you right now. You look a bit tougher. Like the soft edges are finally wearing off."

Something warm and painful spreads in my chest. “I am,” I say. “Better than okay.” “I know.” The certainty in his voice surprises me. “How?” “Because you build things,” he says. “Even out of mess.” My throat tightens unexpectedly. I shift, pulling my knees closer to my chest. “So,” I ask quietly, “how’s London?” A slow exhale. Like he’s smiling to himself. “Cold. Grey. Everyone walks fast and nobody looks at each other.” “That sounds miserable.” “It kind of is,” he admits. Then softer, “But it’s quiet.”

Am I at the right place? Well I am. The receptionist cross-checked my invitation card against the list of guests. The London Eye glitters like a giant platinum ring, and the Big Ben and the Palace of Westminster, gleaming like gold against the evening sky! What a view! I don’t mind the chill. November isn’t a bad time to be in London. Table number four it is. Four is my lucky number! But just thirty tables? Makes sense. It’s not crowd, it’s The Crème.