Novel & Cerita Books For Women In Their 20s

Fuck…. The very touch of her makes my member harden – her skin so smooth , her touch is as soft as a feather. Having her so close to me , makes me feel like a teenage boy again – a teenage boy who had seen a woman undressed for the first time. However , the woman I hold now is fully clothed and does not know I exist yet she has such control over me. I hate it! But this feeling makes me feel drunk with happiness and joy.

I stopped by the library—the same one I’d visited as a girl, the place where I first found stories about women who dared to rise beyond the walls they were born in. Mrs. Bertram, the head librarian, recognized me immediately. “You’ve grown into yourself,” she said as she welcomed me inside. I smiled. “I’m trying.” “I heard about the Foundation. And the baby. Congratulations.” “Thank you.” “I always said you had a story inside you.” “I think it just took time to find its voice.” I donated a dozen books from the Barlowe house—stories I wanted other young girls to find: Jane Eyre, Little Women, The Secret Life of Bees, Becoming, The House on Mango Street, and more.

And the answer I hadn't given out loud because I hadn't needed to. I thought about the women I'd been across the years. The twenty-two year old who'd married him with absolute certainty. The twenty-four year old who'd left with a suitcase and a broken heart and the dignity of someone who refused to beg for attention. The twenty-nine year old who'd spent five years being entirely self-sufficient and called it healed when it was actually just protection. And this woman. Now. Sitting in a car outside a library in Maplewood with every wall she'd built brick by brick destroyed, looking at the situation clearly.

He scoffs. "Excuse me? I pretty much started reading all kinds of books when I was three. I've known better!" She spat. "I don't have to be in love to experience and know how it works. Books make me feel those feelings whenever I want to, Mr.-I-have-Never-pursued-a-woman." Even if she can barely feel anything. Books still help her. Jin looks at the pile of books she has on the side of her bed. The boxes of appliances he had brought her are still untouched but that wasn't what caught his attention.

"Fit for a princess and future queen." I roll my eyes, turning away from the mirror. That's her version of happiness not mine. "I'm pretty sure you didn't read the blurb for this book. It's a women's fiction, one where the heroine works hard her entire twenties and saves up enough money to buy her own hotel by thirty-five. Then the place ends up haunted." Cammie laughs. "But, Tara, you can't have a fairy tale unless you have a hero." "Okay then he'll show up at her bed-and-breakfast asking for a room one dark and rainy night with his hot Scottish accent and sweep her off her thirty-six-year-old feet."

The library was silent, save for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the occasional rustle of pages. I have always loved the hush of books, the way the world seemed to shrink to the space between the shelves. But tonight, the quiet felt different. I was shelving new acquisitions when I heard the soft click of heels on the polished wood. I turned, and saw Elena, the visiting author whose latest novel had captivated me more than I cared to admit. Elena’s eyes, dark and sharp, scanned the room before landing on me with an intensity that made my heart skip.

It's about testimony. Instead, I'm reading at the foundation. Thirty women. That's who's here. Thirty women who have survived something. Who have made it to the other side of something that tried to break them. Who understand that a book like this isn't entertainment. It's witness. It's proof that the thing that happened to you doesn't have to be the final word on who you are.

I never meant to stay this late. The university library usually kicked everyone out by ten, but I’d sweet-talked Mr. Kane into letting me finish pulling books for my thesis. He was the quiet type, the one who barely looked up from his desk most days. Tall, dark hair always a little messy, glasses that made his green eyes sharper. I’d had a crush on him since freshman year. Pathetic, right? A twenty-one-year-old student crushing on the thirty-something librarian who probably saw me as just another noisy undergrad.

“I’ll admit, this is nice. Unexpected, but nice.” We order pancakes, eggs, and coffee, and the conversation flows easily. He tells me stories about his childhood, moments that make me laugh so hard my stomach hurts. I tell him about my favorite books, the ones that kept me sane during the worst times of my life. It's crazy, but reading how those women were in similar situations to me and took charge, changed the ending was empowering.