Novelas y relatos de Clare Chambers Author Small Pleasures

Like being a sentence in someone's private vocabulary. I run on. I file it. Clara meets me for dinner at the Italian place on Leith Walk at half seven. Clara is my best friend in the way that someone can be your best friend when they've known you long enough to have stopped being impressed by the parts of you that impress other people and arrived at something more useful, which is genuine comprehension. She orders the cacio e p**e. She asks about the mountain man from the conference before we've even looked at the menus, which is Classic Clara, who keeps receipts on my romantic life with a dedication I find both touching and faintly alarming.

He made an emphasis on the word “ things.” Clara picked up her fork, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Despite his rough words, the silver platters before her were filled with her favorite delicacies, cooked to absolute perfection. For the next twenty minutes, a comfortable, domestic quiet settled over the penthouse. Arthur watched her with a deeply possessive gaze as she ate, ensuring she finished every single bite. The rich, comforting food combined with the sheer warmth of the space made Clara feel a profound sense of security.

She swallowed frantically, coughing and trying not to cough too loud, tears streaming, and nose leaking white. He kept her there, soft cock resting on her tongue, while he finished his wine and shook hands. The guests finally left, and the door clicked shut. Damon rolled his chair back and looked down at her. Clara was a mess: face red, lips swollen, drool and cum all over her chin and tits, pussy dripping onto the marble floor. “Look at you,” he said softly, almost proud. “Perfect little cockwarmer. Not a single sound they could hear.”

Clara entered, carrying a small tray with warm milk and cookies. “Mrs. Laurent, I thought you might like this before bed,” she said sweetly. She placed the tray on the table, but her eyes immediately went to my chest. My nipples were clearly visible through the thin fabric. She stared for a second too long. I crossed my arms quickly, feeling exposed. “Thank you, Clara,” I said, hoping she would leave. But she didn’t. Instead, she stepped closer, pretending to adjust the tray. Then, as if by accident, she slipped on the edge of the rug.

Being around him every day felt natural, like we were meant for each other. He’d come home and we’d cook together, bumping hips in the small kitchen, his hand brushing my lower back and sending sparks straight to my core. Lauren started picking up on it. She called more often, her voice sharp when she asked if I was still there. One afternoon she showed up unannounced while I was sketching on the couch in a tank top and tiny shorts. Nate was at work, but she looked me up and down like I was the problem. “Chloe,” she said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “How much longer do you think you’ll need the spare room? Nate seems… distracted lately.”

She paused, tilting her head. "And you?" "I love the quiet moments right before the city wakes up," Chloe murmured, staring into her mug. "And thrift store books. The ones with notes scribbled in the margins by strangers. I hate small talk, and I absolutely despise the sound of car alarms." They shared small, sudden bursts of laughter as they compared notes on their lives—Thalia’s intense dislike of overly sweet human food versus Chloe’s absolute dependence on sugary iced coffee; Chloe’s fascination with the vastness of the ocean versus Thalia’s deeply rooted preference for the solid, unchanging earth of dense forests.

She reached out, her fingers grazing the cuff of his shirt. … Ten minutes after Clare left, Harper returned from lunch with a takeaway container with Ceasar salad and garlic bread sticks. Marius was hunched over his desk, staring at a budget sheet with an intensity that bordered on frustration. He looked up when the door opened, and for a split second, his expression was startled– as if he had not expected anyone to return so soon. “You are back,” he says, his voice strained. He cleared his throat and straightened up, pulling his shoulders back into a more composed posture. He glanced at the takeaway container and the breadsticks, and a small, genuine smile flickered across his face. “Perfec

The apartment had settled into that rare kind of quiet that only arrives after bedtime, when the last toy has been picked up, the last glass of water requested, and the last sleepy protest whispered from beneath the blankets. Their breathing drifted faintly through the hallway. For once, nobody needed anything from me. Clara lounged on the carpet with a glass of wine balanced loosely in her hand. The floor lamp cast a warm glow over her face, illuminating the familiar mischief in her eyes. Across from me, Daniel sat with his elbows resting on his knees watching me. “So,” Clara said, tipping her head to one side, “what are we calling your little empire, future queen of justice?” I let out a s

My eyes nearly bugged out of my head at the sight, and I could feel the heat crawling under my skin, begging to be let out. It wasn't long before I reached Dorm 314. The young women in the dorm were especially brazen. They'd tease me mercilessly whenever I checked their dorm. I was admittedly a little embarrassed every time I entered their dorm. This time, I'd just arrived at the door when I heard their giggling and noisy chatter coming from inside their room. I knocked on the door. "Dorm check!" Within seconds, Francine Whitmore opened the door. She wore only panties to cover her modesty below. She was practically dripping with youth and vibrancy.

High enough to see the city lights. The key was waiting at the security desk. She rode the elevator up. The hallway was quiet a potted plant outside someone's door, a welcome mat reading G'day in cheerful yellow letters. Apartment 7B. She unlocked the door. The apartment was small but bright. Floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. A compact kitchen with white cabinets. One bedroom. One bathroom. It smelled faintly of dust, and the previous tenant had left scuff marks on the walls. Clara didn't care. It was hers. Hers alone. No cold husband. No cruel first love. No maids who looked through her like she was already a ghost.