Novel & Cerita Demetrius Desmond Fanart

He saw one that looked like him, like Trady, like Demetrius. He paused and looked at it. Penelope noticed he wasn't moving with her and turned to see him looking at the painting. “It's a painting of Demetrius, of you,” Penelope said. “Doesn't it look wonderful.” “It does. It's like seeing a part of me that I didn't know existed.” “Wait until you see most of the magnificent things Demetrius did. He was a poet, an artist and a lot of other things.” Logan nodded. “Sounds interesting.”

Wouldn't that ruin your manicure? Demetri: Take it back! He sent a picture of his angry face. The guy was seriously hot. Married, taken, and completely happy - but hot. No sane girl could ignore his crazy dimples, blond hair, and crystal blue eyes. He was like a younger version of Brad Pitt and Paul Walker's love child - it was its own hashtag. Dani: Sorry. You're pretty? Demetri: I'll take it. Dani: He thinks I'm stupid. Demetri: Impossible. Did the bastard actually say that?

Demetri was a work of art, his body sculpted and powerful, every muscle defined under taut skin. I slid closer to the edge of the bed, my hands rising to explore the breadth of his shoulders, tracing the contours down his sides until I slipped beneath the hem of his T-shirt. His abdomen was a fortress of hard, chiseled abs, each ridge tempting me to linger. Without warning, Demetri leaned down, capturing my mouth with his once more, the kiss turning feverish and desperate. My palms roamed over him, tracing every sinewy line until he surged forward, pulling his shirt off in one swift motion. The tattoos that adorned his chest and abdomen were mesmerizing—an intricate clock on his right breast

Oh crap. "I'll make you one, a crystal, the perfect one. Kill Belaisle, kill them all." Demetrius stood up, hopping around in a circle, one foot to the other. "Make my Mistress the most powerful Mistress in the. Whole. Wide. World." He stopped, stared at me with his manic amber eyes. "Fix me?"

She was at a loss for words to say as she sauntered towards the direction of the portrait, with her eyes fixed on the portrait of the young lad who beamed with a smile. She didn't need any soothsayer to tell her that the boy whose eyes gleamed like all the stars were gathered inside was, Damien, her master. She tried to control all the tears that were starting to gather because even though she loathed him with extreme passion, her heart moved with pity for him. His childhood was snatched by someone related to her and she couldn't help but wonder how different he would have turned out to be if he didn't have to experience the cold murder of his parents.

The window provided ample coverage that allowed me to ogle to my fill. Santino was the one talking now but I barely registered it, my focus on my stepbrother turned passionate lover and soon to be heartbreaker. Demetrio leaned forward on the table, propping an elbow on his armrest, making his thick biceps bunch effortlessly under his dark blue beach shirt. His index finger curled over his lips, his expression serious and thoughtful. Harmless posture but it had my pulse racing with desire. Gawd he was so hot. He could do the most trivial thing and will still make erotic models or pornstars look pale in comparison. That pose coupled with his dark hair fluttering in the open breeze was magazine

“No, no cats.” “Narrows it down to only about a million options.” Demetrius scratched at his chin, feigning contemplation. “Most things don’t make you blush so it might be a more private matter. Hmmm… private, you, me—shirtless, I’d wager. I’ve been working out so I hope dream-you gave me a firm core. Jamison Carter, are you having raunchy fantasies about me when you sleep?” Jamie sputtered, scrambling to distance herself from his assumption. “W—What? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Can you give me his name and a bit about his appearance so I can confirm that the right one has reached you?” “Sure. His name is Demetri. He has black hair, and his eyes possess the rarest shade of hazel. I am not good at descriptions. Um, this young man looks like a front-page cover model. Is it enough to identify him?” OH MY GOODNESS! Desmond was there in the flesh, and Mom and Mia could see him. I was no longer the only one. “Yes, he is the right one. When did he leave? And what did he say to you?”

But it was still beautiful. And then I saw him. Desmond. He was sitting at a big black piano in the corner of the living room. His head was bent a little, his dark hair messy like he’d been running his hands through it. His fingers moved across the keys like he’d been doing it forever. Oh, and he was shirtless. Of course. I didn’t mean to stare, but my eyes dropped to his chest, to the muscles shifting every time his hands moved. Then I saw it, this tiny skull tattoo on his chest, just above his heart. I wondered if it meant anything or if it was just… there.

Tito Rommel muttered. “He’s Charles Flemish, 16 years old. He’s kind and nice, he enjoys playing basketball and football, he loves listening to music, he enjoys reading books... Mom, I am 100% sure about him, he loves me and I love him too, he said to me I am the girl he wants to marry when we grow up.” “Still, you are not yet 18! You still broke the rule, Sara!” I can feel the anger in Tito Rommel’s voice. I bit my lower lip while just looking at them.