Dirty Laundry Book Novels & Stories

of the sauce for me and sent a bunch of wine pairing suggestions. She’s the best little sister I could ask for. I reply with a thanks and then get up. I try to devote one day a week to getting shit done, and it’s usually on the day I don’t work. Then the house is somewhat cleaned, groceries are stocked, and my laundry is done and, well, not folded and put away if I’m being honest. But at least the clean pile is separate from the dirty, right?

he growled in my ear before leaving me alone in the hallway with a burn on my ass. Fuck. I wanted him pissed. But by the time I grabbed a duster and started cleaning, I got lost in the book titles. Ever since I had moved in, seeing his leadership and stock books placed beside my paranormal reverse harem books made me smile. The place was already spotless since the housekeeper cleaned everything thoroughly once a week. I snapped out of my head when Damon cleared his throat. “Did you clean everything well?” “Clean?” I asked and kept the book down when I realized I was still in the naughty maid costume with my tits spilling out. “Oh my god, I totally forgot I was trying to be a sexy maid for yo

“Light or dark doesn’t matter. It’s just levels of nasty when we wash the laundry and take out the trash.” That was something odd to say in Ian’s estimation. He knew they’d be euphemisms, but for what he wasn’t sure. Looking at the now open book. There're scribbled notes covering the pages' empty spaces as they fought for room with the diagrams and symbols. The splotches must be ink or blood. The paper was yellowed, and the ink faded. Ian knew nothing about books. To him, it looked old and ready to fall apart. “But do we have what we need to kill them? Or can we kill them?”

He rubbed the red marks gently for a few seconds, almost careful, then stood up. I stayed face down, too drained to move. The sheets under me were damp. My whole body felt used and open. He walked to the small bathroom. I heard water running. When he came back he had a damp cloth. He cleaned me between the legs with surprising care, then tossed the cloth aside. “Turn over.”

I asked no one in particular but the dusty jewelleries stared back at me giving me my answer. I turned to move but my leg hit the vanity drawer and I heard a small plop, “Ouch!” I winced in pain as I rubbed my toes, bending down to pick what had fallen, it was a book and it was dusty. Dusting it off made me cough repeatedly and I stared at the book turning the page open but every page as well was covered in dust although preserved. I dusted a few pages off and the crisp but clean handwriting stared back at me. I read the first page and Immediately closed it. It was Jonathan’s mom’s diary.I flipped through the book and realized that she had written a lot and even almost used up the book. I wa

“Tell me what to do. I didn’t mean to see them!” “She ripped my dress!” I cried. “She wanted me stripped like I have no dignity! She wanted to shame me like I was fake, and… and I was dirty even when I didn’t do anything wrong! And she did it! You saw it. You witnessed it! She shamed me right in front of you!” His arms tightened around me. “Shhh... we’ll buy you another dress, okay?” “It’s not about the fucking dress!” And as soon as that, we both were just quiet, so quiet it was deafening.

Cute. When she pushed open her bedroom door, I stepped inside slowly. Her room looked exactly like her. It was clean, organized, and of course books were everywhere. Sticky notes on the wall. Soft lighting. A faint vanilla scent lingering in the air. It felt warm. Real. Not fake rich-kid warm like Ashford houses. Actual home. She immediately took down pictures of her and her mom. I laughed and dropped onto her bed lazily while she immediately pointed at me. “Shoes off.”

I started grabbing towels, bedsheets, anything I could find. "Emma?" Mia called from the living room. "What are you doing? It’s Sunday night. You never do laundry on a Sunday. That’s like your sacred 'do nothing' time." "The sheets are dirty," I said, shoving a load into the washer. "Everything feels dirty." I poured the detergent in, the blue liquid staining the white fabric. I watched the water start to fill the drum, the rhythmic sloshing acting like a weird sort of white noise for my brain. I needed to be busy. If my hands were moving, maybe my thoughts would stop.

Politics’ Dirty Games: The President ADRIANNA WALES’ POV What I hate about myself is not giving in. Not giving in even when my heart and my mind together are already bloody screaming at me what I want and how I can get it. This is all just pride talking and influencing my whole being not to give in—not to give into Matt Zamora. Whatever we have is at the fine line between perfection and chaos. Our relationship compliments both of us in all the wonderful ways, but it is also in the brink of destroying everything we have.

I walk in and see its fairly clean, few pieces of clothing lay around and the bed is a huge mess, other than that its perfectly fine. I pick up the clothes and place them in the hamper. I go and make his bed, avoiding the stains left on them. Disgusting. As I'm cleaning I trip over something that's sticking out from under his bed. I bend down and pick up the book. Its seems to be a photo album.