Novel & Cerita Fiction Poetry Books

At that moment, the lights to the operating theater turned off as the medical staff wheeled Michael out. Felix and Ruth cried and ran over. Although Michael was conscious, his face had no color on it. His lips were purple. The doctor took off his mask and said seriously, "The patient just had his stomach pumped. He's in no danger right now. Based on our judgment, he likely suffered poisoning from an excessive intake of sedatives." The doctor added, "This is an illegal substance. We've already reported it to the police." Michael's eyes slowly opened. He looked around, finally landing his eyes on me, gleaming with venomous hatred.

The moment I did, the darkness was filled with them. Finn’s rough thumb against my cheek. Kelly’s massive frame looming over me. “Nova...” I could hear them in the hiss of the steam, their voices merging into a dark, forbidden demand. In my mind, the fantasy bloomed, violent and intoxicating. A soft, broken moan escaped my lips. My hand slid down my wet belly, my fingers parting my aching folds and sliding straight into the slick, dripping heat of my own desire. I was soaking wet, leaking heavily.

I noticed he had categorised his books according to genres: Fiction Politics Classics Poetry History Romance Wow! I hadn't imagined him to have such a wide variety of books. It seemed like he was an avid reader. My fingers brushed against the leather-bound spines of the books. Most of them appeared to be limited editions from their paper and bindings. I passed through the poetry section. Selected Poems by John Keats Tennyson’s Poetry So many classic poetry books. I continued forward. Lord of the Rings War and Peace Frankenstein

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This is it. Stepping further inside, my fingers traced the spines of books as I scanned the titles, searching for anything related to priestesses. After a few minutes, I found a section labeled Sacred Lineages and pulled out the first book that caught my eye. I was just about to settle into one of the chairs when the door creaked open. I turned, expecting maybe Brandon or Alpha Rhett—because, apparently, he had a habit of appearing whenever I least expected it—but instead, it was Ares.

Darren had once told me that reputations were fragile things—but they could be made stronger in the places where they had once cracked. I believed him now more than ever. I bought two baby books—one for names, one for poetry. I kept them tucked in the bottom drawer of my nightstand. Not because I was hiding them, but because they felt like promises still unfolding. Some nights, when I couldn’t sleep, I read aloud from the poetry book. Darren didn’t always respond. But he always listened. Even when his eyes were closed. One night, I stood by the window in our bedroom, the curtains pulled aside, the moon painting everything silver.

"You want more of this. I can see it in your eyes." Lily’s eyes were now clouded with a mix of fear and pure lust. She was finally breaking, her hands gripping the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white. I kept the slow, teasing pace on her now-soaked panties. “No… ah… I… I don't want anything,” she rasped out. I smiled. “Really? Then read. Take your book and read.” My finger pressed, sending pressure to her needing clit. "Ahhh… I... I can't think when you do that," she gasped.

Things forgotten touch me now— & they’re clouding me w/ forgiveness, rethinking the time I was asked the question I knew I would never understand, but that question brings things—slow walks, time & space, Fleetwood Mac glistening living rooms w/ home & midnight specials—wrapped w/ the cellophane intention that such question I wouldn’t forget could somehow become a beautiful title for a first book in poetry.

Here and there, shapes broke the monotony: jutting stones, slabs like headstones buried in drifts, crooked signposts with nothing written on them. Directly ahead, a stone arch rose from the sea of pages. It was made of rough, gray blocks, flecked with something dark that might once have been moss, or might once have been ink. Pages had snagged in its cracks, plastered against it like old flyers left in the rain. Words glowed faintly along its curve, as if carved there and then filled with light. HERE LIE STORIES NEVER FINISHED, WORDS NEVER SPOKEN, LIVES NEVER LIVED.

She's a nice girl, even though I'm more likely to remember the entire makeup routine than her name. The will to leave the room evaporates from my body. Strolling around, I find a book in one of the drawers. It's old, and the cover has faded halfway. I know not to judge a book by its cover, but this book looks less appealing than a sandwich without filling. With nothing better to do, I decide to read it. It turns out to be a poetry anthology with different poems. Surprisingly, they're interesting. I read a few before dozing off.