Great Short Books Novels & Stories

It takes you about a second to respond. "Brave." Supposedly one of the three Princesses who didn't need a man to come to complete their life. He nods his head, taking in the information before secretly rolling his eyes. Of course, you'd watch that. You were never fond of movies that had the same plotline as Cinderella. Having to think about a man coming to save a damsel in distress always made you cringe. The plot's overused and it gets rather boring as the year's progress.

The lecture hall smelled the same as always—chalk, old wood, faint coffee from someone’s travel mug. But today everything felt sharper, heavier. Final day of the semester. Last class. Bria took her usual seat in the front row. Short black pleated skirt—shorter than she’d ever worn to class before. Thin white blouse tucked in tight. No bra. No panties. Just skin and heat and the constant, low throb between her legs that had started the second she woke up knowing this was it.

What's going to happen if it reaches social media? My hands were shaking terribly, I managed to off the water and started practicing breathing techniques to calm myself down because I was loosing it. Suddenly the door flew open and Alice; the secretary walked in. "Isabella you don't look okay, are you going?", she asked immediately she saw me. I shook my head negatively, putting my hands behind me so she doesn't notice my shaky hands. "What's wrong, you look like you've seen a ghost ". "I think I need my medications", I lied," my insulin and -"

~Liliana~ These days after the gala don’t really settle into anything smooth. They just keep going, one after another, in a way that still catches me off guard. Every morning Rebecca wakes me up the same way, her little hands grabbing my arm and shaking until I open my eyes. She always has some urgent job for us, like lining up her stuffed animals for a big fight or sneaking a few extra strawberries from the kitchen before anyone notices. I catch how she presses closer when we sit with picture books or when she’s trying to write her letters. I don’t rush her. I just let it happen.

he says and I shake my head, refusing his threats. “Or…” he says and takes his hands completely off of me. He opens the book and flip through slowly, his fingers teasing the edge of the white pages the way I wish he would tease my hard nipples. I press my legs together, looking for a way to keep down my lust and the crazy thoughts as a drop of juice slides out of my pussy lips into the lady panties I have on. “Or…” he says again and runs his finger down the page of my last writing. Tomorrow morning is Christmas morning.

I said and he laughed. "You'll find out! And you have my whole heart too! Now, just one more thing. We finished our book yesterday. It took longer than the other one." "It was much bigger, sweetie!" "Oh, it has nothing to do with you constantly kissing me?" He joked and made me laugh. "Well, this time I chose a shorter one, but it's perfect for this phase of your life. It's about a girl who's also discovering love." He took the book from the bag and handed it to me. It was a thin book and the title was "Revolution Within Me"." I took a look and was intrigued.

he added. Elaine returned the smile. "Absolutely, Each book took me on a fascinating journey. I can't thank you enough for recommending such incredible titles." "It's always a pleasure to see someone genuinely passionate about reading. I'm glad I could be of assistance. By the way, we have a new arrival that you might find interesting. It's a collection of short stories by an acclaimed author." he suggested. Her curiosity piqued. "Oh, really? I'd love to take a look at it. Where can I find it?"

he panted, trying to get his breathing back to normal. ‎ ‎"Really? I've thought about taking your gym shorts off every morning when you walk past my house, but I could not bring myself to do or say anything" I whispered to his lips as he kissed me again. ‎ ‎"Well that makes two of us. I guess we could thank the heat wave, yeah" he added inbetween kisses. ‎

He set the glass down and crossed to me, stopping just close enough that I could smell his cologne dark, expensive, dangerously familiar. “Notebook?” he asked. I lifted the leather-bound book like a shield. My handwriting inside had grown filthier with every page he made me add. He took it from my hands, flipped it open to the newest entry, and read my words aloud in that low, commanding voice. “‘I vow to spread you open and taste how desperate you are for a man you shouldn’t want.’” My breath caught. I’d written it at 3 a.m. last night, fingers trembling, shame and arousal warring until I gave in and put it on paper.

Not a fortress. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. The bookstore is quiet. Just us and the hum of the fridge behind the counter. He holds something. A book. He sets it on the counter. The Art of Letting Go. Used. Corners bent. “I read it,” he says. His voice is rough. Unused. “Didn’t help.” My throat closes. “Dominic—” “I wasn’t okay,” he says, like he’s continuing a conversation from six months ago. “When you asked. On the phone. I wasn’t okay. I’m still not.”