Intimacies A Novel Novels & Stories

This time was different from every time before. Not the bar – frantic and anonymous and fueled by mutual destruction. Not the restaurant – stolen and forbidden and dripping with adrenaline. Not even the first night in his bed – slow, yes, but still careful. Still performing the version of intimacy that felt safe. This was none of those things. This was terrifying.

And I knew that I was in so much trouble. Because this wasn’t just sex anymore. This was intimacy. The kind that burrowed under your skin and made a home there. The kind that destroyed you when it ended. And it would end.

Intimate. “Shh.” One finger pressed against my lips. “No more talking unless I tell you to. We wouldn’t want security to hear the prim little library assistant moaning like a whore when they finally check the building.” The crude word sent a shameful thrill straight to my core. I was already wet, embarrassingly so, just from one kiss and the way he was looking at me like he planned to devour me slowly. He stepped back slightly, eyes never leaving mine, and reached for one of the leather-bound books on the nearby table. It was an old edition of The Decameron, Boccaccio’s tales of lust and sin during the plague. One of the restricted volumes he’d borrowed before.

His flawless outline accentuated his aquiline nose as his jawlines possessed a certain tension to it, and… Then, she suddenly widened her eyes as a flash of inspiration struck her. What was the meaning of all of this? Christina had come to steal Michael’s sperm. How could she fall asleep so suddenly? Furthermore, she was sleeping in that disgusting man’s embrace. She was exceptionally tired as her limbs felt sore. Christina was not a lady who did not know the dangers of society. She immediately knew what had happened to her. Christina was naked, and there were multiple marks on her body. Her brain exploded with a boom.

What happened inside the villa on the first night was the specific, unhurried, complete opposite of everything the empire had required of them. Not urgency. Not efficiency. Not the particular quality of intimacy that lives alongside exhaustion — which was real and had been theirs for years and which she did not regret because it was the intimacy of two people who were tired together and that had its own specific honesty — but something else. The intimacy of two people who have arrived somewhere with nothing left to do. Who are not behind on anything.

Those memories replayed like a haunting melody I can't shake off. I couldn't shake the thoughts. Usually, I've always viewed intimacy as a mere physical act. Sex with women meant nothing to me, they were just encounters that left me cold and indifferent. But with her, it was different. Ivory had somehow broken through my defenses, awakening emotions I never thought I could have. I've always kept my guard up, never letting anyone too close. Yet, here I was, lost in a whirlwind of unfamiliar feelings.

By the time I left the park and drove back to the dorm, my panties were soaked and my mind was already spinning with filthy fantasies. Amelia wasn’t in the room when I got back. The gifts I bought her were still scattered on the floor. I didn’t bother picking them up. I just freshened up, took a quick shower, and crawled into bed. No exam tomorrow, so I didn’t even open my books. I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, imagining all the dirty things the stranger might do to me. Spreading my legs for him, getting choked, getting pounded until I couldn’t think straight. I was probably crazy for even considering this with someone I’d never met, but fuck it, call me a slut, because that

There was plenty of that. But where sex was easy for Finn, intimacy was not. He had never let himself get close to a woman for fear of reliving the nightmare that was the aftermath of Chantel. His uncle had helped. He had shared his bachelor wisdom with Finn, teaching him the subtle art of the pick-up. His uncle even kept a playbook of sorts, although he would never call it that. To Frankie, it was his journal where he recorded every memorable hook-up he had experienced. Frankie didn’t know Finn had found the book, not that his uncle would have cared. But that book had helped Finn navigate his broken heart and embark on a life that any playboy would be proud of. But none of it had ever inclu

Now she's scared that while she was busy trying to win the game, she accidentally let the player into the one place she promised was off-limits, making her care about a man who views intimacy as a contract negotiation. She wants to be the fireball that burns him, but she seems to be the one currently being consumed by the flame. She needs to get away from him, because she definitely doesn't want to fall for a man who treats women like real estate developments and has a roster of shameless brunettes waiting for him. However, underneath the anger, there’s a confusing, electric spark. The taste of Nicole’s cherry lip gloss is still there on her lips, and for a split second, Jessica wonders if s

was entirely innocent, the question remained. Why hadn't he mentioned her? Why hadn't he said, casually, over dinner one evening — there's a girl from Umukabia living in Sunderland, she sometimes comes to London when I'm there, we meet up. Simple. Easy. The kind of thing a man with nothing to hide mentions without thinking. Instead there had been silence. And private messages. And invitations his wife was never meant to see. Innocence does not hide itself. She typed her response. "I see you have nothing to say about what I actually wrote. That says everything." Then, after a moment: "The reason I go to your phone is because you've given me reasons to. If you'd rather I didn't, give me reaso