روايات وقصص ضمن King Edward Vii Love Chair

"Don't think I don't see the look in your eyes when you see this specimen of manhood in front of you." I roll my eyes. He's right, but I'll never let him know that. "You're a specimen of something, that's for sure." "Get your sweet little ass on that chair," he says, more teasing than demanding. "My ass is hardly little anymore," I note. "What is this thing?" It's not a regular chair and certainly not a recliner, not with its elongated s-shape and narrow width. "It's a sex chair." Dorian grins at me like he's inordinately pleased with himself.

The seat and backrest were purple, but the top, arm, and legs of the chair were carved out of pure gold, with elaborate flower carvings. From the chest of the figure sitting on the throne, on a long black cloak and horse-head mask, I knew the figure was feminine. She was silent for a moment when we walked in. “Elora Stark, Davina Kimber," the woman said after a moment. “When I was told majors like you were going to join the big league, I didn’t believe what I heard. Best believe, I called your bluff. But with both of you right here…” she trailed off. “Sorry to burst your bubble, miss or misses, but I do keep to my word,” I said carelessly.

He waved his hand and the maid left. "You see Clinton, with patience and strategy we will surely win. It would cause damage alright, but we will come out victorious." He said and left his throne to go see the King of Lukehall. Clinton bowed his head and gently walked behind the King. The king entered his grand parlor. There, the King of Lukehall was seated on one of the finely furnished couch. He was a short man with a potbelly. King Darien sneered a little. A maid was serving him and next to him was a woman. She had long brown locks and green eyes. She wore a red long silk gown that fitted her perfectly. She had a graceful smile on her face. "King Jacob, welcome to Valeria. I'm very honoure

I chuckled, “Because I had my sources find out more about him. I don’t have any problems taking him on but he should be around to do that. I cannot fight empty air, can I?” Edriel shook his head and began again. He dragged me to one of the plush chairs that you would sink into the moment you rested your butt on it. He had always had a liking for grandiose things and his chamber was proof of it. It could even rival that of my father’s based on how it was stuffed with tasteful pieces of furniture, tapestries, carvings, etc. But I could not distract myself by admiring it for long as he tugged at my hands again.

In addition to the five occupied chairs, four more sat vacant. One of the seated men was significantly larger than his fellows, in girth more so than height. His high-backed chair—more of a throne, really—was larger and more ornate than the others as well. Intricate carved runes covered much of the chair’s dark wood surface. The special chair left little doubt that this man was the leader of the group.

Some of them were for swimming, some for archery, some for combats and many more. Zadkiel turned around and made his way to the grand revolving chair behind the desk that screamed authority and looked old compared to the other furniture. He smiled at the thought of Irvin sitting on it with a smug face knowing he was the leader of the pack because Irvin was as narcissistic as that. He traced the chair before sitting on it. He was about to rotate the chair when he was hit with some visions.

Their wristwatches, sleek and expensive, glittered under the lights, clear indicators of fat salaries and well-fed bank accounts. The very instant I stepped fully into the room, after glancing at the faces before me, my attention was drawn to a particular empty chair at the far end of the table. It wasn’t just vacant. It stood out. It was the most decorated chair in the room. Intrigued, I squinted at the gold-lettered inscription carefully etched into the headrest of the chair. The words shimmered under the lights as I read them silently. “The Chairman.” A smirk tugged at my lips. So, this was my seat.

There was a magazine rack in the West Village townhouse. It stood in the corner of the living room beside the reading chair that was Alexander's — the one he'd had since the penthouse, the only piece of furniture from the penthouse that had made the move in its identical form, because some chairs were simply the right chair and you did not replace them. The chair had been with him through the penthouse years, through the Dom years before that, through the long stretch of his life when the chair had been the only thing in his apartment that wasn't strictly functional. It was leather, worn in the specific places where his body had worn it, the arms softened by years of elbows, the seat cushion

A long table stretches down the center, already groaning under the weight of platters piled high with roasted boar, glistening fruits, and loaves of bread. Aiden and Elias set the wine crates at the end of the table and begin to unload the bottles. Aiden’s eyes drift to the head of the table. The large, ornate chair is empty. He glares at it, a spike of resentment mingling with the anxiety churning in his gut. It is a throne of power, and he is just a plaything dressed up for amusement. Suddenly, a trumpet blast silences the room. "His Majesty, the King!"