Man Reading A Book Novels & Stories

There he was, in his authoritative posture, reading what seemed like an encyclopedia; a massive book with pages that appeared to be extremely thin. Of course, this guy would never read a magazine or any other ordinary book. It was always some sort of intellectual boring science book. Staring into the book, he muttered, "Quit peeping and close that door, Winslow," I closed the door behind me after recovering from the shock he'd given me. I walked towards him meekly. "You asked to see me, Mr. Decarlo?" "No. I asked you to see me," he said, closing the huge book he had in his hands. "You know, Winslow, you never cease to impress me by placing second in class, while having so many voids in your

The sun's rays coming from the open window make the room feel refreshing, soothing, and to my dismay, brilliant. A tall, well-dressed man, in the colors of the flag, was sitting in an armchair by the window while his whole being seemed lost among the pages of the book he reads. His brown hair with a few white strands seemed to shine in the sunlight. I'm not exactly in the mood to be ignored. I look at one of the maps on the table and clear my throat as I wait patiently for the water-green-eyed man to notice me. The man fumbled over the sudden noise, casting a startled look in all directions before finally finding me in one of the shaded corners of the room.

"Does that bother you, do you think?" I turned my head towards the voice, which was growing more and more familiar to me. The man was sitting next to me, with his feet resting on each other. I saw that there was an open book on his thigh. He's reading a book. "You read a book in a dimly lit room." I didn't answer his question. He thought for a second, then smiled, his finger pointing towards the open curtain. "That's why I opened the curtain a little, but it turned out the light made you wake up.

Then four more. Then the small sound of the front door of the bookstore opening and closing and a man stepping out into the November Sunday on Cortelyou Road, and the bookstore quiet around me again, and the yellow light unchanged, and the book in my hand still open to the page I had been reading when he spoke. I stood in the aisle for ten minutes.

He holds my eyes in a challenge and I'm too defiant to look away. "You are welcome to sit. No one in this house cares about the smoke." He says and takes another puff. Without a word I walk over to the chair opposite him and sit. I light my cigarette and inhale deeply before blowing out a puff of smoke. I look at the book the man is currently reading. Magician. The bold white words stand out against the stark black on the spine. The man could sense my star and peered over the top in amusement and… anticipation? Almost expectantly. "Have you read it?" He asks, mocking humor in his voice.

I preferred my books to people, and my imaginations to reality. One evening, as I was casually returning back a stack of books to the shelves, my eyes scanning the names for their proper places, I noticed a man sitting in the far corner of the library. He was deeply focused on a large, ancient-looking book, his brow furrowed in concentration. I paused, looking at him curiously, and I found myself stealing glances at him, intrigued by his presence and level of concentration in my peaceful domain.

With his elbow resting on the surface of the table and his fingers turning the pages of the book that he was reading. His electric blue eyes swept through the lines of the books that were written on the pages and the more he read the more his brows furrowed. Logan straightened up and sighed before rubbing the space between his brows and then turned the page of the book causing a flapping sound to echo in the room. There was a knock on the door as Logan raised his head and said, “ Come in.” He then dropped his head back down to read the book that was in front of him, not even bothering to look at the person who came inside.

She was just about to look back down at her notebook when someone stopped beside her table. “Excuse me.” Amara glanced up. A man stood there holding a book in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. He looked about her age, maybe a little older, with curly brown hair and an easy, friendly expression. “Yes?” she said politely. He lifted the book slightly. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I noticed you were reading the same author earlier.” Amara blinked. “Oh.” She looked down at the book beside her notebook. “You mean this?”

When I turned to look at him, the book he was reading was now placed on his thighs, and it fixed his eyes on my body. “What are you reading?” I asked 'innocently, closing the distance between us with the now-empty mug. He lifted the book, showing off the unmistakable bulge in his slacks. “A crime series .” He smiled. “I was about to come wake you up from lunch.”

If Malik felt the same way, he must understand why I had to leave my room to find something better than a nonfiction book on the Love pack. Then he holds up the book he had chosen, and I yelp. A man held a naked woman against him, her private areas covered primarily by only a thin veil of silk fabric. His face was by her neck, as she clung to his back, that was enveloped by a thin sheen of sweat. Clearly, they are amidst the throes of passion, or close to it. Large font pronouncing something I didn't want to consider suggested what kind of book he had produced. Some sort of raunchy, sexy romance novel.