Precious Moments Dark Hair Novels & Stories

I shake my head in frustration as I flip the page. There she is, making the rest of what I was going to say irrelevant. A perfect close-up photograph of our baby sister. Iokaste, the leader of The Dark. She is looking directly at the camera, innocence and happiness exude from her youthful features. Her sparkly silver hair is up in a topknot, and her large, vibrant violet eyes practically pop off the page. This picture is in color, but she is wearing dark gray lipstick. Presumably, trying to distract from her perfect, fair skin being marred by the thick keloid scars on her jawline and sides of her neck.

He quickly cleared his throat. “I am in the bathroom.” The other person was about to open when they heard his voice. “Sorry sir I didn’t know it was occupied.” It was one of the junior workers and his voice was shaking from fear. I was relieved my momentum was distu…….. I didn’t finish that as his finger went deep inside. He was not even scared we were almost caught. “How are you calm?” “They are called stolen moments for this reason. The adrenaline, the zeal and anticipation should feel like this.”

It's as if time itself has stood still to acknowledge my presence. The dark dress, an embodiment of darkness and mystery trails behind me with every step, its intricate lace shimmering like pools of night sky, and as though I have become one with the darkness, a queen ready to claim her throne. Fiery red locks cascade down my back, intertwined with crystals and black lace, forming exquisite patterns. The crimson waves frame my face, and I know their vibrant hue matches the flame of the torches lighting up the stage where Rune and Ginevra will be joined.

She stood calmly, peering at Grace with skepticism. "Let's get to what we're here for, shall we? As much as I appreciate your gracious tour, I am more interested in what you want to know about the moonstone. Such a pagan thing, I would say, for you to even know about—" Mom was cut off by Grace, who had balled her hands into fists. Grace had gray-blonde hair that was pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She was taller than Mom but not taller than me, and I had to look down at her slightly as she spoke. She looked all business in her white and silver robes.

"She's a lot more than pretty Z, but nice compliment and I think from the look she was giving you, she knows who you are and that is someone she wants to bone." "Oh my god, is that Havana?!" Zander asks with is voice greatly overwhelmed with insecurities and worries and my attention is turned to where his' is fixed and Havana is also amongst the crowd which I should have anticipated, but for a weird reason, I didn't. She's in a long, purple silk gown. Her hair is a full curly afro style and she's always been beautiful, but letting her natural hair come in a full display takes it to a whole new level and now I get why Zander is so insecure.

The morning light filtered softly through the penthouse windows. Mercy stood at the counter, humming quietly to herself as she prepared breakfast. She had tied her hair into a loose ponytail, a few strands falling around her face. She wore a simple fitted top and soft lounge pants, nothing extravagant, yet she still carried that effortless elegance that seemed to follow her everywhere now. The scent of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon filled the air.

" 3 years have passed doc, but my baby hasn't said a word," Debbie complains, looking straight into the doctor's eyes, the white doctor with his thick round glasses and a pointed nose, Gasp, he clears his throat"Can I see the child please?" Debbie nods and calls out Precious "Precious, please can you come in here?" a little girl carrying a big teddy with beautiful long dark brown hair with blue eyes walks in nervously, she meets her mum who sits her on her lap

She possesses a beauty that leaves me fighting a losing battle against my beast. Her hair— that deep auburn that seems to match every outfit— long, vivid, waves spilling down her back, catching the light like it’s been dipped in sunset. The small white flowers woven into the half-up style only make it worse, like she’s some impossible contrast of flame and innocence. I can’t stop staring at the way those curls brush over her shoulders, over the pale curve of her skin.

In the hospital parking lot, a doctor handed Kristopher a transparent bag containing a strand of hair, saying, "This belongs to Miss Hudson." Kristopher nodded in acknowledgment and dismissed the doctor. The car's interior light cast a soft glow on the man's delicate features, yet it failed to bring color to his pale complexion. Kristopher held the bag, gazing at the hair within. The hair quality was exceptional? fine, soft, and lustrous, mirroring the beauty of its owner. Kristopher tenderly brought the hair close and pressed a gentle kiss upon it, devoid of any hint of desire.

I turn around wondering who it is that recognized me. And it’s a woman. None other than the daughter of the prime minister, rumored to be born out of wedlock. She is breathtaking. A cascade of dark, impossibly glossy hair frames a face carved from a dream – high cheekbones, full lips painted a daring shade of crimson, and eyes, the softest shade of brown, that glitter with an almost predatory intelligence. Her dress, a sliver of black silk, hugs every curve, leaving little to the imagination while somehow remaining tantalizingly elegant.