Short Spicy Books Novels & Stories

But something about its presence, the way it was there without explanation, paralyzed me. I bent down to pick it up. My fingers met the paper, smooth and cold. I turned it over for a long time before opening it, weighing it, feeling it, trying to guess its contents by touch alone. There was something about this paper, this black ink, that sent a chill down my spine. And heat elsewhere. Very hot. A wave of heat in the pit of my stomach, inexplicable, inappropriate.

“You, what’s your comfort food.” “Aside from coffee?” he said and smiled. “I like spicy food, not just spicy but really hot.” And she immediately connected it to something that almost raised one of her eyebrows: spicy foods were known to be an aphrodisiac. So was it one of the reasons he liked sex so much? Then, she remembered her dream where he was sexually molesting her and she felt her face heating up like somebody, or Soren himself, had rubbed a Carolina Reaper on both her cheeks.

I didn’t look back, because I didn’t want to give myself false hope that he would call me back. “Tell me what happened last night. How did you get out?” Harley jumped up from her favourite bean bag by the stone fireplace and sat next to me on the couch with her legs folded, prepared for the gossip session. She began, “It’s all a little blurry and, yeah, about the spiking you said, it’s true. And ours wasn’t the only ones spiked. Almost everyone was dropping unconscious.” “What?” “There was Rophynol in every soda, vodka, whiskey, and so on.”

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I scrolled through the limited selection of DVDs—mostly action flicks and thrillers that made me know it was his taste, until one caught my eye. Fifty Shades of Grey. I'd heard about it from friends back home, all giggles and whispers about the steamy scenes, but I'd never watched it because of my sheltered life and all that. Tonight, with frustration bubbling under my skin and that lingering heat I felt from Viktor's earlier grab, it felt like the perfect rebellion. I popped it in, cranked the volume high to drown out the silence of the cabin, and settled onto the couch, pulling a blanket over my lap for some semblance of coziness.

Her mouth parted without permission. “I noticed you have plenty of other books and sketch magazines like this. So I decided to get these” he said calmly, like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on her fragile emotions. She lifted one of the books carefully, almost like it might disappear if she wasn’t gentle enough. “These novels haven’t been released in the market yet” she said softly. “And these are my favorite magazines” she said, referring to the long magazines. She loved reading when she wasn’t sketching. She loved getting lost in stories. She had been counting down the months for these exact books to be available. She had talked about them without even realizing how often.

Now. Instead of horror, a sick, intoxicating heat flooded my system. The taboo had just been reinforced with a steel frame. I looked at the bookshelf, imagining Silas on the other end, his expensive suit rumpled, his eyes wide with a depraved hunger. I wanted to destroy him with the sight of us.

And knowing you as well as I do, I imagine it will have been quite a while since my passing before you finally open this letter. "We really did have something beautiful once, and that's why it hurts so much to know you've never loved me. I'm only writing to say one thing—thank you. For seven years, you let me believe in a beautiful dream. Now that it's over, it's time for me to go. Don't waste your time missing me." Conrad read my last note without showing a single flicker of emotion. Then, like a man hell-bent on punishing himself, he pored over the chat records I'd leaked to the paparazzi—reading them once, then twice, then again and again. He drowned in those messages from dusk till dawn.