Taste Like War Book Novels & Stories

And when I do this, when I run my tongue through her folds, when she bears down on me, spreading her thighs even as she whimpers with the onslaught of pleasure, I don’t want to kill her. At least not yet. Because her taste… I think it’s the reason lesser men go to war. They could live on it the rest of their lives, her musky sweetness bottled and sold to the masses. The more I taste, the more I want, and I know that ending her life is the only thing that will prevent me from locking her in a dungeon to take her pleasure for my own.

The specific lightness of a weight removed. What arrived instead was the ash taste. Coating my tongue before I had fully processed what I was reading, the specific flavor of something that should have been sweet and was not, that should have been a beginning and felt instead like a different kind of ending. Liberation should taste like honey and wild berries. Why does it coat my tongue like ash?

"Alright, that's how we'll arrange the pairs. And since they're new to the company, as mentors, you should look out for them in their daily lives as well as at work." I was about to grab my laptop and escape when Dexter stepped in front of me and suddenly leaned close to my ear. "Long time no see. Let the game begin." I stared at him in shock, suddenly realizing that his previous sunny, innocent demeanor had been an act. This was not some naive college guy with clear, doe eyes. This was clearly a wolf in sheep's clothing! "Dexter's really handsome, isn't he? Look at those arm muscles. He must work out regularly."

I gave one long, broad lick from her opening up to her clit, which was still hiding inside its hood. I knew what I smelled like, but I'd been worried I wouldn't like the taste of someone else. I'd told myself I'd soldier on, no matter what. I shouldn't have worried. Sarah's flavor wasn't good. It was exquisite. Sweet and tangy, just a little earthy, it tasted like her. Excitedly, I dove back in running my tongue around her delicate folds, savoring as much of her nectar as I could find.

I pant. He makes a pleased, possessive sound and does it again on my left shoulder where the book’s sketch marked a crescent. A nick. A shallow drag. The burn of it, then his mouth, hot and certain, erasing the sting until all that’s left is want. “You taste like you smell,” he rasps against my skin. “Caramel. Heat. Mine. Delicious.”

I swallowed hard while trying to control this sudden hunger inside me, which was making me hungry like a fucking vampire's thrust for blood. "It must be..." She began saying but I cut her off by slamming my lips against her. They taste so sweet like sugar and strawberries, making me want to taste them again and again like a drug addict, the sudden hunger inside me began to disappear making me feel bliss and warmth settle inside my heart. Jesus Christ. I'm screwed. Author's Note:- Hey guys, DO leave your comments below and vote for the book. love you all, take care. I*:- S.n_nina_arthur F*:- S.N Nina Arthur

He slid the book across the desk toward me. “Read.” I glanced down. The title was unfamiliar. But the image on the cover made my throat dry. A woman on her knees, blindfolded, arms behind her back. Submission. Captivity. Pleasure. “I—what is this?” “A test.” I hesitated, then opened the book. I started reading. It was graphic from the start. No gentle build-up. Just hot skin, whispered commands, legs spread, lips parted, wet tongues, whimpers, begging. The words tasted strange in my mouth. Heavy. Vulgar. But I read them anyway.

On the inside front cover of the recipe book manuscript. Elijah read it. These are the tastes of a life that was worth it. He put the manuscript down. He sat at the kitchen table. He thought about the line. He thought about each word individually—these and are and the and tastes and of and a and life and that and was and worth and it—and then he thought about them together, the way they accumulated into something larger than the sum of their parts. These are the tastes. Not this is the food or these are the recipes. These are the tastes—the sensory experience of a life, the things that had been eaten and savored and remembered. The tastes of a life, not the events or the achievements or the

I glanced at the book again and decided to start reading. I started to read the Preface of the book. And the sooner my eyes began to soar through the book's pages, the sooner I felt new. I've never thought of an enemy disguised as a friend before. But then I only have one. I glanced at Minnie. Is she an enemy? And then the book said enemies often offer help but are really empty promises. I realized Minnie was no enemy. When the book started talking about sociologists and psychologists stating that in the beginning, tribal wars were brutal and referred to as some kind of ritual of violence about heroism and strength, I thought: This is how I think!--that wars are full of fighting and brutalit

Gods, her taste was a drug I could never grow immune to. The rest of the world fell away. There was no grief, no looming war, only the rhythm of our bodies, the sharp, sweet taste of her, the heat of her mouth swallowing me. Her cries mingled with my growls until the air was thick with the scent of sex and the sound of our pleasure. I drove her higher, took her apart piece by piece, until she was trembling and gasping, and still I wanted more.