Tasting Nora Novels & Stories

The strip club. Not here for lust. Not a dance. It is a trance. Forget it all. Inside smelled like liquor…not the cheap kind though. Men danced under the strobe lights with bodies moving to tease. I ignored them and made a beeline for the bar. "Whiskey," I muttered to the bartender. "Double." The first glass burned, the second dulled, and the third blurred the contours of my pain. I drank until my thoughts slowed and Adrian's voice was no longer echoing in my consciousness.

“Can we go in there? I want to get something.” He looked surprised for a beat, but when he saw the slight pleading in her eyes, he told the driver to pull over. Inside the shop, the air smelled of sugar and butter. Nora paused in front of the glass case, watching the rows of pastries. For the first time that night a little light came back to her face. She chose a slice of strawberry mousse and a box of chocolate macarons. Eric ordered a hot latte. They found a quiet corner. Nora took a small bite of the mousse. The sweetness spread across her tongue, but it didn’t chase the sadness from her eyes.

she bit out, tossing them into her mouth like holy wafers, instead of the reason she was in this mess. Noah didn’t speak. But he didn’t look away, either. His eyes followed her movements, assessing. Not in the smug way he usually did. Nora felt her spine tighten under his stare, her fingers curling tightly around the empty glass of water. It wasn’t him that irritated her this time. It was the damn pills. The chalky bitterness clinging to her tongue no matter how much water she gulped. How many more of these damn dusts do I need to choke down? That quack of a doctor… I just need a …

Nora’s hips jerked. Liv didn’t tease. She spread Nora open with her thumbs and devoured her. Flat tongue, pointed tongue, fast circles, slow sucks. Two fingers sliding in easy, curling, stroking that spot inside that made Nora see stars. Nora came with a broken scream, thighs clamping around Liv’s head, squirting into her mouth. Liv drank her down like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted. Didn’t stop. Added a third finger, scissored them, tongue never leaving Nora’s clit.

"Sweet?" Caesor swallowed it with difficulty, then broke into a look of pleasant surprise and gave a thumbs-up. "Sweet!" Nora saw his expression and thought it was genuine, so she popped a piece into her own mouth. Her face instantly scrunched up like she'd bitten into a lemon. Caesor watched her fall for it, holding back a laugh. "You always give me the first bite of every orange. I figured I'd see if you'd still trust me this time." Nora swallowed the sour fruit with a pained expression. Seeing his smug grin, she got furious—she grabbed his neck with one hand and shoved the remaining four slices into his mouth with the other.

I laughed, a shaky, breathless sound. "Never know until you try." Lina pulled back slightly; her eyes were dark and gleaming with a challenge. She wiped her thumb on my inner thigh, leaving a glistening trail of seed that caught the light. "Kia certainly doesn't make that much noise when she finishes," she observed, her tone casual but cutting. She took a sip of her coffee, the ceramic cup seemingly an anchor in a sea of chaos. "You must be very pent up."

“Flattery will get you extra laundry duty.” Adele did not smile. She closed the last step. One finger traced Nora’s exposed collarbone—slow the touch burning hotter than the afternoon sun pouring through the terrace doors. “I’m not flattering you,” she said, voice low and intimate. “I’m telling you what I want.” Nora swallowed. The kitchen smelled of coffee grounds and the faint salt breeze drifting in from the ocean. Outside, waves crashed against rock. Adele’s finger continued downward—unhurried—until it rested against the first button of Nora’s shirt.

To the big tanks behind Warehouse 1. Wednesday. 9 a.m. Nora and the tall one leave in the truck with the trailer. Trailer full. Wednesday. 4 p.m. They come back. Trailer half empty. Nothing unloaded. Thursday. Nora carries pots into the kitchen building. Full. Next morning, empty. Thursday night. Nora and the tall one on the dock with a forklift until midnight. Pallets go in. They don't come back out. And then, at the bottom of the last page, in that small, neat handwriting, with a little star next to it:

Here, miles away from the silver-tipped pines of my nightmare, the air tasted of damp asphalt, car exhaust, and fresh bread rather than ozone, fear, and alpha suppression. Nora was a middle-aged human woman with kind eyes and a spine made of pure steel. She owned The Morning Glaze, a small, fragrant bakery tucked into the corner of a narrow cobblestone street. She hadn't asked a single intrusive question when I showed up at her back door three weeks ago in the middle of a thunderstorm, soaking wet, badly bruised, and clutching one battered duffel bag. She had simply handed me a dry towel, a hot bowl of cinnamon porridge, and the key to the tiny attic room sitting right above her bread ovens.

That morning, Alistar’s house felt much quieter than the night before. Sunlight streamed through the large windows of the dining room, illuminating the long table already filled with various dishes. The aroma of toast, eggs, fruit, and coffee filled the room. Nora sat calmly in one of the chairs. Her eyes stared unfocused in different directions several times, as though showing anyone around her that she still could not see. Across from her, Keith had just placed a bowl of warm porridge in front of her. “Slowly. It’s still hot.”