The Good Rain Book Novels & Stories

Shw took the book and called Rain. "Rain, come out, the book has been found!"

Sympathy poured in. The family stood together. Stronger. Unbroken. Elena finished the chapter. Titled it: The Rain That Never Forgets She printed it. Bound it. Placed it beside the others. Then she walked to the veranda. The rain was falling harder now—angry, relentless. She stepped out into it. Let it soak her dress, her hair, her skin. She tilted her head back. Closed her eyes. Let the water run down her face. She whispered to the rain.

Zayne dangled in his grip without crying or fighting back. "They broke her ribs. One punctured her lung. The prison doctor said she almost died. She coughed up blood for three months. At night, she was too scared to sleep because every time she closed her eyes, she'd have nightmares. She dreamed about fire. She dreamed about you." At last, Zayne's voice cracked with tears. "She already gave you one of her kidneys, and you even had her face changed. How could you be this cruel?"

The second I realized that, my body felt even lighter. I lifted my arm and saw I was more transparent than before. Everyone was gone. Mom slowly stood, dazed. She picked up her phone and called Dad. He declined. Again and again. Seeing the rain pouring outside, she grabbed an umbrella and rushed out. Water was still boiling on the stove. "Mom, you forgot to turn off the burner." I chased after her, screaming, but she couldn't hear me. Barefoot, she ran straight into the rain.

--- The book sells well enough. Enough that the publisher asks for a second one. I tell them I need time. That I'm still living the story, not just telling it. Celeste laughs when I tell her. "A sequel?" "Maybe. In a few years." "What would you write about?" "The quiet parts. The ones that don't make headlines." "Those are the only parts worth writing about." --- November brings rain. Not the soft rain of spring — the pounding, relentless rain of Atlantic storms. The windows rattle. Orwell hides under the bed. Celeste and I curl up on the couch, reading, talking, doing nothing at all.

Not the soft apologetic English rain or the brief dramatic Los Angeles rain but proper Italian rain that arrived without warning from a sky that had been entirely blue an hour earlier and turned the lanes into rivers and forced us in from the terrace and closed us into the white-walled room with the terracotta floors and the sound of it on every surface. We read. We talked. We made coffee on the small stovetop in the corner of the room, the particular satisfaction of making something simple with your hands in a small space while rain makes itself known outside. Alexander made it wrong the first time, which surprised us both, and right the second time, and we sat on the bed with the cups and

Note: Alright I hope that my first teaser was appreciated and yes, this is a compilation of age-gap erotic romance. Now the actual book begins. Happy reading everyone. LAINE My stupid pumps aren’t cut out for this weather. Cold water squelches between my toes and my breath is misty, wet hair like frozen straw against my cheeks. I can hardly see through the rain. Dam,n my birthday for being so late in November. Damn me for not thinking harder about my wardrobe choices.

“Your book’s touched so many people. One woman cried right here at the counter. Said it was like reading her own heart.” Amara’s throat tightened. “Thank you,” she whispered. “That means more than you know.” When she stepped back outside, the rain had begun slow, cleansing. She didn’t run for shelter. She let it fall, each drop a tiny baptism. By the time she reached home, her clothes were damp, but her spirit was light. She poured herself tea, sat by the window, and opened her journal again. The night was quiet except for the soft hum of the city below.

SMALL STEPS It started with a book. Rain didn't plan it. She was at the penthouse on a Friday evening — dinner with Damien, ordinary and unhurried — and when she was leaving, she picked up the novel she had been reading from the coffee table and put it in her bag without thinking. Then stopped. Looked at it. Left it on the shelf instead. Damien watched this from across the room and said nothing. The following week, she brought a cardigan.

I fell to my knees in the mud. The cold rain washed the soot from my face. Stephen let go of Elias. Elias stayed facedown in the dirt crying. He was not crying for his empire. He was crying because he realized he was truly completely alone. The sky just opened up. It was like the whole valley was screaming. It was so hot and dry for long. Then the rain came. The first drops were big and heavy like rocks hitting the ground. Then the sky just let go. The rain poured down. This was the Rain of Mercy like something out of a movie. The sound of the rain hitting the lodge was like a million little drums beating all at once.