Woman Reading A Book Novels & Stories

Elle wiped the wax away with a hand as steady as stone. Rounding the bend, Elaine stopped in her tracks. In the center of the room was a woman with eyes the color of ash. She glanced their way for a moment, but then resumed to her book. The volume she was reading was massive, maybe as large as Elaine. It was leather-bound and intricately sewn. The book rested atop a cherry wood table that towered in the old library. The woman stood behind the podium; her old, but unworked hands, smoothing out the precious pages.

Introduction: Black housewife finds young white stud at bookstore. Read and enjoy.... ********** "Hi, may I help you find something?" I ask as I approach a strikingly beautiful woman looking around the bookstore. "Yes," she smiles at me. "I'm looking for books on orgasms." She says it so matter-of-factly that it catches me off guard. Or maybe it's her exquisite eyes, deep brown with an almost oriental look, coupled with her mahogany complexion that makes me catch my breath.

She made me feel safe and welcomed, something I was gradually losing. I watched as she flipped through the pages of a book, her eyes scanning the pages like she was feasting on them. “Do you really have to finish reading that today?” I asked, crossing my arms as I stared at her. Apart from the fact that she loves cooking, she's obsessed with reading novels as well. Kiera is a book lover, someone that could finish a whole book in a single day. She raised her head slowly, meeting my gaze with a graceful smile, “Yes, I am.” she replied curtly, returning back to the book.

The bench was cool with dew, but quickly warmed by the sun. She opened her book, read a few lines, then closed it again. She watched people pass a woman with a small dog, a man wearing large headphones, a child laughing too loudly. She didn’t create stories for them. She simply watched.

Piper yawned in reply, curling into a perfect circle atop the books as if she’d just completed a highly productive shift. The bell above the door jingled sharply just before noon. A woman stepped inside, tall and precise, her coat the deep green of frozen leaves pressed tight against her frame. “Do you have anything that feels like winter?” she asked, her voice crisp, deliberate. “Genre?” Aria prompted, tilting her head slightly. “Poetry. Something cold,” the woman said, scanning the shelves with sharp eyes. Aria nodded and moved gracefully toward a narrow shelf, her fingers brushing along the spines until they rested on one. She pulled it free: The Book of Hours by Rilke. She handed it to t

She had heard a lot about this book and now she was considering this project based on this book; she decided to take a look and see what it was about. Kayla took a copy and opened it to read the first page. She stood there for a while thinking the books seemed to be grounded in writing from what she saw so far when someone peeked over her shoulder at the book. “Do you like it?” a woman asked and Kayla turned to see that she was and noticed a little woman propped on a stool, leaning down at her. Her dark brown hair was tied up, letting down loose curls dance around her face. The woman came down from the stool and stood a little shorter than Kayla. Kayla herself was not that tall; she was only

Beside it, a small plate of chips she’d been absentmindedly picking at. And her book. Dan Brown’s thick spine rested open in her hands. She was seventy three percent in yes, and she felt smug about it. Reading was the only thing lately that didn’t demand anything from her. A rush of cold air brushed past her ankle. She didn’t look up. The bell above the door chimed again. “Hey, stranger.” Her heart misfired before her brain caught up. She looked up and it was James, the handsome English guy from the bookstore.

Yessica came and stood beside her. "Looking for something specific?" "I don't know." The woman's voice was carefully controlled. "I read an article this morning. In the Evening News. And I just—" She stopped. "I needed to be somewhere quiet." "Did the article send you here?" "It mentioned a bookshop on Rose Street." The woman glanced sideways at her. "Are you her? The writer?" Yessica paused for half a second. "Yes." The woman turned to look at her properly. Something cracked open in her expression — not tears, not yet, just the pressure of someone who'd been holding things together for too long.

“I'm sorry.” “No, you're not,” she said, her stare was already pressing down on me. Because annoyingly, she was somehow right. “She actually spent almost half of her day here,” the woman added. “Doing what exactly?” She stared at me again, as if thinking whether to keep this conversation going or not. “Reading of course, what else?” “What was she basically reading about?” “Almost everything,” she gestured towards the space in the bookstore. That was when my eyes drifted towards them. Almost all the book covers were about wolves and leaders. But there wasn't any picture on them, just words.

She looked up. A woman she had never seen before. Older. Maybe seventy. White hair cut close. The posture of a woman who had once been someone significant and had never quite stopped, the particular uprightness of a person who carries themselves as if the space they occupy has always been theirs by right. She had a book in her own lap. She looked at Sophia for a moment, then looked down at it. The library was quiet. "You are running out of time," the woman said. Quietly. Without looking up. "He has decided to stay."