Words To Pretty Woman Novels & Stories

' He asked. 'Address?' She shook her head. 'I'm just saying that she's beautiful.' Deep down, Wendy knew the word beautiful didn't do justice to a description of the woman outside her door. In fact, 'beautiful' was a modest word when it had to do with Rhoda. Rhoda was stunning. She had the build of a sexual goddess. Every feature on her face was so damn perfect. Every curve of her body was surreal. Wendy had been sitting in front of the mirror, since she had been asked to leave, thinking about how inadequate she must look beside Louis, if a woman as sophisticated as Rhoda was once his woman.

I greeted in a polite tone. The woman tilted her head to me and she made me cease all because her face was a breath-taker. The woman has bob cut hair, straight brownish brows, small yet rounded innocent eyes and a beautiful smile on her peach-colored lips. Her beige dress is simple, yet dandy-ish in style. In short, she’s the epitome of elegant, but cute like a fairy. “Miss,” she said while walking closer.

Sean. I've encountered many women throughout my years as an adult. Some of them were more attractive than the woman I recently met. They had bigger asses, slimmer waist and bigger breasts. But somehow, someway, they don't stand out to me as much as she has. The woman whose name I didn't know, but I wish I did. Just so I could find her and fuck her. She was beautiful with skin just as mine but more smooth. Compared to my rugged self. Her long legs shone as she danced in the tight-ass dress that hugged her body. Sticking to her like a second skin, her breasts heaving with every exhaled. She was fucking sexy.

He said while looking very smug. OH, please earth, please open, and swallow me whole. Rubbing my forehead with my hand. I looked confused at the man standing in front of me. Why would any man give another woman, what doesn’t even belong to him, to his wife, and he’s even proud of himself? The kids let go of their father and ran off into another room. Out of the kitchen walked a really, pretty woman. Looking also in her late twenties, dark brown hair hanging loose over her shoulders, beautiful gray eyes, slender build, dressed in blue jeans, a light brown sweater, and chic cowboy boots.

She jumped down from the tree and walked towards Agatha. "Well, what a beautiful woman you are," said the woman. Agatha didn’t flinch. “You’re just as the rumors all say." Agatha remained still. The woman scoffed and said, "Rumors were that the cursed princess is a gorgeous deity. Beautiful, they all say. But you know, rumors are usually just rumors. So, I didn't think you were this pretty. Agatha didn’t move with her words. “But now that I see you, you are indeed true like they all say. You got everything to make other women jealous."

I look back at the older woman Her face hardens, though her voice remains even “Are these not to your liking, Your Ladyship?” To be fair, under different circumstances, I’d be watering at the mouth at such pretty clothes. But these all look so elegant, beautiful and… fragile. As if they’re outfits for a princess or a doll. Soft colors and puffy skirts, frilly sleeves and matching jewelry. All of it gives a message of naiveté.

Lucas’s POV The woman entered the room, carrying an air of concern on her face. She possessed a captivating beauty that was impossible to ignore. Her presence alone seemed to command attention, and her sensual features were undeniable. Her features were exquisite, with high cheekbones that brought out her flawless complexion. Her eyes, like pools of liquid sapphire, held vulnerability. They were framed by long, dark lashes that fluttered with every blink, adding an enchanting beauty to her gaze. Her lips were full and inviting, with a natural pout that hinted at a subtle sensuality.

"Speak another word and you'll regret it." Inch by inch, she advanced until her presence enveloped him, her breath mingling with his. And then, like a fragile breeze, she whispered, "Do you perceive me as some common strumpet or a faceless girl lurking in the shadows? Is that your estimation of a woman's emotions?" The venomous accusation carried an undercurrent of pain, a testament to the intensity of her feelings.

Anderson asked. (The pretty woman is romantically hearing to the appealing man words. Her ears are perfectionist to reject his statement, yet his cold mouth can’t breathe well. Her eyes are turning around to the world. What her eyes could see; the darkness has started to appear out in the sky. Hence, he’ll not be seeing on him without the light)

His fingers worked through my disheveled hair, smoothing the tangled strands with tender care. "There are two kinds of women." His breath was warm against my ear. "The first is like candy left on a bedside table, as common as a cheap Cuban cigar. There only to be consumed, offering nothing but fleeting pleasure." He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "And then there’s the other kind—an icon, revered, worn close to the heart. A woman of substance, of elegance. A woman like you. You aren’t just part of the picture, you are the entire masterpiece."