A Crowded Place
- LECTURAS 340
- Votos 100
- Partes 27
Continúa2h 6m
Última publicación sáb, ago 28, 2021
I breathed in his sweet cinnamon and autumnal scent, relishing in the way his lips moved with mine, his sensual touch as his hand moved to the small of my back. A euphoric symphony seemed to crescendo from the silence as we kissed, complemented by the sparking fairy lights and the candle's fragrant aroma.
We pulled away gently, like two dancers at the end of a ballroom waltz. Jacob was panting, and I was sucking in deep breaths to refill my lungs.
'Jacob...!' My soft exclamation contained a hodgepodge of emotions - shock, guilt, ecstasy and betrayal. These emotions ripped through me like a whirlwind.
'Shit, shit, shit. I'm sorry. I couldn't control myself.' Jacob combed his fingers through his hair in an agitated manner. I let out a groan, flopping onto my bed with a pillow over my face.
!! Contains mild profanities !!
* * * * * * * * * *
Liv Garner is a freshman at Yale University. She's smart, she's kind, she's a violin prodigy, she has a loving and loyal boyfriend back home - this Aussie country girl has it all...right?
Join Liv on her journey to a foreign country for some big changes and even bigger surprises. Like Jacob: that arrogant, cocky saxophone player who tries to win her heart.
As Liv learns to find herself in that crowded place and pours her heart out to you in the process, prepare yourself for some laughs and some cries - because this is going to be a wild ride.
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A scent. A scar. A slow-burning fucking romance dressed as nostalgia. It started with a fruit. Not love, not sex - a goddamn strawberry. The kind that looks like it's been kissed by every shade of red your childhood never had. He didn't share it. Didn't speak of it. Just tasted it once, and carried the ache ever since. Years later, she walked in - smelling exactly like that forgotten sweetness. Not perfume. Not fantasy. Just... truth. Sharp, quiet, terrifying truth. The kind that crawls under your skin and whispers remember me when you least want to. He lied to her face. About himself. About the million ways he'd already started unraveling. But she knew. Women like her always know. She stared at him like sin dressed in judgment - and touched his wrist like she already owned his pulse. And he? He was fucked. Because she wasn't just beautiful. She was red. That memory. That craving. And no matter how much he pretended to be in control - she was already in his bloodstream. This isn't a love story. It's a slow possession. By scent. By memory. By her. And it ends exactly how it starts - with him on his knees, and her smelling like fucking strawberries.
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