BURNING PASSION | BOOK 1✔️
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"Kassauni, there is more to life than continuous pain and suffering. I am sure you know that, and no one is asking you to go through it alone," She told me. I took a long drag from the blunt and held it in my lungs before releasing it.
"Whatever yah talk 'bout sound like a fairy tale and mi nuh want yuh feel like me is a problem fi yuh fix," I stated, staring into her eyes. She frowned, deeply.
"You need to talk to someone, or me. I am here for you if you need anything." Her voice came out softer than usual.
"Rosalia, left that. It nuh concern yuh," I told her. She hissed her teeth and slapped the blunt out of my hand.
"Mi try talk to yuh, but if yuh nah go at least try to get help then mi nuh need fi deh here. Stay by yuhself since a that yuh fucking want." She turned and started walking away.
//
He was abandoned by his parents. Time and time again they let him down, not realizing that each time it was draining him. He isn't the most sentimental guy, probably one of the most nonchalant and controlling people you've ever met.
She was sweet and came from what people would call the perfect family. In a short time, she made him indecisive and question himself. Peeled away every armor he had shielding his insecurities. She broke him but stood by him while he rebuilt himself into a better man.
The man he always wanted to be.
The man he knew she deserved.
_______________________________
- Mature Content (18+)
- Violence
All Rights Reserved
Text-to-speech
#33
blacklove
Series
Echoes of Passion
- 79 parts
9 parts
54 parts
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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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