mischievous gust

Pale pink nipples fronted her chest, like lazy wide eyes reflecting each drunk patron’s stare, the dozen glazed expressions fixed between beery gulps. I imagined the girl in a yellow and white sundress, walking through the small park down the hill. She might smile just that way when the breeze lifted her dress lightly, a mischievous gust fought with china hands. I could tell her about the daisies, how they follow the sun.

Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances

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lit windows

Ian relaxed slightly as he reached the end of the street, looking up instinctively to check the road before he left the sidewalk for frozen asphalt. The initial shock of cold faded into a dull ache as he dug his hands deeper into the pockets of his long wool coat. “Oh, well,” Ian said aloud, “what did I expect, anyway?” Ian tripped slightly as he stepped into the sharp incline of street’s gutter. Regaining his balance, Ian stopped and turned back to look at the highrise he had just left. Counting up and then over, he located the lit windows of Angie’s apartment.

Lord Malinov, Journals of Lord Malinov

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no reason

Rob and I had met for lunch at Riggo’s at twelve regularly, twice a week more often than not over the last seven years. There was nothing strange about the way he called, nothing unusual about the way he spoke. I tried to tell myself as I sat staring out the window of my office into the grey winter morning that I had no reason to think Rob knew what I had done.

Lord Malinov, Flowers of Malinov

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deepest desert

Love, it would seem, but not hard and fast, hands clasped but not solidly so, a bit of clutching, squirming, uncertainty, the tickles of emotion, lacking seriousness, wanting satisfactions, disdaining permanence, an oasis discovered in the deepest desert.

Lord Malinov, Song of Songs

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loose metal hangers

“I know what you need,” Alyssa had said with a smirk. Stephanie shoved a linen dress that clung to her damp arm. Some loose metal hangers rattled.

Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances

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tinted in dark stocking

“I can’t believe this,” he said, looking around the bar. A couple, dressed in black, leaned over their small table, conspiring. Kevin admired the curve of her heavy thigh escaping from the black wool skirt, her limb tinted in dark stocking. The young man spoke with his hand curled around his chin, two fingers resting on his unshaven cheek. The pair shared a scowl when a new, too popular song erupted from the bar’s tinny sound system.

Lord Malinov, Journals of Lord Malinov

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you dolt

“Friend,” said Jack, laughing and opening another can of Milwaukee’s Finest, “don’t look at me like that. Actually I think I can help you. Not like that, you dolt. There’s this woman I know. Let me give her a call.”

Lord Malinov, Flowers of  Malinov

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