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Jupiter

  • Unlocked Chapters: 764
  • Novel Reviews: 8

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  • 👁 12.4K
  • 8.4

When he looked in through the window, he was astounded to see her topless and braless. She was standing with her back to him, eliciting wild desires in him. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and crept into her room. He blindfolded her with his hankie before dragging her towards the bed. Her heartbeat accelerated. She could feel that he was her man. She asked, "is it you, baby?" He pushed her onto the bed and gazed at her perfect slender body with profound desires in his eyes. He hovered her and tied her wrists with his tie to the headboard. *** She could never stop her heart from beating for him since the day she saw him despite knowing that he would never retaliate to her feelings as for him she was only his best friend's sister. She was so innocent and pure like holy water, and he was messed up and a monster whom anybody definitely wouldn't like to come across. She had never dated anyone in her entire life because, for her, the love of her life was everything. On the other hand, he never believed in all this. For him, "love" didn't exist; it was all about physical needs. His mere presence was enough to relieve her pain; he was like oxygen to her, while on the other hand, he didn't even acknowledge her presence. Her love was so pure and selfless that it could make anyone fall for it because it's not easy to love someone who is forbidden. But will he ever witness her love? Will he ever love her as purely as she loves him? Will her one-sided love ever be fulfilled? If you want to know, then follow the journey of a tempting biker and his secret admirer.

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Book cover
  • 👁 38.7K
  • 9.4

When I was a child, my grandma used to tell me stories. At the time, I never gave them much thought. Thinking they were just that… stories. Growing up, I soon realized that they weren’t lofty fantasies and fairy tales but memories of her past, memories of our ancestors before our world turned to sh*t. You see, what comes from legend, no matter how exaggerated the story becomes, there is always a sliver of truth. You just need to weed out the fiction from fact. My grandmother used to tell me stories of the Chosen One—the one who would save us all. When I was younger, I used to believe that what she said was true. Eventually, someone would be born, just as the Oracle predicted—someone who could save our souls and bind us back to our magic. Once I grew up and saw the world unfolding around me, I no longer believed in salvation. The chosen one seemed to be more of a prayer than reality. Some dream we wanted desperately to come true. Something in which we needed to find hope when there wasn’t any left. When our ancestors turned their backs on us, how were we expected to believe in this so-called salvation? Especially when all we witnessed was death and carnage ever since the great war. Nothing except pain and poverty. I used to believe the stories and used to pray for the mysterious chosen one that would rid our world of its evil. Now, though, I see it for what it really is, just a dream of hope. Some out of reach fairy-tale. A story to create hope. Hope is dangerous; it makes you believe things will get better. I stopped hanging on to hope when I witnessed firsthand that it caused nothing but heartache.

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Heroes

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