What Are The Best Examples Of Strangely Familiar Uncomfortable Liminal Spaces?

His hands were everywhere, and I let them be. “You know this is wrong,” he murmured against my throat. “I know.” I tilted my head back anyway. He pulled back, eyes dark. “Tell me to stop, Zella.” I looked at the silver in his hair, the jaw that could cut glass, my best friend’s father, twenty years too old and a thousand reasons too dangerous. “Don’t stop,” I whispered. Seven days before my Christmas wedding, I caught my fiancé with my cousin. By morning I had lost everything, my relationship, my job, my future. I walked into the London rain with nothing left. A stranger stopped his car. Offered an umbrella. Gave me a drink instead of the mistake I begged for. Then disappeared before dawn. I never expected to find him again in a darkened hotel room on New Year’s Eve… or to give him the one thing I’d never given anyone. The next morning, when my best friend introduced me to her father, Evander Ashford looked me in the eye and said, “Nice to meet you,” as if he hadn’t already ruined me the night before. He is forbidden. He is twice my age. He is the one man I was never supposed to want. But he is the first person who ever made me feel worth keeping, and the only place this broken heart has ever felt safe. Where Sin Feels Like Home — because sometimes the wrongest man is the only home you’ve ever known.

Two years ago, Marilyn Oxford walked out on the most powerful man in the city after treating him like a disposable escort. That single act of reckless pride wounded Raymond Stewart deeper than any business betrayal ever had.    For Raymond, the $500 note wasn't just insulting. It was a declaration of war from a woman who didn't know who he was. He spent the last 24 months hunting her with the same ruthless focus he uses to crush competitors. He doesn't want love. He wants dominance. He wants to make her beg, to make her take every dollar back, to make her admit that she belongs to him. For Marilyn, that night was survival. It was her ‘F*ck you' to the boyfriend who destroyed her on her 21st birthday. She has spent two years rebuilding herself: top of her class, therapy, career-first, never again letting a man control her pleasure or her future. The last thing she needs is the ghost of her ‘best orgasm’, showing up as her terrifying new boss.

I was nineteen the first time Cole Whitfield broke me. Not with cruelty. With a single word. Why. Not did you — why. Like the answer was already settled and he just wanted the story to make sense. I told him the truth anyway. He said nothing that mattered. So I picked up my bag, walked out of his apartment, and decided that a man who trusted a rumor over two years of me wasn’t worth a correction. I spent the next two years becoming someone I actually liked. New city. Graduate program. A published paper with my name on it. I was done with Cole Whitfield in every way a person can be done. Then I walked into Seminar Room 114 and he was sitting right there, gray eyes already on the door, like some part of him knew. I sat down. I opened my notebook. I did not look up. Here’s the thing about studying how people form beliefs: you understand exactly why he believed it. That doesn’t mean you forgive it. That doesn’t mean two years of silence disappear because he’s learned how to look at you like he’s sorry. He wants a conversation. I want my degree. But the campus is small, the seminar table is round, and the boy who broke my heart at nineteen is doing everything right at twenty-one — and I’m starting to understand that composed isn’t the same thing as healed. I hate that I still know the exact sound of his voice.

You think being a teenager is hard enough as it is. Try being a teenager that has the respossibility of saving people from their own demons and fears. That is exactly what Zelenia Erickson has been doing from the time she discovered what she was...

The hearse with the strange door came to a halt in front of the entrance. The sound of balls bouncing on the floor could be heard. There were children who cried in the middle of the night. Several footsteps, almost as if running around the corridor. Turning on and off the lights. Every time the wind blows, there are low whispers. At night, several hands roam around the body. "Who are they?" "Shh, they're our friends."

Bedtime stories, fantasy, fiction, romance, action, urban,mystery, thriller and anything more you can think ... Just a warning ... none of them are normal.