Beauty Lover
The most romantic novel you can read
A. Martín is passionate about women, idolizes their bodies, and ultimately captures their hearts. He turns them into prisoners addicted to eroticism, romance, and passion. The story promises to envelop readers in a mix of beautiful love, lust, and obsession.
Do you dare to make the trip of your life with A. Martin?
The lover… Just imagine
Start reading the beginning. It will intrigue you…
Who is A. Martin?
The small fisherman’s boat seems to float in the air. The water that sustains it is transparent, one would say that it does not exist, that it is not there, except for the golden reflections of light, of an almost supernatural beauty. That primitive and mineral magnificence moves me and encourages me. I love beauty and loneliness. It’s what I find in this place. My loneliness is not surrounded by emptiness. It is surrounded by people. I hear his revelry as if he hears a distant noise not too annoying.
They do not see me. I am a discreet man. Every afternoon I spend an hour watching, observing, contemplating, admiring. An hour when I try to empty my mind. But I can not. I am unable to meditate. I fill with memories. And I remember how it all began. Although perhaps already then I knew what was going to happen with a certainty not free of sarcasm. As if I knew what destiny had in store for me. That’s why I was never afraid. I knew what the end would be, but not, of course, the events that would take me to him. These were totally unexpected.
My name is A. Martin. You have never heard my name. And, when you finish reading this story, you will never hear it again. It is strange what people sometimes discover in books, in the stories they tell them. Hidden meanings that never occurred to previous readers. Much less to the author. I do not think you can learn anything from me. At least, nothing good. But I know I have to write the same way I once knew, without a doubt, that I should kill a person. And I know that I must write because I discover myself more and more thinking about the past, as if I had been assaulted by a melancholic fever that I never thought was vulnerable. I fight against her, especially now that I touch with the yolk of my fingers that future with which I always dreamed and for which I have worked so hard. When I finish writing, I’ll do a clean slate and a new account. That’s why I know that when you close this book you’ll never hear my name again…