Best Thriller Romance Books Novels & Stories

I could feel my own fire spread to his body, and his own fire about to engulf him. I let go of the headboard, and then brought him in close, pushing my fingernails into his back. I wanted him, wanted him to feel the same pleasure I was about to feel. I felt him tense up, and as his rhythm changed, our eyes locked again. I could see the pleasure rush through him, and I had tunnel vision as my own pleasure sent a firestorm of pleasure thrashing through my veins. Meteors crashed against the surface of my Earth as I felt his body shudder with release. Our eyes remained locked during the entire experience, and I never felt closer to another person in my life.

] 4|Evan ~ CEO/Billionaire Romance [Devin’s spin-off, but it can be read as standalone] 5|Falling For My Husband ~ Mafia Romance 6| A Game With No Rules ~ Mafia Romance 7| HellBound: The Last Tribute ~ Fantasy/Mystery Romance Lastly, this novel is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. Don't forget to follow me on lnstagram Castiel.Lj.

I leaned back on the leather couch, legs spread, one arm draped over the shoulder of ruby, one of the girls that worked at the club house She sat beside me fumbling with my buttons as I maintained an eye level with the much older woman sitting opposite me. The woman had a long dark wavey hair, and deep green eyes just like the ocean. Ruby's body pressed against mine in a way that was all performance. Asides Raven, Ruby was my best girl. She was a perfect distraction, a warm body to celebrate with. My thoughts ran back to Damien Blackwood. The untouchable CEO, the man who thought he owned Manhattan. Captured like a rat in a trap by me. The ambush had been perfect, and my men had hauled him ou

I was hot and bothered. I rushed to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. It didn’t help. My breathing only deepened, and I felt a throbbing sensation between my legs. What was wrong with me? I jumped into the shower stall and turned on the nozzle. Ice-cold water bit at my skin, but I welcomed it, wanting those unfamiliar sensations to disappear from my body. But it didn’t work. I needed release. I shut my eyes, but all I could see were images of Lorenzo and me, making love like in my dream. The throbbing increased and my heart rate sped up.

Until Rhiannon walked into that hotel room with her dead eyes and her broken wolf and her mouth. Until she looked up at me and I saw that fire. Buried deep under all the damage and the grief and the years of being treated like nothing. That fire that hadn't gone out. That stubborn, stupid, beautiful fire that refused to die even though everything around it was ash. And my wolf didn't pace. It didn't snarl. It sat down. Right there in my chest. And it purred. I hated it. I hated her for it. I hated that she made me feel something. I hated that she made me want something. I hated that after thirty-eight years of being stone cold, this woman, this broken, bleeding, beautiful woman, walked in an

I muttered under my breath as I flipped through more pages. "Sometimes I wonder if this is what forbidden love actually feels like—not romantic or sweet, but desperate and painful and impossible to ignore. Like trying to hold your breath underwater. Eventually, you have to catch a breath or drown. I think Dimitri and I are drowning." We were drowning, but that'd change soon. The door to my office suddenly burst open without warning, and Vale stormed in, eyes immediately landing on the diary in my hands. His expression shifted from surprised to angry in seconds.

Already burning and freezing at the same time. And then my phone buzzed. Another message. Unknown number. My chest tightened as I read it, my fingers trembling. Unknown: “You’re in the eye of the storm, Juliette. Be careful who you trust.” I swallowed hard, glancing at both men. Bryan’s eyes were sharp, controlled, dangerous. Dorian’s were dark, smoldering, desperate. I didn’t know who to trust. I didn’t know what to do. The fire and ice between them didn’t just burn. It consumed. And I realized, with a shiver down my spine, that I was already too far gone.

I leaned in a fraction of an inch, a teasing glint in my eyes, "I prefer classic literature. Russian realism, psychological thrillers. Dostoyevsky, Fitzgerald, Hemingway. I like substance." "Substance?!" Ruby mocked, completely offended. "Are you implying my romance novels don't have substance? Excuse you, but enemies-to-lovers tropes require intense psychological maneuvering! The angst! The tension! It's art, Alexander. Your little Russian thrillers have nothing on a slow-burn romance."