Books Historical Romance Fiction Novels & Stories

Grabbing his hair as if it was some kind of lifeline. Yearning for help that she didn’t even want. He lifted her up. Carrying her in his strong, chiseled arms and then, he gently laid her down onto the bed. He was against her then and Love felt a push of muscular wetness against her thighs. Rubbing against the surface of her underwear between her legs. Ronnie gently placed his muscular hands over hers and guided her hands to his erected mound now at her center. She didn't hesitate to grab him all up in her soft hands, completely feeling him up with her hands and pressing her fingers into every inch of him.

Or a library on steroids. When she reached the romance section, she had to restrain a squeal of delight when she found an array of old-school romances from the seventies and eighties in their bodice-ripping glory: in rainbow hues, the covers depicted men with bulging arms, their shirts open to the wind as women swooned in their arms. Some of the women stood in the strangest poses; Lucy had to cover her mouth to keep from giggling like an idiot.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the knot in my chest loosened completely. I pulled down a thick historical romance with a brooding duke on the cover, it was exactly the kind Mirabel would tease me about, and sank into one of the leather armchairs. The cushions hugged me perfectly. I kicked off my slippers, tucked my legs beneath me, and opened the book to the first page. The words pulled me in immediately. Rich descriptions, sharp dialogue, the slow burn of forbidden attraction between the heroine and the man who was supposed to be off-limits. I lost track of time, turning pages steadily, the outside world fading until there was only the story unfolding in my hands.

I say. I hope so. I really hope he’s right. I look at the clock on the wall and it says 1:48PM. I open my laptop and I start to read. The book I have to read is actually a historical book based on arts and crafts in the 18th century. It’s not a romance novel, so forgive me if I’m not very excited to read it. I could read 600 pages of a romance or horror novel, but my reading assignments are just not inviting enough.

Audrey didn’t quite understand him, “what do you mean?” Nathan’s lips curved into a mocking smile as he sat up, “I was thinking there was a book for the likes of you but it seems you don’t have it” She heaved a sigh, he was Making mockery of her again. “I have Outlander by Diana Gabaldon, 1991. I also have Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston, 2019,Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, 1813. And Seven Days in June by Tia Williams which was written two years ago then I also have love hypothesis by Ali Hazelwood which was also written two years ago”

The Nouveau-Riche Romance Chapter twenty-nine The brightness of the day filtered into the room. Illuminating it with its soft glow. The illumination was just enough to rouse Joan from sleep. Her body felt relaxed, she felt mellow really. It felt like she was coming down from a drug high. No, it was a sex high. Sex? Sex... Joan abruptly opens her eyes as she remembered the events of the previous night. She had sex with Asher. Now that she thought about it it was a crazy night and she wouldn't believe it if she hadn't experienced it.

He never shielded me from the heartache in the pages of those books but used them as a tool to teach me about life, history, hopes, and dreams. It wasn’t until my teen years that I discovered my love of romance. What began by dipping my toes into the historical greats affectionately termed ‘bodice rippers’ took on a different tone when I was a senior in high school. I discovered the world of erotic romance. I’d always been taught that literature was a gateway for the imagination so I never dreamed that some people would frown on the romance genre as lower quality literature. After all, with a history of such utter trash like Wuthering Heights and The Old Man and the Sea being named classics,

At the bottom of the shelf, though, were a handful of romance novels—in English, no less. I pulled out a historical romance by a favorite author of mine. I hadn’t read this one, and I’d already finished the one romance I’d brought with me. I was a total bore and preferred to read printed books still. Probably because they smelled nice. If e-readers could let out a puff of new-book scent, though, I’d buy one in a heartbeat. “The Seduction of Miss Emily Morris,” Olivier read over my shoulder. “That rather gives the plot away, no?”

I whispered the headline and hovered my finger over the screen, contemplating on if Ii should open the article. My heart was pounding by the second and with a deep breath, I tapped on it and it opened instantly. I swallowed and swiped up. The headline was the first thing I saw then a few words about the writer followed. I scrolled to the start of the article and started to read; Son of billionaire business man, Anthony Hogan and Heiress of the Hills Global Communication company were spotted having a romantic dinner date at a restaurant and the pair looked like the perfect couple. Sources say that the two rekindled while on a trip recently and they have been together ever since then. There ar

The mansion loomed silent under the moonlit night. Henry was miles away on yet another business trip, leaving his young wife, Jennifer alone with her frustrations. Jennifer's curvaceous figure had always turned heads, but her recent marriage to Henry had left her body aching for real passion. Her hazel eyes often lingered too long on Alex whose towering frame exuded raw masculinity. Alex had been hooked from the moment he laid eyes on her two weeks ago. The sexual tension simmered like a pot ready to boil over. Jennifer, unsatisfied by Henry's perfunctory attentions, felt her pussy throb whenever Alex's head turned her way.