English Romantic Novels & Stories

"The incurable romantic is usually the one who believes in love at first sight. He faithfully believes that God has placed him in the world so that he would stay eternally with a single person, and spends half his life creating the perfect family he was destined to have. The incurable romantic thinks that his mission on earth is to shape his dreams in favor of that special person who can arise from one moment to the next. And he is always willing to throw himself headlong into lasting relationships. Zachary slid his fingers into the bone of my collarbone, drawing a diagonal line to the top of my breasts. Nervous, I lost the line of thought and watched her touch, becoming aware of the tinglin

“It sounds… like it should be yours, only yours. ‘Mon amour.’ My love.” I blushed, my heart pounding in my chest. “You know I don’t speak French.” He pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. “Then I will teach you… one kiss at a time.” I laughed, a trembling, delicate sound. He pulled me into his arms, holding me so close I could feel the strength of his desire, the depth of his longing that he had never released. His fingers drifted over my skin, tracing patterns I had never known I knew. Every caress was a poem. Every caress was a confession.

My other hand moved to cup her face, my thumb grazing her cheek gently, contrasting the intensity of everything else. There was a storm raging between us—anger, confusion, frustration, and something deeper, something neither of us could fully understand. But it was there. I felt it, and I knew she did too. Everything we’d been holding back, everything we’d refused to acknowledge, was breaking free in that kiss.

He remembered. “Before we start,” he said, shutting the folder, “let me be clear. If you’re here to breeze through this class, leave. If you think poetry is flowery nonsense, leave. If you’re here to challenge your mind and maybe get uncomfortable…” He smiled sharply. “Then stay.” The girls sighed collectively. Some giggled behind their hands. Emmy kept her expression blank. Carl paced slowly across the room, eyes skimming the faces. “Romanticism isn’t about love. It’s about obsession. Madness. Darkness wrapped in beauty.” He stopped again in front of Emmy. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss…?”

“You should start driving your own car from now on, you are really irritating.” “Yay, dearest Romeo,” he says mischievously, with sparking eyes. My cousin is really irritating and childish! I stop responding to him and turn the music volume really high until I don’t hear his voice. Mmh, can I be her Romeo? That body of hers would be divine. Scratch that, that’s a tragic story, I don’t even know why it is regarded as romantic. Two lovers committing suicide is nothing close to being romantic. I am certain that ours would be worse than that. It would definitely end with two murders instead of suicides. That does not stop me from imagining her being all mine though.

Roman and Emily, with their unwavering affection, seemed to emit an enchanting aura that touched the hearts of everyone present. As I watched Roman and Emily interact, their love radiated like a beacon, illuminating the space around them. The way they looked into each other's eyes, the gentle touches and shared smiles—it was as if they were dancing to a tune only they could hear. Their love story was captivating, and I couldn't help but feel grateful to witness such a profound connection.

Author's POV What is Romance? this is the question I always asked myself and I found that........ Romance is the language of love. It is the way that you show your partner that you care about them. Every person has their own idea of what they might consider romantic. For some, it will be dressing up for the other or buying flowers or jewelry. There is no way to know what is romantic without knowing the person. Romance is created by the feeling that you are genuinely cared about. All romance has one thing in common; it must show the other person that you care enough to find out what is meaningful to them.

--- "Stay at least a week in this paradise, so we will get to know every corner of this place better." "It'll be perfect."--- She clapped her hands together excitedly, wiping a smile from my lips.--- "You really stayed all night?" "We did."--- I agree.--- "I'm a little baked, actually. It was a romantic night, but a very sexy one too." "In short, it was you."--- He asserts and I agree. Ethan and I, before everyone else, are a perfect blend of a romantic and sensual couple. We exude love, companionship, and affection with the same intensity that we exude chemistry, sensuality, and desire.

"You want a puppet who'll nod and smile. However, now the puppet's strings are cut, and you're freaking out." Francis' expression turned icy. "I'm not freaking out." "Then why switch my meds?" I asked, a challenge. "You're terrified. Terrified that without those drugs, I'll realize I don't love…" His response was to kiss me, a fierce, angry kiss. I fought back, but he held me by the nape of my neck, deepening the kiss until the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. He had bitten my lip. It was a kiss unlike any other in the ten years I had known him, fueled by both lust and a need to punish.

“Because it’s raw. It’s not romantic, it’s obsession, the ache that overtakes you, the pain that feels necessary. It mirrors real life, doesn’t it?” A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It was gone in an instant, but she had seen it. “Yes. But you stop at the surface. You describe the ache, the longing, but why? What does it say about Keats, about the society he inhabits and about you?” The question was so personal that it stole the air from her lungs. “About me?” “Yes,” he said, leaning back again. “Why this particular flame, Scarlett? What is it you recognize in that kind of all-consuming, self-destructive hunger?”