English Romantic Novels Novels & Stories

“Because I do. Most of these modern book relationships don’t make sense. They wouldn’t work in real life. He’s toxic and she’s too naive, but hey, their s*x scenes are terrific and at this point, that’s all I’m here for.” I sighed deeply. What was with my mouth lately? I was no longer thinking before speaking. “So I’m guessing you prefer the older romance stories, like Jane Eyre whose man is double her age or Pride and Prejudice who had to marry for wealth or else she would be done for,” he said, looking at me with an amused expression. “Ok. Fair point,” I agreed with him. “But I never said I liked the older romance novels either. I’m an English major and I really believe some of these books

He started to help her unpack her books, glancing at the spines as they started to shelve them in a tiny bookshelf that wouldn’t hold even half of her collection. Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë, Elizabeth Gaskell, John Keats, Shakespeare, Virginia Woolf, Charles Dickens—so many books, most of which had clearly been read over and over again. Some were falling apart, barely glued together. When he took out a copy of Frankenstein, the cover fell off entirely. “Oh, poor guy. This one has been through a lot.” Rose took the book from him, smiling. That smile burst something inside him. Something hot, something dangerous. Something that felt exactly like longing. He caught his breath and forced hims

There was no awkward gap between the two's body language which seemed natural and not like this was the first time they had met. If anyone had a sharp perspective, they would suspect the closeness of the two. But it seemed the people in this place were so busy with their pleasures that they didn't notice it. And like most other romantic novels, there are bound to be parties who are hurt by the closeness of the two, namely the villainess – who loves the male lead – which is Fuschia, and the second male lead, namely Raymon.

I focused my attention back on the novel and leaned back on the couch to make myself comfortable. As I kept on reading about Rebecca’s innocence in her early days of marriage I couldn’t help but feel bad about her. She really did love her husband. I remember reading about all the criticism the writer once faced when she wrote this book. Many people pointed out Rebecca as a weak naïve stupid girl whereas in reality she was only blindly devoted to Maxim. I often refrained from reading classic English literature. Most of them were too depressing for my taste and already depressed self. That’s why I loved modern romance books. They were more interesting and focused on reality more.

Her hair was beautiful that's why she took good care of them. "Who told you that people don't read romance. People like me do. And about that spicy thing they can imagine on their own. What if a child found my book and start reading that things?" Anna said as she could not endure the insult of romance. She wrote novels but they were simple, slow, and rhythmically yet people found that boring.

In the center of the room stood an imposing mahogany desk with a leather chair. In front of it was a large black chaise longue resting on a round white rug. The atmosphere was luxurious yet discreet. Magnificent. I spent several minutes simply admiring the most beautiful room I had ever entered. Then I slowly walked along the shelves, stopping when I reached Historical Romance. Romance novels were what had brought me this far as a virgin. They were my Achilles’ heel, and there was nothing I could do about it. I picked up my cliché: Pride and Prejudice.

"Now go write your dark, possessive heroes. Make them hot and dangerous enough to earn that redemption arc." I laughed. "That's not how it works." "It's exactly how it works. Romance novel 101. A boy does bad things, the boy suffers, the boy grovels and the girl takes him back." She winked. "Easy." I watched her walk away, her bright hair bouncing, her laughter trailing behind her like confetti. The boy does bad things, suffers and grovels to the girl. Victor didn't strike me as the groveling type.

“Well, having a degree in English Literature, you’d think so. But I love so many of them. I’m partial to the classics—Keats and Shelley, Lord Byron, Shakespeare…” “So you’re a romantic, huh?” she teased, keeping her back to him as she perused his impressive collection. Running his hands through his hair, he grinned. “I’m impressed you know your eighteenth century literature, young lady.” The back of her blonde tresses moved up and down as she seemed to nod. Before he could suggest she pick out a book to read over the weekend, she suddenly squealed with delight. “Oh! I loved this book in high school.” Standing on her tiptoes, she pulled down a thin paperback and turned

I don't know why my heart is doing somersaults but all I know is that I like the feeling. We spent the rest of the day together. I am glad that she is willing to spend time with me. The time goes by quickly and soon we are heading to the hotel. I made arrangements with the hotel for a private romantic dinner. Dante is overseeing the preparations even when he clearly said he was not pleased with my idea. I plan to introduce Helen to him tonight. I am sure he will come to love her. Who wouldn't? Helen is such a lovable woman. I drop her off at the hotel.

Her reply wasn't what I sought for and she knew she failed me so she wasn't surprised when I angrily rose to my feet, heading to my room as tears brimmed my eyes and dropped freely. It all seemed hopeless. The Red Bone Pack were not normal wolves; they were lycans, a special breed created by dark magic. The witches of East Coven had made the first one, a mindless beast whose sole purpose was to protect them from their enemies. When the beast had gone rogue, he had attacked a wolf pack and had been captured, its blood extracted to be experimented on. Their Alpha had tested its blood on several wolves, creating a new breed of demonic wolves. Although they looked like wolves, their transformati