French Romantic Books Novels & Stories

With Serene, he could overcome any hardship and begin a new life with her. "I want to go to Provence, in France." Serene smiled gently as she said, "If it's possible, let's settle down there." Provence was renowned for its lush lavender fields and fine wine. It was also known as the "City of Knights" in Europe. Provence was the source of inspiration for many romantic stories. Serene had fantasized frequently of life in Provence with her beloved man, walking hand in hand in the fragrant lavender fields, and creating their own love story. A love story that only belonged to the two of them.

the movie echoed. “Your kisses feel like vocalnic eruptions on my lips” he whispered to her ears. “Your caresses feel like furrows burying in deeply until I'm shivering”. “Yesss Nate,” the girl in the movie moaned. “Fuck me harder,” she responded. Belle had always been a die hard romantic. And even though she never admits it, she was a lover girl. Just as she kept watching her movie whilst she enjoyed feeling the wind in her hair and face, she suddenly heard a loud, yet familiar voice screaming at her.

We wrapped our arms around each other, pulling our bodies closer, as if trying to merge into one being. Our lips met in a passionate, hungry French kiss, our tongues dancing, exploring each other's mouths, tasting the remnants of our shared passion. My legs were on either side of him, my wet, swollen pussy pressed against his toned stomach, his half-hard dick nestled between us. We were literally sticking to each other, our bodies slick with sweat, our chests heaving with labored breaths. "Fuck! Charles," I moaned against his lips, "You make me feel so good."

The Baron—her husband’s people were very capable. But, anyway, the new hardbound books Fabian bought for her were the ones she had requested. She wanted a few books written in the Italian language so she could start reading them and understand more the context of what her tutor was teaching her. And for the next three hours, Adalene stayed in the library for her lessons with Mdme. Cléore and for further reading and studying on her own. She barely managed to say her goodbye in Italian when the madame left. She was inside a quarter of one of the books with a dictionary on the side when the compter came in with Fabian, who dropped a kiss on her forehead before they discuss the books and the new

I was delighted to see him this happy. “Because I was attracted to you. If I remember correctly, we went to the library and-.” She started, forgetting her mother was here. I cleared my throat, making her eyes widen in realization. Telling her mother that she had made me grip her throat and make her forget about her anger, wasn’t the best course of discussion on the first day of knowing her fiancé. “You… read me your favourite part of a book.” “Yes. Les Fleurs Bleues by Raymond Queneau.” I smiled, making her nod. She turned to her mother and whispered something, winking conspicuously at me. I rose my brows but she giggled, forgetting that Henry was in earshot.

I didn’t know if I was making the right decision, but at the very least, this burden that had hung about my shoulders would be lifted. I wandered through her bedroom, noting that she’d left a stack of books behind, along with lip balms, bobby pins, hair ties, and other knickknacks. I flipped through one of the books, realizing that it was one of the romance novels she’d bought at a used bookstore in Paris. I wanted to return to Paris with her and show it to her as my wife. I wanted to see her smile and moan as she ate an eclair again.

But Arabella’s heart had already begun beating far too quickly. A breeze moved softly through the marketplace between them. Neither spoke for several moments. Then Edwin finally gestured toward the bookstore. “Do you enjoy reading?” “Yes.” “What sort of books?” Arabella hesitated. “Poetry mostly.” One dark brow lifted slightly. “Romantic poetry?” Her cheeks warmed instantly. “Sometimes.” Edwin looked dangerously amused again. “You continue to surprise me, Lady Arabella.” “And you continue mocking me.” “Only because you blush so beautifully.” The words escaped him so naturally that both of them froze afterward.

I watch intently with my brows raised as he removes a sizable oil painting from its place on the wall, unveiling a hidden safe that had been seamlessly integrated into the structure. I pivot on my heel and survey the colossal collection of books that had escaped my memory until now. The tips of my fingers delicately graze the uppermost edges of the book spines as my eyes glide over the titles. My fingers hover over one book in particular. It's a book that is very improper in Alessandros’ collection. This book is a historical romance novel written by Sylvia Day. One of Roses’ all-time favourite authors. Curiosity gets the better of me and I start to slide the book out, “come here, tesoro.” I

"Whatever happened to love each other first then... then doing the deed after. Is everyone after physical contact only these days? What about getting to know each other first? Chivalry? Romantic date?" I sighed and stopped spinning, facing my laptop and visiting a bookstore's site to see what books sell. Ah, of course, my book wouldn't be in the top 10, and I didn't hope so; what's staring back at me is the top 10 best-selling books for the week, where five of ten are Erotic Romance books. "And I thought my company wouldn't be like other companies who are after profit; I was wrong. Then again, business is business."

That caused my eyebrows to raise and my cheeks to blush. "Well... If you like that mix, maybe 'Story of O' by Pauline Réage, 'The Lover' by Marguerite Duras, 'Tropic of Cancer' by Henry Miller, or 'Delta of Venus' by Anaïs Nin could be recommended," I suggested, my face burning. These were considered significant works of erotic literature, but at the same time, they were quite scandalous. "Did you enjoy them?" he asked with a slightly huskier voice. "I like forming my own opinions."