Romantic Era Novels Novels & Stories

She scolded herself before returning to the book. Alistair returned shirtless— Sera silently thanked the Goddess for that—, and got into the bed to listen to her story. The book was a Romantic one, a story of a man who was determined to win the love of his cold and rebellious crush. It was a thrilling tale full of passion and love. Soon enough, Sera found herself engrossed in the book she was forced to read. The words seemed to transport her to another world, and when she finally glanced at the clock, she was startled to see that it was already midnight.

I lifted my hands to his chest, pressed against the warmth of him, and whispered, “I love you, Ethan. I’ve always—” He quieted me with his lips. A slow, sensual kiss that was full of morning, full of sunlight, full of home. The way he kissed me now wasn’t rushed or needy. It was almost...sacred. The kind of kiss that seeps into your very soul and stays there. I wrapped my arms around him, pressing against him as if I could never get close enough. “I’ve been dreaming of this,” he whispered between kisses. “Of you in my arms like this. No walls. No fear. Just us.”

Charles thought to himself, "Ancient romance novels? What the hell is that?" Charles, who had never read novels before, fell deep into thought. He decided to consult the people in the Handsome Men Group for help. Charles asked, "My wife said that she likes to read ancient romance novels. What is this?" Cyrus replied, "It's the same thing as those novels earlier, but the context is shifted from modern to ancient times. The male protagonist's role will then shift from a domineering CEO to an emperor, prince, general, or something like that."

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.

A dark, erotic, romance novel. The goal was to stop thinking about Alexander, but only ten minutes into the book and I'm already imagining his hands all over me. I'm already imagining him bending me over the fucking window of my room and filling me up ruthlessly until all I can remember is the sound of his name on my lips.

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.

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.

He would have, right? I shook my head again and concentrated on the book placed on my lap. It was one of the British, historical romance fictions set during the World War Two. I had randomly picked it up at the bookstore and somehow felt myself drawn towards it. Sappy novel with mopey dialogues and dragged out bits, it still provided me with much needed solace.

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."

Or maybe he'd suddenly realised that accepting a marriage proposal from a stranger didn't exactly speak of a sane mind. But he'd started it first. Too late for regrets, buster. I stood up and offered my hand to him, smirking at his questioning gaze. “Come on now. Like all deals we need to shake hands. You're well enough to do that aren't you Roman?” I emphasized his first name challengingly. It sounded ironic coming from me, given how I'd refused his hand in my bedroom, but matters changed. Something flickered in his gaze that I couldn't understand, but then, his lips lifted into what I could only call a deep devastating smirk.