Romantic Historical Fiction Novels Novels & Stories

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.

She cautiously made her way back to the quiet library. She scanned the thousands of titles, her fingers brushing over worn leather spines. She should have picked a history, or a strategy text, something to sharpen her mind. Instead, her hand hesitated and then settled on a novel with a worn, colorful cover depicting a windswept couple. A romance. It felt foolish, indulgent, but she pulled it from the shelf anyway.

she chirped, clicking play. As the story unfolded, with its sweeping landscapes and tense romantic dialogue, she felt herself being drawn in. Then came the first intimate scene. It was artfully shot, but raw and passionate. A slow, warm flush began to spread through her body, a familiar ache of arousal coiling deep in her belly.

“Please don't tell me this is a werewolf novel or a vampire romance novel.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, it's a historical romance novel.” "OH!" I was amazed at Athena's persistence in getting someone to read something she loved. “How did she succeed in getting you to read this kind of book? I know you are not the romantic type of man, not even the type who likes history.”

I was pretty good at it and at the urging of my then girlfriend Julie, had submitted a few to a story site named Erotic escapes where under the pen name hotforteacher I'd gotten some pretty good reviews. Most of my stories were about older women with guys my age and Miss Ross had been the inspiration for many of them. Most of my female leads had the same long dark hair, big brown eyes and perfect full lips as my favorite English teacher. Yes Miss Ross had been the nasty little cougar in my mind and in print many times over the last few months. Shit, I'd even joined her writing discussion group because it met every other Sunday at her house.

It's either history, military, or supernatural romances. I've never understood why so many people preferred such kinds of novels and genres all that much. Though, I meant that for the latter part. They're basically the same every single time. An average lady meets one sexy, handsome, extraordinary man, or two hot males battle over her, and there's usually some ridiculous drama that brings her further and deeper together with the men, and then she has to choose the obvious decision. Everyone had predicted her decision since the very beginning of the chapter. "And they're usually sequels or fantasy epics," I mumbled to myself.

Then he brought his lips ever closer until he had it locked on Joan's lips. Asher couldn't believe it, the rush, the excitement, the bliss of kissing Joan, his body pressed against hers. As the kiss progressed through its duration, he realized he wanted Joan, and it wasn't just the needy infatuation that characterized romantic relationships. No, what he felt was a deep sated desire, and all it took to realize it was competition from another man.

“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.

he asked. "... I always believe that romances are about rogue men who abuse their mate but love them nevertheless." "Please stop reading books like that. It ruins the reputation of a humble man like me." Now he's looking at me with no signs of coldness, picks my hand from his forehead, and kisses my knuckles. "I love you even without the mate bond. I cannot... I just can't... do what you specified." I smiled inevitably and I think it made me look angelic.

Even so, the whole process feels like a battle, and I am already exhausted by the time I have the books in my hands. I still read romantic novels. There is something comforting about them, even if some of the stories hit a little too close to home. Some of the plots are eerily similar to my own life, while others are pure escapism—beautiful, heartwarming tales from start to finish. Sure, the characters face hardships and tribulations, but what always stands out to me is the love and trust between the couples. It is the kind of love that feels unshakable, the kind I used to dream about. Now, I am not so sure if that kind of love exists for me anymore.