Romantic Mysteries Novels & Stories

"Then help me to smudge your scarlet lips all over my C****" * Slow burn * Erotic * Dark romance * Mafia romance A story of lust, love, betrayal, and loyalty.

Eyes that will probably hunt her for the rest of her life after this case. Was it worth the risk, pursuing this friendship? Could she even call it a friendship when the two of them were obviously trying to get into each other's pants again? Having a romantic relationship as an agent is, admittedly, difficult. She had seen romantic relationships fail and gone through a couple of rough ones herself. That was why she had decided on not pursuing one and occasionally getting laid with a stranger. But this stranger had a name and a penchant for twisting her panties in a bunch. Charlie's phone vibrated on the table. With an apologetic look at Maddox, she read the message from Jake.

“Tea looks fancy today.” “Chamomile with honey,” I said mock-proudly. “Very adult.” “Extremely adult,” he agreed solemnly. Then, with a tiny grin: “You know what’s not adult? The fact that I burned pasta yesterday.” “You’re never living that down.” He held up a hand. “I accept my fate.” Something flickered in the quiet between us—familiar, soft, a warm breath of the connection we’d been carefully rebuilding. Not the sharp magnetism from earlier chapters. Not the unpredictable intensity.

The lantern cast her shadow long and warped against the wall, stretching her thinner than she really was. There was something on the table. She hadn’t left it there. Ben felt the spike of fear the moment her eyes landed on it. A ribbon. It lay coiled neatly beside the lamp, pale blue, clean and new. Completely out of place in the modest, worn-down room. Her breath hitched as she reached for it, fingers hovering just above the fabric. She hadn’t owned anything like this. Her chest tightened. She picked it up, the silk cool and unfamiliar against her skin. It smelled faintly of something sharp and foreign, like leather and smoke.

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.

Not just any bouquet—an extravagant arrangement of crimson roses, their petals full and perfect, the kind that carried both elegance and danger. Rhian blinked, taken aback. Damon wasn’t a man of clichés. He didn’t deal in soft gestures. His way of care was meals slipped into her schedule, silent protection, brutal vengeance against anyone who harmed her. Flowers… were unexpected. Attached was a single black card with silver lettering, in Damon’s handwriting: To the fire that refuses to burn out. —D Her throat tightened as she lifted the bouquet, the fragrance filling the air with a sweetness that contrasted the steel edge of her office. She ran her fingers over the petals, her heart racing.

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.

A pair of blood-stained red satin heels called The Missing Shoes. I stared at them, completely confused. "Aren't these all girl stuff? What am I supposed to do with them?" I muttered to myself. Ximena gently tugged on my sleeve. "Hey, it's time to go to our room." She turned and told George to arrange accommodations for the guests, especially the three remaining players. I was escorted by eerie puppets into a brightly decorated wedding chamber. Right in the center of the room stood two pitch-black coffins. Ximena pointed to one of them.

"Rowan's playthings don't last long." Romy didn’t stop. She simply continued toward the staircase, her head held high, her indifference acting as the ultimate insult. Pamela's expression curdled. I watched Romy climb the stairs, the forest-green silk swaying with every step. She was an assassin, a wolfless rogue, and a woman who wanted me dead. Gone in a month? I felt a dark, possessive smile tug at my lips. My mother had never been more wrong in her life.

Serena’s voice sharpened. “Yes. Safe,” he repeated, stepping closer. “Predictable. Corporate. It looks like every other luxury wedding venue in the city. There’s no story here. No emotion. No magic.” Serena felt her temper flare. “This isn’t about magic, Julian. This is about creating a sophisticated, unforgettable event. Not some bohemian outdoor circus.” Julian stepped even closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne; it travelled straight into her nostrils, smelling woodsy, expensive, and annoyingly intoxicating.