Novel & Cerita Romantic Poetry Books

“You wish I was that easy.” “No. I like that you’re not easy. Makes me want to break you more.” He stepped around the desk until he was behind me, close enough that I felt his breath on my neck. “Your heart is still racing. Your nipples are so hard I can see them through your blouse. Tell me honestly, Raven. When you touch yourself at night, do you think about men like me ruining that little pussy?” I turned to face him, cheeks burning, thighs slippery now. “Maybe I do. Maybe I imagine a man who doesn’t ask and just takes. Fills me until I can’t walk straight the next day.”

The word should have been a balm, but instead, it stung like salt in an open wound. “As you wish… Sebastian,” she managed, his name strange and intimate on her tongue. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Isabelle cast about desperately for a neutral topic. “Have you considered the texts we discussed for Amelia?” Sebastian asked before she could speak. “I confess I’m uncertain which poets might appeal to her sensibilities.” Reality crashed back, cold and unforgiving. This was her purpose—advisor to his courtship, nothing more. “Amelia favors the Romantics,” she said, her voice impressively steady. “Particularly works that focus on nature and beauty. Byron might be too… intense fo

How wonderful it is to have Noah holding a book, doing this kindness for me that goes against his nature. "I don't mind." "Which one?" "You choose," I say. He flips a few more pages, then settles on one. In his deep voice, I hear him read. "You say you love; but with a smile, cold as sunrise in September, As you were Saint Cupid's nun—/ And kept his weeks of Ember— O love me truly." "Keats was kind of romantic, don't you think?" "A poet par excellence." I cling closer to him, letting his scent fill my senses. "Go on."

Their bodies surrounded me, heat everywhere, kisses turning wild, tongues, teeth, breaths mingling. Steve’s fingers slipped under lace, brushing my slick folds. I bucked against him. The elevator dinged but we didn’t stop until the doors slid open. We spilled out, straightening just enough to cross the lobby, my lipstick smeared, gown askew, their collars tugged open. I led, keycard in hand, up to the suite door which unlocked with a beep. Inside, the room was dim, king bed, city view, bottle of champagne chilling. I turned to them, breath ragged. “Strip for me.”

After heading inside, Damon picked out a few thick and boring books that were related to design for Celeste. "Is there anything else that you want?" "Poetry books. I like Edgar Poe, William Blake, and Pablo Neruda," Celeste said suddenly. Perhaps it was because they had just watched a play, Damon felt she was being a little emotional today. Damon's heart fluttered seeing some emotion on her typically cold self. "In the past, I loved reading poetry for the sake of fortune-telling." Celeste grabbed a book by Neruda from the rack and casually flipped through the pages.

I tilted my head to read the spine of the book nearest to her. "The Complete Works of Lord Byron." "Byron was a scandal in his time," she said with a small smile. "All that passionate poetry and romantic drama." "Sounds exhausting." She laughed, and the sound made something warm unfurl in my chest. "You would say that. You probably prefer your emotions filed alphabetically and color-coded." "Hey," I protested, though I was fighting a smile. "I have emotions. They're just very well organized." "Mmm." She pretended to consider this seriously. "And where exactly do you file 'attraction to the help'?"

he growls, low enough that only I can hear. Then his hand is on my wrist, dragging me away from the crowd, through a set of French doors, into the night. The gardens are a dream. Tall hedges line the paths, their leaves shiny because of the moonlight. Roses bloom in impossible colors in black ink, blue, and red like fresh-spilled blood. But it’s the sky that steals my breath. Stars are falling, streaking across the dark velvet like embers, their trails shimmering before dissolving into dust.

She had been so cold for so long, and now she could feel a burning desire rushing through her, bright and overwhelming. When he lay back on the bed and spoke her name into the quiet, something inside her stirred, soft at first and then insistent. His awareness of her felt like a hand brushing against her soul. Every time he shifted, every time his breath changed, she thought it rippled through her, a quiet pull that made her drift closer without quite meaning to.

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

My shoulders sagged and I growled softly in mortification. "I know nothing about love, Arram. I've been alone for centuries. How does one woo someone," I questioned him curiously and he snapped his fingers and handed me a stack of books. He told me to read them. I looked at the spines for titles, Romeo and Juliet, Wuthering Heights and The Notebook.