Romantic Poetry Books Novels & Stories

Soon sleep came over my body and I fell in it but what astonished me was I never thought that I will ever hold someone in my arms or will ever get this much peaceful sleep. Author Pov. Damon always wanted to get married but in his life love. Affection or romance these kinds of emotions never came. He not even for once thought of falling for someone. Because for him love is useless. It's not like he has some past terrible issues but instead, he had seen relationships crumbling up like it's nothing but a mare lust. He wanted a wife not to have an affectionate relationship or romantic love story no he only wanted a woman to have an heir. And he was sure that women will never ask him for somethi

“What are you? A slam book? How can you love yourself when you don’t even recognize love itself?” Romance never goes out of style. It does not wither or die like plants in a glimpse of summer. We fall into its captivating curse the moment we find perfection in a soul filled with flaws. The second we see beauty in the laceration of their scars and lips maneuvered by deception, we are bound to plunge into the deepest fragment of their life. The day our heart palpitates at a rapid velocity is the day we chain ourselves to an immeasurable misery.

I must have dozed off while I was reading earlier. The Poems of Francis Ledwidge – the moth-eaten emerald green book I found in the study – is lying next to my pillow, the gold-embossed oak leaves on the cover glinting in the lamplight. The last thing I remember reading before nodding off was a poem gran had often sung to me as a bedtime lullaby. That book of the page is creased, dog-eared. The poem is about a water spirit who died after falling in love, which seemed to be one of Francis Ledwidge’s favorite themes – doomed love, tragic, beautiful maidens and lots and lots of flowers.

It was scorching like a flame and if auras could be tasted, hers would definitely be bitter. I shuddered, walking over to the first aisle to check it out. The first book that caught my attention was Blood, Pawns and Obsession. It was a dark romance by Rylie Martin. I had one of my projects on hold because I wanted to read this book and get into the head of the psychotic male lead, so I would understand him better and be able to execute my plotline to my taste. The grin on my face unconsciously widened, and I brought the book to my nose, sniffing it in.

The smell of new books has kept enticing a chunk of the population, albeit a smaller percentage, and mostly, people who buy from us are collectors, those who are too rich to spend money on things of the past–and that's what we offer: old, tanning books with worn out spines; a remnant of the past, a time when HarmonyMatch was never a thing. I man the register for a couple of old folks who got a stack of magazines. I smiled as they walked out the store, his hands on her shoulder, both smiling as they talked about their purchase. I thought about how they were Matched, whether they knew each other before the ceremony, if they were childhood sweethearts, or if they were familiar faces you see on

he asked, taking another sip of his coffee. "A book," was her dry reply, without even looking up. Nic gritted his teeth. "I'm aware of that. What's the title?" he asked, with less patience than before. "How to kill someone you don't like in two days." Nic had to laugh on the inside. She really was a funny piece of work. She still had yet to learn her manners, but she would. He would be damn sure of that. He walked over to her and snatched the book from her hands. Before she could protest, he read the title to himself. '100 Greatest Love Poems of All Time'. He handed the book back to her and walked to the bar area and sipped some more of his coffee.

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

Chloe wanted to do everything together, swimming, shopping and movies on the couch. I smiled and answered in the right places, but my body stayed tuned to Isabella like a second pulse. Every time she walked into a room my stomach tightened and when our eyes met across the table or the deck, the memory of the apartment flooded back — the strap-on, the scarf, the way she had made me sob with pleasure. At night I lay awake touching myself under the covers, biting my lip so Chloe wouldn’t hear, coming with Isabella’s name trapped in my throat.

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.

She should have been declared an angel for her commendable feat. She walked around the counter throwing a pile of romance books to Cain that she watched the girls in her pack read, she wasn’t going to help him choose because she wasn’t one to waste her time reading fantasies when she had more important things to think about, like how to find her parents and save them. Bet an erotic romance wasn’t going to help her in easing the swirl of emotions that she was going through at the moment. Walking past the aisles, she browsed through several historical and poetry books before her gaze fell on the aisle that was stacked with cooking books.