Romantic Reading Novels & Stories

Roman’s tone turns steadily cold as he adds, “Fen would more likely hunt him down now, and not in the romantic way.” My eyes light up as I remember, “My book! You saw that in one of my books didn’t you?” The Alpha of the Ironclaw pack reading a romance novel would be about as ludicrous as anything else to anyone else, but I’m his mate, his wife, he isn’t afraid to be silly around me, and as we burst out of the main doors Roman nods. I burst into the kind of spurting giggles that would have expelled water from my mouth if there was any and Roman grins cheekily, still speaking through the mate bond as he says, “I wanted to see if those men you read of have anything on me.”

The rest of the class goes by in a blur, and I do my best to focus, but I’m way off my game. My mind is teeming, my body strangely energized, and I make a vow right then and there that I need to stop reading so many damn romance novels. I read one or two a day, fully immersed in the escapism it brings me, and I think they’re getting to my fucking head. I’ve always been a hopeless romantic, but it wasn’t until I hit my senior year in high school I discovered romance. I’ve been a complete addict ever since. But this obsession has not served me well, especially since my particular tastes these days are always the kinky variety involving handcuffs and safewords and dominants.

“You always read something serious.” “Fine,” I admitted. “Romance.” He raised an eyebrow. “Figures.” “Oh please,” I said. “You love romance.” “I love watching you react to it,” he replied. I kicked his foot lightly under the table. “Behave.” He leaned in. “No promises.” After coffee, we wandered through the bookstore. He picked up random titles, reading the back dramatically. “‘A tragic tale of lost love,’” he read aloud. “Absolutely not.” “Why?”

I told him about the bookstore, about the customers who came in looking for very specific recommendations. "There was this woman yesterday who wanted a romance where the hero is a villain but not in a sexy way. Just actually terrible." Daemon's lips twitched. "Did you find her one?" "I recommended Wuthering Heights. She looked horrified." "Accurate, though." "Right? Heathcliff is the worst. But people romanticize him anyway." "People romanticize a lot of things they shouldn't." The way he said it made me look at him more closely. There was something in his expression—something almost vulnerable beneath the usual control.

“Is that all?? You can go ahead.” Naomi walked to the bookshelf and bent down. Her skirt lifted high, showing him the blue lace stretched over her ass. She dragged her finger slowly across the spines. “You have a nice collection,” she murmured, pulling one free. She flipped the pages, pretending to read. “Romance.” Her eyes flicked back to him. “Do you have something raw? Something erotic?” "Is that what you want to read?" Raymond asked. "Yeah," she replied. "I love reading erotic stories."

I turn around and take a look at those. "They don't feel the same anymore", I tell him. He immediately frowns in confusion. "So, you got bored with ROMANCE?" "No. But there's a reason", I say, leaning against the shelf and placing my palm over the books. Then I slowly trace my hand over them. "And the reason is—" he leans back too, a foot of distance between us but we can clearly hear each other whispering. "People who read romance, mostly women—" I giggle. "They want to escape reality. So, they can find more beautiful things in fiction"

“Why is it so dark? Please, turn on the lights, Anth.” I hesitated before pressing the soft buttons of the light switch and then the room brightened up. I heard her gasp first before my eyes took in the rose petals and unlit candles on the floor and on various pieces of furniture in the living room. My eyes scanned the room and spotted more rose petals, even the ones leading to the bedroom. The romantic setting of the place made my nervousness spike higher than before. “Did you do this?” I pushed every ounce of nervousness from my body and approached her then wrapped my arms around her shoulder. I placed my face against hers then kissed her cheek, feeling the softness of her skin and inhalin

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."

My best friend liked it instantly. [Congrats, Director Thornton. Welcome to freedom!] I was promoted to the position of finance director in my company. I bought my own home, and I had a cat. After everything I had been through, I finally understood that loving myself was where lifelong romance would truly begin.