Top Romance Novels Novels & Stories

Noah says with a sheepish smile. “You helping out a friend?” I ask him, discreetly hoping and not sure why I would want to know who he was getting the books for. “You could call her that.” Noah says with a shrug. A girlfriend. It's a good thing it's none of my business. “What kind of novels has she been reading in the past?” I ask, allowing my feet to lead me subconsciously to the romance aisle. “Romance.” Noah says and after further thinking, he adds, “with lots of smut scenes.”

Was it from a novel Paige had read before? "What? Do you also think I'm right?" Chris asked with a smile. Paige refuted, "You should read fewer messy novels." Who would have thought that someone like Chris, a CEO, actually liked reading all sorts of romance novels? Did he ever imagine himself in those novels, fantasizing about being the male lead? Chris said, "I don't read any messy novels. I read the painstaking works of the authors." Paige was at a loss for words. Did she also not read the authors' painstaking works? Such double standards.

"You like mysteries?" "Sometimes." "Better than romance novels?" My face heated. Had he seen me looking at that shelf? Had he been watching? "Much better," I said firmly. "Romance novels are... unrealistic." Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement maybe. "Are they?" "Yes. All that instant attraction and forbidden desire and enemies becoming lovers. It doesn't work like that in real life." "Doesn't it?" The way he said it—the slight emphasis, the look in his eyes—made my stomach flip.

Enjoy! Also, If you crave intense, slow-burn, dark, taboo romance with a deliciously dark edge, dripping with passion, obsession, secrets, tension, and twists that will test every boundary and leave you gasping for more, check out my new book, MATED TO MY OBSESSIVE STEP-BROTHER.

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."

Shadow raised her head to smell it, her big brown eyes curious, but upon finding it to be nothing other than frustrating ideas, she resettled. It had seemed so easy at first glance. Audrey and Ray had fallen in love once; I knew they could do it again. I had buzzed through my shift, sprinted home, and hopped on the computer for research. Fast forward two hours and I had no results. Everything I found was either too complex or too reminiscent of “The Parent Trap”. I had no idea how to get these two people to fall in love, let alone how to get them in the same room. My balloon of hope and excitement was quickly deflating, reality a slow leak sinking it. My phone chimed, and the noise startled

Now she's my wife and I am trying to make our marriage work so better not put your nose in it. Liliana again scoffed at his words. While Ryan was left shocked it was hard for him to believe that his ruthless mafia brother was finally in love with this girl. But the only problem this girl is too innocent for him and also from the way she's fearing him that she couldn't even utter a single word it might not be possible for Damon to win her.

“Merry Christmas, Elena.” She laughed, shaky and perfect. “Best gift I’ve ever gotten.” I kissed her slow, tasting salt and sex and her. We weren’t done. Not even close.

“She’ll probably spend the whole holiday in here if you let her.” I walked the aisles slowly, trailing my fingers over the books. Classics. Thrillers. A whole section of contemporary romance—Mirabel’s doing, mostly. She’d started collecting them in high school, said they were “escapist but smart.” I’d never read them. Too many happy endings. Too much hope wrapped in pretty words. I pulled one down at random. Dark cover, brooding man in a suit, and title written in gold foil: Claimed by the Billionaire. I snorted softly, then slid it back.

She was fully expecting him to give it one glance, and put it down with a caustic remark about trash, at which she would mutter something equally caustic about literary snobs. Instead he scanned it for perhaps twenty seconds. It was ridiculous to feel embarrassed, but she did. Not because he was reading about the imaginative contortions of Dominic and Natalya, but because he was probably imagining her reading them and getting all hot and erogenous in the process. In fact, she had not. As scenes of rampant nookie went, it had been disappointingly unerotic - more like a DIY plumbing manual than anything else. ‘Jesus,* he muttered at last. ‘This is anatomically impossible.*