Novel & Cerita Women's Romance Novels

Immortal Desire - vampire, werewolf, witch - a fantasy-based story with dark romance and erotica (you can take a peek at this if it suits your genre taste) - completed 2. Midnight Feast -werewolf - this is a little dark. I don't know how to say it. See for yourself (I like this so much) -new book/on-going 3. The Deserted Wife -TDB book 2 -Romance/drama -new book/on-going

I lean against the door frame, crossing my arms over the chest. “I don’t know, I picked this up from Bianca’s table in her office. It happened this book is actually a romance.” Showing me the cover of a half-naked man. “And since when you like reading a romance novel?” She barks into laughter. “I’m actually having fun. The guy is an asshole and the woman is a demure type.” “Uh, a stereotyped bad boy, playboy. I know you have a thing for that kind of guy.” I don’t know why suddenly I feel a pang in my chest. She’s already my wife, but still, I’m jealous of her imaginary guy.

Here is a list of my current books: *A Rancher's Fall (Romance) *A Chance At Love (Romance) *A Hint of Misunderstanding (Werewolf Romance) Thank you again. Happy Readings

Every woman wants to chase him, but his heart is being guarded with walls of ice that never seems to come down. Scarlett Miller, a business administration student; with the spice of fashion designing truly angelic, her eyes filled with love, kindness, and anything but hatred. Every man is ready to chase her yet her heart remains untouched free for anyone to steal, but she has yet to come across the thief that claims it as his possession. Will these 2 people ever come across each other, will that wall of ice ever melt with the warmness of kindness, will the man with too much hatred and too little love ever claim his possession, on the women with too little hatred and so much of love?

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.

“What are these?” “They’re romance novels.” “They’re p**n, Nala. I’ve been alive long enough to know the difference.” She didn’t deny it. Instead, she just stood there with her arms crossed, waiting. I studied her face. In all the centuries I’d known this woman, I’d never once seen her read anything that wasn’t academic. Science journals and historical texts and research papers dry enough to cure insomnia. She had entire shelves dedicated to old human civilizations and herbal remedies and subjects so boring I fell asleep just looking at the spines.

“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.

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."

“But it doesn’t matter what I want.” Benedicta stepped closer. “It matters to me.” She kissed Joanna again, slower this time but Joanna tried to pull back. Benedicta followed, pressing her against the desk, hands already sliding under her blouse. The risk made every touch sharper. Joanna gave in with a low sound and kissed her back hard. Joanna turned Benedicta around and bent her over the desk again. She shoved the skirt up, found her already wet, and pushed three fingers deep in one thrust. Benedicta moaned, forehead pressed to the wood.

No, this was the rush I lived for. I uncrossed my legs slowly, letting my short skirt ride up my thighs a bit as I sat forward, my full breasts pressing against my blouse. My nipples were already hard, rubbing against the lace of my bra. I smiled at him, bold as ever. “Because it’s exactly that, Dr. Black. The character isn’t surrendering out of love. She’s wet for the control, the way he pins her down with words and authority before he even touches her. It’s raw. It’s filthy. And pretending it’s just intellectual is bullshit. Don’t you think?”