Lena Little – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read

Lena Little – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.booksnovels.com Sat, 10 Oct 2026 20:14:39 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=7.1.3 http://www.booksnovels.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png Lena Little – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.booksnovels.com 32 32 The Boss – Steamy Shorts Read Online Lena Little http://www.booksnovels.com/the-boss-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Sat, 10 Oct 2026 20:14:39 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/the-boss-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Forbidden, Insta-Love Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 17942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 90(@200wpm)___ 72(@250wpm)___ 60(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 >19

Vivian
I don’t do one-night stands. Really. I don’t.
I don’t approach strangers at bars; I don’t go home with men whose last names I don’t know, and I definitely don’t have the best sex of my life with someone I’ll never see again. Even that gorgeous man with the dry humor, the sharp jaw, and the sinful hands?
Except, I did. All of it.
One incredible, rule-breaking night. But then…
Monday happens.
He’s standing in my boss’s office. Tailored suit. Ice in his voice. Zero recognition on his face.
Matthew Astor. CEO. My boss’s older brother.
And for the next two weeks, he’s MY boss.
He calls me Ms. Olivers like he’s never heard me scream his name. I call him Mr. Astor like I don’t know exactly what’s under that suit. Nobody at the office knows what happened between us.
My body, unfortunately, did not get the memo.
Two weeks. I just have to survive two weeks.
I am not going to survive two weeks.
Am I?

_________________________________________________________________________________

💕 “One perfect night.
One inconvenient boss.
Zero regrets.”💕
_________________________________________________________________________________
The BOSS: a forbidden, one-night-stand, workplace romance
Workplace tension, laugh-out-loud banter, and a slow burn that turns into a full-on wildfire. Ever had one perfect, no-strings night… but then HE walks into your office Monday morning wearing a $3,000 suit acting like it never happened?
Spice with charm. Standalone. No cheating. Spicy, forbidden quick read. Guaranteed HEA

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

MATTHEW

Ineed to cure whatever infected my brain that made me think two weeks in my brother's branch office was a reasonable plan.

The bourbon is decent. Not great, but decent enough that I'm not insulted by the eighteen-dollar price tag, which is saying something because this hotel charges twelve dollars for a cup of coffee that tastes at least sixty percent water and maybe a drop of espresso.

I've been nursing this glass for thirty minutes, checking my phone every five because my VP probably reorganized my entire filing system while I was on the plane. Dean means well, but the man color-codes things for fun. I'll spend a week undoing whatever organizational fever dream he's having without me there to stop it.

The bar is dimly lit, all black and walnut oak, the kind of place you just know overcharges everything. For the record, I'm far from frugal, but I also hate overpaying, which is funny because we've made a business out of selling handbags and wallets that don't cost below five thousand. That’s a lot of greenbacks for a purse.

Jazz plays softly in the background. Definitely not live, but it's not bad. At least they got that right.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I take it out. Another email from Dean. Subject line: "Small organizational update."

Fuck. He wasn't even supposed to be in the office until tomorrow.

I set the phone face-down on the bar and take another sip. Two weeks. That's what I promised my younger brother, Levi. Two weeks to cover his operation while he finally takes Angela on the Maldives honeymoon they should have taken six months ago.

They got married, and he went back to work the following Monday because we just launched a new collaboration. I couldn't even blame him because I would have done the same.

The thing is, Levi and I learned the same lessons growing up. Dad made sure of that. Every morning over breakfast, he'd drill it into us that we don't work for ourselves. We work for the thousands of families who depend on Astor Group paychecks. Their mortgages, their kids' college funds, their retirement plans, their vacation. All of it sits on our shoulders. Dad carried that weight every day of his life, and he made damn sure we understood we'd carry it too.

But where I took that lesson and built walls with it, Levi somehow managed to stay warm. That's Mom's influence. She was everything Dad wasn't—relaxed, funny, the type of person who made you feel like the world wouldn't end if you took a day off. Levi got more of that from her than I did. Maybe that's why he can run a branch office and still remember to buy his wife flowers. Maybe that's why his employees actually like working for him instead of just fearing him.

I check my phone again. It's a text from my assistant.

"Matthew, Dean wants to know if you'd like your pens arranged by brand or by ink color."

Jesus Christ.

I'm typing back a response ("Just leave my office alone.") when someone slides onto the barstool next to me. I don't look up immediately. Hotel bars are full of business travelers who think proximity equals permission to start conversations. I like my peace, thank you very much.

"Shirley Temple," the woman says to the bartender.

Her voice is a bit raspy, and somehow, that gets my attention. I look up, and…

Holy mother of God.

She's got dark hair that falls just past her shoulders in waves, and when she turns slightly to scan the room, I catch her profile. Sharp cheekbone, long lashes, and full red lips.

<<<<1 2 3 11 >19

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The Family Friend – Steamy Shorts Read Online Lena Little http://www.booksnovels.com/the-family-friend-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Wed, 23 Sep 2026 18:52:07 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/the-family-friend-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 >18

Some crushes don’t fade.
They just wait.
_____________________________________________
Harriet
It’s my grandmother’s eightieth birthday, and all I can think about is how to survive it.
She gives me the attic loft, but I won’t be sleeping alone because I’m sharing the space with
… drum roll please … Heath Donovan.
You know the type.
The family friend who grew up next door, who spent every summer of my childhood stealing my s’mores and my good sense. The boy I trailed after like a stray. The boy I almost kissed the summer before college, right up until I made an absolute fool of myself and ran—two weeks early, all the way to a different coast, and straight into ten years of pretending it never happened.
He’s not a boy anymore. He’s six-foot-five, a professional athlete with a grin that still turns my brain to static, and I am absolutely not counting the space between his bed and mine.
I know how this goes. I reach, I get it wrong, I run.
It’s practically my signature move.
The problem is, ten years is a long time to convince yourself you’re over someone.
And eight feet is not nearly far enough to keep proving it.

_________________________________________________________________________________

One bed away from everything
she swore she was over.
_________________________________________________________________________________
The FAMILY FRIEND: a second-chance, one-bed romance with the boy-next-door
A childhood friends-to-adult lovers, second-chance, small-town, one-bed-vibes romance. Her 80-year-old grandmother pulls the strings. He’s back, not gangly anymore – a 6′ 5″ pro athlete, and they’re forced to bunk down 8 feet apart.
Spice with charm. Standalone. No cheating. No cliffhanger. Guaranteed HEA.

(WARNING: explicit)

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

HARRIET

"Honey, I'm so sorry, but you're gonna have to stay in the attic loft."

I set my duffle bag down next to the kitchen island and turn to look at Gram, who's standing at the stove stirring something that smells like butter and garlic and everything good about being back in this house. She doesn't look sorry.

"Yeah, sure, Gram. No problem."

"Okay, maybe a slight problem."

The wooden spoon pauses mid-stir, and I mentally brace myself. With Gram, there's always a second shoe, and it's always a steel-toed boot aimed directly at your comfort zone.

The thing about Gram is that she lies for the love of the game. She doesn't do it maliciously. She just enjoys the craft of it, the way some people enjoy crossword puzzles or sudoku.

"What is it?"

"You're sharing the loft with Heath, but no worries, I've placed the beds on opposite sides. You still have plenty of privacy."

Gram did not just say Heath, did she? Heath, as in Heath Donovan? The Heath Donovan? My Heath Donovan?

No. No way. Absolutely no way.

It's just a name, but I might as well have received the most devastating news. Well, not to be dramatic, but it is devastating—to my heart, my mind, and my entire person.

The Heath who was always next door every single summer since we were in primary school. The Heath who went to high school with me. The Heath I haven't spoken to in a decade. The Heath I've spent years trying very hard not to think about, which is difficult when his face shows up on sports websites and his name gets dropped in casual conversation by people who have no idea they're stepping on a landmine.

My parents are somewhere behind me unpacking groceries, and my twin cousins are thundering down the hall like a pair of seventeen-year-old rhinoceroses. Gram keeps watching me with those sharp brown eyes that miss absolutely nothing, waiting for my response, so I arrange my face into something that hopefully reads as normal surprise instead of internal catastrophe.

"Right. Of course."

But inside, every alarm bell I own is screaming at maximum volume. Three nights. Three nights in a room the size of a closet with the one person on earth I cannot be trapped in a room with. The one person who could unravel years of careful distance with one look, one word, one flash of that ridiculous grin that used to make me forget my own name.

I'm twenty-eight years old and a well-respected academic researcher to boot, but here I am, acting like a lovesick teenager all over again.

All that from just hearing his name.

"What if I just sleep on the floor of Mom and Dad's room?" I give Gram my fakest genuine smile. "Or … listen. I could take your floor, Gram. I don't mind the floor. I love a floor. Besides, I really, really missed you, and we could spend the whole night just, you know, bonding with each other."

Gram's eyebrows climb toward her hairline, and her mouth curves into a fake genuine smile that eerily mirrors my own. "Is it your birthday? Are YOU turning eighty? Are you about to celebrate what might be your very last birthday? Because if the answer is yes, I will gladly step back and let you make all the decisions."

There's no answer to this. There's never an answer when Gram plays the mortality card. We both know I'm going to fold like a lawn chair in a hurricane.

"Oh, it's fine, sweetheart," Mom calls from somewhere behind the refrigerator door. "We've known Heath since he was in diapers. Remember how he used to follow you around like a puppy?"

My face goes hot. No, actually, I remember being the one doing the following, trailing after him and his little sister like a stray they'd taken pity on, grateful for any scraps of attention he threw my way.

"Wait." My cousin, Jake, pokes his head around the corner. "Heath Donovan? Like, the actual Heath Donovan? The wide receiver? He's here?"

"He got in two days ago to help me get ready," Gram says, stirring her mysterious concoction with renewed vigor. She's always had such a soft spot for Heath. "Such a good boy. Moved all the furniture, fixed the screen door, cleaned the gutters. Not like some people who show up expecting to be waited on hand and foot."

Ouch.

I've been here exactly twelve minutes and I'm already getting guilt-tripped for not arriving early enough to perform manual labor.

"Where is he?" Jake's eyes have gone wide.

"Down at the dock with your uncle, checking the boat motor."

Jake and his twin, James, exchange a look, and I just know they're about to bolt for the door and spend the next three days following Heath around like he's the Pied Piper of professional athletics.

I need air. Or a time machine. Or both.

How I got here starts with a phone call a month ago, though if I'm being absolutely honest with myself, it really starts earlier than that. It starts with the fact that I've never successfully said no to Gram in my entire life, and she knows it, even that knitted cardigan she wears to town knows it.

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The Fake Fiance – Steamy Shorts Read Online Lena Little http://www.booksnovels.com/the-fake-fiance-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Sun, 16 Aug 2026 18:13:27 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/the-fake-fiance-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20477 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 102(@200wpm)___ 82(@250wpm)___ 68(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >22

Elowen
It’s just a job. So what if it’s in a romantic French ski resort?
Owned by this gorgeous billionaire.
The man I’ve been obsessing about for months.
Since meeting accidentally at his wife’s funeral. It’s fine! I can handle it.
That is, until this billionaire, Adam Valmonte, yes, seriously… declares me his fiancée in front of everyone at the resort.
What the actual f*ck!?
He says the fake engagement is to protect me. His idea.
But the way he’s looking at me does not feel fake at all.
I shouldn’t want him. He’s a recent widower,
I barely know him. And, wait for it, he’s my boss!
But he looks at me like I mean the world to him.
When he touches me, whispers my name… omg…
None of those things matter anymore.
Nothing does…BUT… this could never work.
Right?

Adam
Was forming a connection with a woman I met by chance outside my late wife’s funeral a mistake? Is hiring her to work for me an even bigger mistake?
Some think so.
But Elowen Hart was the bright spot when everything in my life was dark. Broken.
And now that I’ve healed, she’s a hell of a lot more.
She’s the love, the passion, the fullness I’ve always wanted.
I want her in ways I’ve never wanted anyone. She fits me.
I want to give her the world. Myworld
I want to take her to bed. My bed.
Make her scream my name.
I want to make her mine. Only mine.
And Adam Valmonte gets what he wants.
Always

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

ELOWEN

The bells are ringing overhead before I even get out of Imogen’s car. It’s a dreary Washington day, but then again, most are. Still, it’s fitting for the event we’re attending. The event that I would do anything to skip—a funeral for a woman I don’t even know.

People are gathered beneath black umbrellas, some faces I vaguely recognize and others who are complete strangers. Most of them fall into the stranger category, and I clutch Imogen’s arm as we share our own umbrella, walking inside.

“Quit scowling,” my friend hisses, bumping me with her shoulder.

I school my face into a neutral expression. “Sorry. I just really, really want to leave.”

She leans her head on my shoulder briefly. “And I so appreciate you being here. It’s a bad look if I don’t attend, but funerals give me the creeps.”

It’s a little insensitive, but so is the scowl threatening to make its way back onto my face. Imogen actually knows the deceased, Celeste Valmonte, having done some business with her over the past few years. Celeste had struggled with a long-term illness but had hidden it from the public until just before her untimely death.

Since I’m apparently incapable of saying no to Imogen, we’re both stuck attending this funeral now, dodging the flashbulbs of the press trying to get shots of the more famous attendants. The wind cuts through my wool coat as we climb the stairs of the cathedral, but soon enough we’re inside. Even with the doors shut, we can hear the low buzz of the press; billionaires always attract attention, even at the most solemn of times, and Adam Valmonte’s name has been at the front of everyone’s mind lately.

The widower billionaire inherited what can only be called an empire from his father–international shipping, luxury hotels, energy investments, and I’m sure a handful of other ridiculously lucrative ventures. His wife Celeste used their fortune to be a philanthropist, and by all accounts was a lovely person. Adam must be devastated, but he’s a very private person, making the tabloids even more desperate to get a look at him.

The volume in the cathedral doesn’t lessen the further we get inside, but the chatter gives way to the more pleasant sounds of a choir singing as we find our seats in one of the further back rows. It’s a beautiful place, with tasteful stained glass and vaulted ceilings, but it still feels oppressive. There are just so many people.

Thankfully, Imogen is content showing her face and isn’t feeling inclined to socialize, so she sits us away from the other groups. We speak in low tones, Imogen filling me in on who is near us, while I pretend to listen. We are so far separated in our social circles that I likely won’t ever need to know the minor celebrities and smattering of millionaires who Imogen interacts with, but I indulge her anyway, knowing she’s likely just trying to keep herself distracted.

After about thirty minutes, a hush falls over the cathedral as the atmosphere shifts. I look up, curious, to see Adam Valmonte and his daughter Camille walking down the center aisle, lit candles in each of their hands.

Photographs have done nothing to prepare me for what Adam looks like in person, and I immediately feel a sickening guilt at how attractive I find him. He’s here to mourn his deceased wife, and here I am being thrown through a loop by his height, the severe cut of his silver-shot black hair, and the stoic set of his chiseled jaw. Everything about him feels severe, from his perfectly tailored black suit to his expression, sharp and controlled despite the grief he must be feeling. He only softens when his daughter sniffles, and he wraps one arm around her, letting her lean against him for steadiness.

The entire cathedral watches the two of them pass, but neither father nor daughter appears to see anyone around them. Camille is twenty-something and stunning, a mirror image of her mother besides her father’s dark eyes and height. Even as tall as she is, the heartbroken way she carries herself has tears pricking at my own eyes. Poor girl. She’s an absolute stranger, yet I have the oddest urge to hug her.

As I’m looking at the young woman, something pulls my eyes back to Adam, and a jolt goes through me when I realize he’s looking right back at me. I tear my eyes away immediately, thankful for the dim cathedral lighting that’s hiding the flush on my face. Was I just checking out a widower at his wife’s funeral!?

No. No way. I was simply curious since I’ve never seen him in person before.

God, how ridiculous. I’m so embarrassed. Luckily, Imogen hasn’t noticed that her guest is making a fool of herself, and has settled into the pew, her anxieties from earlier having slowly let up.

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >22

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The Rival – Steamy Shorts Read Online Lena Little http://www.booksnovels.com/the-rival-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Sun, 16 Aug 2026 18:12:45 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/the-rival-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 17988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 90(@200wpm)___ 72(@250wpm)___ 60(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 >19

Five years running Sullivan’s… no problems.
Zero!

Then Tate Morgan shows up next door, and suddenly, I can’t think straight.
She’s a menace and a headache.
Parks wherever she wants.
Butters up to the most unfriendly neighbors on the block, including the f**king stray cat.
Files a complaint against me and frames it where I can see it.
She’s petty.
But, she pisses me off.
She takes up so much real estate in my head, and that pisses me off.
When I ask what business she’s opening, she says it’s ‘just a dive bar’.
Then adds, like mine — like Sullivans?
I don’t think so.
I hate her.
But … my body doesn’t get the memo.
Her legs in those shorts make me grip the bar until my knuckles go white.
I watch her through my window more than I watch my own customers.
In all the ways that matter, Tate is my rival.
But rivals aren’t this obsessive. Are they?
Don’t yearn for glimpses of the other. Do they?
Or get hard at the sight of them.
She’s the bane of my existence.
I just know I’ll never get a good night’s sleep.
As long as she’s around

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

TOM

Ever since that woman arrived, I’ve not had one good night's sleep.

Two weeks, and I still haven't worked out how to make myself stop listening for her laugh, which is its own specific humiliation.

It's not like I'm doing it on purpose. It just … happens. She laughs, and whatever part of my brain is supposedly dedicated to running a bar goes briefly offline. My hand forgets it's holding a glass, and I stand there with a clean rag and a bar top I've cleaned twice already. Nothing to show for the last ten minutes except an awareness of the exact pitch and rhythm of a woman I have actively decided not to think about.

The bar top is sticky despite my best efforts. Decades of spilled beer ground into the grain, something I accepted five years ago when I inherited this place. I keep trying to fix it anyway, like I'm new here and don't know better.

Our regular, Eddie, sits at the end of the bar with his usual sandwich reduced to crumbs and his eyes on the TV showing a game I haven't kept score of all afternoon. The Ramones are playing low on the jukebox—"I Wanna Be Sedated"—which I put on myself and am now finding too on-the-nose to enjoy.

Through the front window, past the grimy glass and the Budweiser neon sign cutting a red stripe across my view, her door is propped open again. I catch myself watching and redirect my attention to the glass in my hand, which is so clean at this point it could go straight into a surgery, so I wipe the bar top … again.

"If you wipe that spot any harder, you're going to sand through to the subflooring."

I don't look up. Jason's been watching me not-watch the window, and I know exactly what expression he's wearing without needing visual confirmation. "Don't you have limes to cut? I don't pay you to watch me."

"Cut them already." We've known each other for so long, I just know he's in the mood to push. He doesn't even care that I could fire him right this instant. "While you were polishing that glass into a higher dimension."

"It's a busy day."

"Right. Super busy. That's why Eddie's been nursing the same beer for an hour, and you've served exactly no one else." Jason picks up a lime wedge and examines it. "She asked about you yesterday."

My hand stills on the glass, but I force it to keep moving. "Yeah, I don't really care."

"She asked if you were always this warm and approachable or if she caught you on an off day. When she waved, you apparently ignored it and walked the other way." He quarters the lime with one clean cut, not looking at me. "Apparently, mind. Not definitely. So, I told her you're an acquired taste.” Some juice squirts up to his eye, and he scrunches it closed. “ Like something that grows on people slowly and takes a while to appreciate."

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

"Mold, mostly. I was thinking mold."

I set down the glass hard enough that Eddie glances over, mildly interested in whether there's going to be entertainment. There's not. I'm not giving Jason the satisfaction.

"Tate is nice, you know. Pretty funny and friendly. You just need to get to know her, Tom."

Friendly. That's the word everyone uses, and it's accurate in the way that calling a hurricane "breezy" is accurate.

The thing about Jason is that he's chatty, but he's not an open book. It took him eight months to mention his dad had retired, and two years before I met his wife, Sarah.

Meanwhile, Tate got his mother's teaching credentials, the lake house they use for Thanksgiving, Sarah's current pregnancy status, and the entire shortlist of baby names they're considering in under twenty minutes. Twenty!

Jason came back from that introduction smiling like she'd given him something instead of extracted everything, and he told me all of it without me asking, with the slightly dazed expression of someone who's just been very pleasantly robbed. Tate apparently has this quality where people feel heard. Genuinely listened to. Jason described it that way, trying to pin down what had just happened to him, and I nodded and made a mental note to avoid whatever the hell that was.

She would be so useful to the FBI, for sure.

Since Tate moved next door, I’ve arrived at one conclusion. She's a menace. A friendly, blue-eyed menace who knows my best friend's family vacation schedule better than I do.

The evidence extends beyond Jason, too. Sixty-year-old Beth from the bakery two doors down. For years, I've bought bread from her every Sunday morning, and in that time, I have received, in total, approximately forty nods of acknowledgment and zero words.

Last week, I watched through this same window as Beth appeared at Tate's door with a tray of fresh bread. It took me a few seconds to reconcile the smiling woman with the one who always seemed pissed off that I dared to buy croissants from her.

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The Summer Fling – Steamy Shorts Read Online Lena Little http://www.booksnovels.com/the-summer-fling-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Sun, 16 Aug 2026 18:12:43 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/the-summer-fling-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 17021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 85(@200wpm)___ 68(@250wpm)___ 57(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 >18

Hannah
My plan is simple: one week on an island, no spreadsheets, no insufferable bosses, no coworkers stealing my lunch from the office fridge.
Just sun, sand, and the mindless relaxation that might remind me I’m still a functioning human being and not a calculator in a blouse.
Then I walk into the Shore Thing – a beach bar – and meet Logan Collins.
He’s six-foot-five. Muscles on muscles.
Owns the place and has the kind of smile that makes me forget I came here to be alone.

It was supposed to be a summer fling. No strings, no expectations, no heartbreak.
But somewhere between the first kiss and the last sunset, my one-week plan fell apart …
And so did every wall I spent years building

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

LOGAN

"No offense, but this tastes like a wet rag." I swill the drink around my mouth once and spit into the bin. "Is this what I pay you for? I don't think so."

I set Eli's latest creation on the bar, aptly called Saltwater Funeral, because it would most likely send me to an early grave, and push it toward him. The thing is bright green and smells like I'm about to meet my maker in five seconds tops.

"It's a green tea martini with fresh mint and⁠—"

"We want our customers happy, Eli. This will do the opposite of that."

Eli grins and dumps the drink down the sink. "Fine, fine. You're such a critic. I'll stick to the classics then."

I'm about to tell him exactly what I think of his bartending experiments when she walks in.

We're in an open area, so it makes little sense that her very presence sucks the oxygen in the space.

But that's exactly what she does.

The glass in my hand goes still. My pulse spikes, heart beats double time.

Dark, shoulder-length hair, all messy waves that look like she's been running her hands through it. The thought of doing it myself slams into me before I can stop it, and something hot twists in my gut.

She scans the room, looking for a table, and when she turns, I get the full picture. Jesus. Curves that would make a saint reconsider his vows. Full hips in shorts that should be illegal, a pink tank top that's not hiding a damn thing. The way the fabric moves with her—I can't look away.

Her legs go on forever, freckles scattered across her shoulders like stars I want to map with my tongue. They disappear down her chest under that tank top, and I'm already wondering how far they go.

Just when I think I can't feel any more unmoored, she looks toward the bar, and her eyes lock with mine.

Blue.

Bright, clear blue like the water when it's so perfect you'd paddle out in a hurricane just to get in it. Full lips that would look so good wrapped around my⁠—

Goddammit. What is this? Where did this come from? Why the fuck am I acting like this?

The world tilts. Everything I thought I knew about want, about need, about the difference between looking and needing to touch—it all rewrites itself in the space of a heartbeat.

Fuck.

I'm staring. I know I'm staring because Eli elbows me in the ribs.

"You're gonna break the marble."

I look down. My knuckles are white, gripping the edge of the bar. "What?"

"Stop looking at the woman. The one you've been eye-fucking for the past thirty seconds. You'll scare her away."

I grab a towel and wipe my hands because I need to keep myself busy. My self-control, something I've always been proud of, is fracturing beneath a pressure I do not recognize. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't. Should I get you a napkin for the drool? Second thought, maybe a bowl."

She finds a table on the patio and drops her beach bag beside her chair. No ring. A small tote bag. One towel. Hmm. Interesting. I've been in business long enough to know what kind of tourist she is.

She's alone, and every instinct I have is telling me to walk over there and introduce myself.

But I don't. She's here to relax, not get hit on by a guy who owns a bar. The island gets enough tourists who think vacation means every woman is fair game. The last thing I want is to intrude on her peace.

Instead, I watch her from behind the bar like some kind of creep. She orders a drink—something with rum and fruit that matches her pink top. When Eli brings it over, the woman laughs at something he says. I love Eli. He's been my best friend since high school, and he's like a brother to me.

But I'd be lying if I said it didn't irk me just a bit that he's the one making her laugh.

That should be me. Apparently, it bothers me enough that the next half hour is a blur.

I've signed off on a delivery I didn't check, approved something I didn't read, and spent time pretending the draft list I memorized is suddenly fascinating. All because a tourist with freckles and blue eyes walked into my bar.

This is insane. I don't do this. I don't get distracted by customers, no matter how good they look in lace shorts. I sure as hell don't find the need to trace freckles with the tip of my tongue.

The fuck.

My eyes snag on her again when she shifts in her chair, tucking one leg under her, and the movement makes her tank top ride up just enough to show a strip of pale skin above her waistband. My cock reacts immediately, getting hard enough that I have to adjust my position behind the bar. Jesus Christ. So now I can't trust my own body?

<<<<1 2 3 11 >18

Advertisement
The Fake Husband – Steamy Shorts Read Online Lena Little http://www.booksnovels.com/the-fake-husband-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Tue, 16 Jun 2026 12:46:15 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/the-fake-husband-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 17792 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 89(@200wpm)___ 71(@250wpm)___ 59(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 >19

Nadine
When my limp-wrist Ex invites me to his wedding — to the woman he cheated on me with
— I do what any self-respecting woman in my position would do.
I lie — and say I’m bringing my husband.
The small, no-big-deal problem is —
I don’t have a husband.
Enter the solution to my problem. River.
My best friend’s twin brother, who’s supposedly off-limits.
It’s just two days of pretending, anyway.
~ turn-up, celebrate, piece of cake, done ~
Should be easy, right?
Wrong.
Because — here’s the thing.
I’ve had a huge crush on River from the moment I met him, so acting like I’m not affected by the kissing and touching would require superhuman effort.
And my self-preservation has the strength of wet cardboard when it comes to him.
By the time River and I destroy my ex at his own wedding,
I realize the biggest lie isn’t the fake marriage.
It’s pretending
I don’t desperately
want to make it
real ~

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

NADINE

Idon't really hate my ex, but if there's only one thing I can say about him, it's that he lights up every room he leaves. Every day I don't see him is a good day.

Today is not one of those.

Derek Myers has many skills, and one of them—possibly his finest—is the ability to make a Tuesday afternoon feel like the longest hour ever. He appears at my cubicle at 4:47 PM, because God forbid I leave the office on time.

He has a cream-colored envelope in one hand, setting it on my desk with two fingers, and I already start thinking whether a swipe of wet wipes and some alcohol sprays are enough to disinfect his presence.

Priyanka, from two desks over, performs the most unconvincing fake-typing I have ever witnessed in my life. Who types that quickly while casting us a sideways look? She is not subtle. She is not trying to be subtle. I can feel the attention radiating off her like heat, and it makes me want to laugh.

Alec, across the floor, doesn't even bother pretending. He even rests his chin over his interlaced fingers and cocks an eyebrow at me. He might as well be eating popcorn.

"Hey, Nadie."

God, he knows I hate being called that. "Hi."

"So, an invitation to the wedding. I'm inviting everyone, but I thought you deserved a personal invitation from me."

I almost roll my eyes so hard, I can see my brain. "Oh, really? Am I supposed to weep in gratitude at your feet?"

Derek can't be fazed, though. He pastes on that patronizing smile I know so well. "This isn't going to break your heart, right? Watching me marry someone else?" He pretends to say it quietly, but it's loud enough for both Priyanka and Alec to catch every word. "I know you were hoping it would be you."

The fury arrives clean and absolute even as I refuse to take the bait. Not sudden, not surprising, just the familiar weight of Derek being Derek, which is to say, he's his usual asshole self.

I do not show it. I've been not-showing things to Derek forever, even during the six months when we were together, and I am very, very good at it.

The smile never drops from his face because this is important to him. His cruelty is always delivered warm, so whatever happens, it's never on him. It's just me overreacting again. It's me reading too much into things.

See, when he's not being an asshole, Derek is a professional gaslighter.

An absolute jackpot, this guy.

"Congratulations," I say, and my voice comes out exactly the way I need it to—polite, professional, completely unaffected. Two can play this game.

"You're bringing someone?"

I don't stop to think for even two seconds. All I know is I want to smack that smug look on his face, and since physical assault is very much frowned upon by HR, I do the next best thing—give him a mental punch. "Of course. My husband."

The words land in the air between us—mine, in my voice, undeniably out of my mouth—and there's a beat while both of us process what just happened.

Oh God, did I just say…?

Derek's smile goes fractionally uncertain, just for a moment. It's microscopic, but I catch it, the tiny shift in his expression that says he's caught off guard. That right there is the best thing that's happened to me all week.

I hold onto it with both hands while the rest of me registers the scope of what I've done.

"Your ... husband," he says, testing the word like it might be defective.

"Hm-mm!"

"Well." The smile clicks back into place. "Congratulations on that too … even if this is the first time I'm hearing it."

"Maybe because it's none of your business?"

"Hmm. See you and your, ah, husband, at the wedding then."

I watch him walk to the elevator and sit with the envelope on my desk for exactly ten seconds.

Then I shut down my computer, pick up my bag, and leave, because I am going to Rachel's and I am going right now.

In my car, I open the envelope.

The invitation is white and gold. Serif font. Derek Myers and Alice Allison. The resort name sits at the top—some Mexican beach property whose website I will absolutely not be looking at later tonight, except I probably will, at 2 AM when I can't sleep and my brain decides to run a highlight reel of every mistake I've made in the past year.

Alice Allison.

Yes, that is her name, and no, I do not want to comment on the alliteration.

She's the assistant head of marketing, working just outside Derek's office. The woman he told me not to worry about … even as they worked the whole night, just the two of them.

Oh God.

I told Derek I have a husband.

I do not have a husband.

I do not even have a boyfriend at the moment. For months now, but who's counting?

<<<<1 2 3 11 >19

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The Fake Date – Steamy Shorts Read Online Lena Little http://www.booksnovels.com/the-fake-date-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Thu, 23 Apr 2026 22:37:58 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/the-fake-date-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 19643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 79(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >22

She needs a fake boyfriend.
He needs a second chance.
Neither of them saw THIS coming.
_______________________________________

ELIAS
Elise Walters has no idea I’ve been obsessed with her for ten years.
The quiet girl who tutored me in senior year.
The one whose horror stories I collected like a fu**ing creep.
The one I never had the balls to ask out.
When she walks into my game with my best friend, James, I can barely keep my shit together. She’s stunning and completely unaware I exist beyond “that basketball guy from high school.”
Then I hear her desperately asking James to fake-date her for our reunion.
Apparently, the mean girl who made her life hell is still at it, and Elise needs backup.
With zero hesitation, I offer myself instead.
She thinks I’m doing her a favor.
She thinks this is all about her plan.
Her revenge. Her backup.
But…
She has no clue I’d use any excuse to get close to her again.
Her plan is simple: we show up together, make everyone jealous, then go our separate ways. But I’ve wanted this woman for a decade.
Now that the universe has given me a second chance, there’s no way in hell I’m letting her go.
Fake dating?
Not a fu**ing chance.

__________________________________________
🔥 Elise needs a plan.
Elias provides the cover—
—and maybe, a forever.🔥
__________________________________________
The FAKE DATE is a Lena Little Steamy Shorts novella.
A steamy, fake date, second chance, friends-to-lovers, contemporary romance.
With a shy barista wanna-be horror writer, a pro athlete: + Mean Girls!
No OM/OW. Sweet HEA. Stanalone read. No cliffhangers!

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

ELISE

Must be nice being right all the time, Mia. You insufferable oaf.

"Did you want oat milk or almond?" I fight to keep my voice steady as I tamp down espresso grounds because if I don't keep my hands busy, I might just reach over and yank her hair.

"Oh, Elise!" Mia's perfectly glossy lips curve into what a casual observer might mistake for a smile. "I told you ten years ago you wouldn't amount to anything, and look, you're still making coffee."

My hand freezes on the portafilter, its hot metal rim burning my palm. I don't pull away. The pain keeps me from saying what I want to say, which would probably get me fired from my sister's coffee shop.

"I mean, we all have different journeys." Mia's voice drips with honey-coated condescension as she aims her phone at me, panning slowly across the cafe. I see the little red recording light and know I'm being immortalized in her Instagram story. Just my luck. "Some of us just take longer to find success. Dreams take time, right?"

The espresso machine hisses, matching the sound building in my throat. I want to tell her to fuck off, to stop filming me, to go back to whatever pilates-keto-bullshit influencer collab brought her to this side of town. Instead, I silently prepare her drink, focusing on the swirl of milk, and keeping my emotions in check.

"Oh! Before I forget." She slides a cream-colored envelope across the counter. "Ten-year reunion at James Khan's hotel downtown. You should come—might be good networking. Everyone's path is different." She pauses, her perfectly manicured nail tapping the envelope. "You are coming, right?"

I nod. Just once.

"Great!" She takes her latte without thanking me. "Can't wait to catch up more."

The bell above the door chimes as she leaves, her departure sucking all the oxygen from the room.

I stare at the envelope, coffee grounds still stuck to my fingers. Jane emerges from the back room the moment the door closes.

She wipes her hands on her apron, frowning. "Was that who I think it was?"

"Yep." I pop the 'p' sound, a habit when I'm trying not to scream. "Queen Bee-atch herself."

"What did she want?"

I hold up the reunion invitation. "To remind me I'm a failure."

"Elise—"

"It's fine." I am so not ready for the pep talk. "She's right anyway."

Like, seriously, right?

The email is still open on my phone upstairs. Rejection number seventeen. This literary agent didn't even bother with personalized feedback—just a template that says, in summary: "You are not as talented as you think you are." Five years of writing my horror novel, re-writing, editing, sending out queries, getting nowhere.

The only monster in my story is the publishing industry.

Ugh!

Jane watches me with the careful expression she's perfected since I quit my job at the online news outlet and moved into the studio apartment above her coffee shop. She offered me this barista position as a lifeline while I 'figure things out'. That was eighteen months ago, and I am nowhere close to reaching my dreams now than I was then. Still figuring.

"We're low on beans," I say, desperate to change the subject. "I'll do inventory after the rush."

My sister nods, but her eyes say everything she doesn't.

You're better than this. You deserve more. Don't let Mia Snow get to you.

I'm terrible at taking advice, even the silent kind, so I do what I do best—ignore it all.

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >22

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The Bodyguard – Steamy Shorts Read Online Lena Little http://www.booksnovels.com/the-bodyguard-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Fri, 03 Apr 2026 23:11:00 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/the-bodyguard-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 17631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 88(@200wpm)___ 71(@250wpm)___ 59(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 >19

Closer than bodyguard and client.
Hotter than professional.

Cole
I’ve protected everyone from presidents to princesses to celebrities to people who
actually have a price on their head.

None of them made me want to break my own rules.
Then my brother drops a folder on my desk. Personal protection for a millionaire’s
daughter, twenty-four-seven.
I haven’t taken a client personally in years, so I initially think of passing it to someone
else.
But I see her photo, and I’m fu**ed.

Meredith Ashton is everything I shouldn’t want.
Rich, beautiful, and so far out of my league we’re not even playing the same sport.

My job is supposed to be simple.
1. Keep her safe
2. Keep my hands to myself.
I fail spectacularly at the second part.

Two years of wanting her, of pretending not to notice her beauty and delicious curves,
of cold showers and iron control.

As a bodyguard and co-owner of a security firm, I’ve built my career on control.

Meredith destroys it in five seconds.

She doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into, but she will.
And by then, it will be too late.
Far too late for her to run.
______________________________________________________
🔥 Two years of restraint.
One moment of surrender.
Everything changes. 🔥
______________________________________________________
The BODYGUARD is a Lena Little Steamy Short romance novella.
A steamy, opposites-attract, forced-proximity, obsessive, alpha, they-fall-together, instalove, workplace, protective romance.No OM/OW. Sweet HEA. Stanalone read. No cliffhangers!

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

MEREDITH

The business kills Dad first, then comes for me.

Days after his heart gives out at his desk, I'm sitting in an attorney's office while the vultures circle—my father's empire now a corpse they're eager to strip.

I never wanted this. Never will. Not in a million years.

"...and to my daughter, Meredith Claire Ashton, I leave the entirety of Ashton Collective, including all subsidiaries, properties, and assets, to be managed at her sole discretion..."

Gerald's voice fades to white noise as the room tilts. Eight hundred million dollars. Fifteen thousand employees. Twenty-seven luxury brands across nine countries. All of it mine.

I grip the armrests of my chair, the leather cool beneath my sweating palms. Gerald drones on about transfer procedures and signing authorities, but I can't focus. Instead, I count breaths. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. The technique Cole taught me when panic threatens.

Cole. He stands three feet behind my chair like always. I know because I've measured the distance a hundred times in my mind. Close enough to reach me in seconds if needed, far enough to give the illusion of privacy. I don't need to turn to know he's there, a solid wall of muscle and safety. His presence ripples through the air like heat off asphalt.

The scent of mahogany and leather fills the room, expensive and suffocating. Underneath lingers the phantom smell of lilies from yesterday's funeral—cloying sweetness that turned my stomach. I'll never be able to tolerate lilies again.

"...contingent upon quarterly reviews for the first fiscal year..." Gerald continues, but I'm stuck on the question pounding through my head.

Why would Dad do this to me?

He never pressured me to follow in his footsteps. Never insisted I join the family business. "Be happy," he told me when I graduated college. "That's all I want for you." When I decided to get my MBA anyway, he seemed pleased but not triumphant. When I asked to work in Special Projects rather than executive training, he agreed without argument.

For three years, I've been learning the business from the ground up—analyzing acquisitions, reviewing financials, sitting in on strategy sessions. But always in the background, never leading, never deciding. Never once mentioning that one day, all of it would be mine.

"Ms. Ashton?" Gerald's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Do you have questions about the terms?"

All eyes turn to me—Aunt Patricia with her perfectly coiffed hair and narrowed gaze, Uncle Charles with his poorly concealed resentment, cousin Trevor with his perpetual smirk. I hate them all so freaking much. They weren't there much for Dad unless they needed something, but now they don't even make it a secret how disappointed they are.

I clear my throat. "No questions at this time."

Gerald nods, closing the folder with a soft thump. "Well, that concludes our business today. I'll have my associate prepare the documents for transfer of ownership."

The room empties of attorneys, leaving me alone with my father's family. The silence stretches taut until Aunt Patricia breaks it, her diamond bracelets clinking as she leans forward.

"Well, darling," she says, voice honey-sweet and just as sticky, "this is certainly a surprise."

Uncle Charles snorts. "Shock is more like it. Robert never mentioned making such a drastic decision."

"The board won't stand for it," Trevor adds, examining his manicured nails. "No offense, Merry."

"Exactly." Aunt Patricia nods. "The board meeting is in one week. They'll question your ability to lead. You have no experience running a company this size."

"I've been working in the business for three years," I tell them, wishing so badly they would just go away.

Uncle Charles laughs. "Special Projects isn't leadership, Merry girl. You've never led a board meeting. Never closed a major deal."

"That's why we need to move quickly," Aunt Patricia says, leaning closer, and it takes every effort not to push her away. "You need to appear stable. The board needs to see you with a strong partner, someone who understands business, someone with the right connections."

My stomach drops. "Wait, what? What are you suggesting?"

"Brian Percy." She smiles, triumph already gleaming in her eyes. "His father's media empire would make an excellent partnership with Ashton Collective."

Oh God. Brian Percy.

The bane of my existence throughout high school. With his Italian loafers, custom-made suits, and a face you forget a second after meeting him.

I remember him bragging about taking a day trip to Paris just for a haircut. For someone who's old money, he sure doesn't act like one. He is the very definition of vanity, and being in the same room as him is like listening to nails on a chalkboard.

To say that I can't stand the guy is a major understatement.

I barely have my thoughts together when Uncle Charles says, "Exactly. We need to move quickly before the board loses confidence. Announcing an engagement would stabilize the situation."

"Engagement?" The word sticks in my throat. Yikes, what the? "I can't get engaged right now, least of all to Brian."

<<<<1 2 3 11 >19

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The Fake Boyfriend – Steamy Shorts Read Online Lena Little http://www.booksnovels.com/the-fake-boyfriend-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Fri, 03 Apr 2026 23:09:48 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/the-fake-boyfriend-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >22

Adrian
I have a problem.
Her name is Emmy Blake, and she’s about to lose a multimillion-dollar inheritance
because she’s chronically single.
As her grandmother’s estate attorney, I should remain professional.
Detached.
But Violet, her deceased grandmother, asked me to look after Emmy. And I promised.
So when that ridiculous Will clause requires Emmy to prove she’s in a committed
relationship within thirty days, I do the only logical thing.
I offer to be her fake boyfriend.
It’s a perfect solution.
I need to prove a better work-life balance to make managing partner.
She needs to satisfy the will’s terms to inherit millions.
Sixty days of strategic dates, then a clean break. End of…
Simple.
Except…Nothing about Emmy is simple.
She gets under my skin and makes me feel things I have no business feeling.
I know I’m in serious trouble, and I’m starting to suspect her manipulative grandmother
planned this all along

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

EMMY

I'd rather be anywhere but here.

I sit rigid in the conference room chair, eyes fixed on the brooch pinned to my cardigan—Violet's vintage Chanel, gold and art deco with a single pearl accent. The metal warms against my skin, a talisman keeping me from shattering. Three weeks since the funeral, and this—this formal reading—makes her death legally final.

I hate it so much.

My throat tightens. The space behind my eyes burns. I press my thumb against the brooch's edge, focusing on the slight discomfort rather than the hollow ache in my chest.

Everything about Morrison & Hale screams cold. The conference table—glass and chrome, wiped spotless. Leather chairs that probably get replaced every few months. Abstract art on the walls, all sharp angles and muted colors. Those pieces most likely cost north of five million, and let's be honest, I can do a much better job with my eyes closed. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city like a postcard, steel and glass stretching into the gray sky.

Nothing like Violet's library, with its worn Queen Anne chairs and stained glass, books stacked in perfect disarray, scents of paper and lemon polish and time. It was my grandmother's pride and joy.

My mother, Victoria, sits beside me, spine straight, ankles crossed, face arranged in practiced grief—though her eyes dart occasionally to the papers across the table, already calculating figures.

Marcus, my brother, squeezes my hand when I touch the brooch again. My anchor in the storm.

Meanwhile, Adrian Hale sits across from us, organizing documents with maddening precision. I notice his hands first—long fingers aligning papers, checking page numbers, no wedding ring. The charcoal suit fits his broad shoulders to a tee, a crisp white shirt contrasting his olive skin. His jaw could cut glass, his dark hair expertly styled, and when he glances up, those gray-blue eyes scan us with detachment before returning to his papers.

Of course, he's unfairly attractive. Smart and successful and looks like that.

The universe has a cruel sense of humor.

At least he has the personality of a dried coconut husk, I think. He probably doesn't even laugh or smile because he thinks those things are beneath him.

Don't look at his hands again. That's twice now. Stop it.

I focus instead on hating his perfectionism—the way he squares the documents at perfect right angles, the almost imperceptible adjustment of his silver cufflinks.

This is our fourth meeting. Three times were during probate, with each interaction more antagonistic than the last. He embodies everything I despise: corporate, emotionally locked, conventional. I represent everything that probably irritates him: chaotic, emotional, creative.

Whatever. It's not like I'm marrying the guy.

"In the matter of the Last Will and Testament of Violet Hartford Blake..."

Adrian's voice fills the room—deep, measured, professional. I really hate how his baritone feels like a caress on my skin. Of all the inappropriate places to notice. In my defense, I already noticed these things the first time I saw him. With every meeting, however, he only becomes harder and harder to ignore.

Stop listening to HOW he talks. Listen to WHAT he's saying.

I wonder if he ever sounds different, relaxed, warm—but I instantly shut that thought down.

"To the following literacy charities, I bequeath the sum of five hundred thousand dollars, to be divided equally..."

Adrian continues reading standard bequests.

My fingers twist Violet's brooch as impatience builds with each bequest. I want this over with.

Victoria shifts beside me, checking her watch. Marcus's thumb rubs my knuckles in silent comfort. Adrian turns a page, the paper crisp in the silence. I count ceiling tiles—sixteen visible from my chair.

"To my beloved granddaughter, Emerson Blake..."

I sit straighter, hands stilling in my lap. Adrian's voice continues, steady and controlled.

"...I leave my estate, including the Victorian mansion, five acres of surrounding property, and the entire contents therein, most notably my library collection comprising over fifty thousand volumes."

Adrian looks up. "The library includes first editions of Jane Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice' from 1813, F. Scott Fitzgerald's 'The Great Gatsby' from 1925, Ernest Hemingway's 'The Sun Also Rises' from 1926, and Charles Dickens' 'A Tale of Two Cities' from 1859, among others. The estate has been appraised at eight million dollars, with the library collection valued at approximately twelve million."

Relief floods through me—the tightness in my chest loosens, my breath releases. The library. MY library. My sanctuary. My heart.

It's mine and all the memories it holds. God, yes.

I'm already imagining curling up in the window seat, surrounded by—Adrian's voice shifts. Something in his tone makes me look up sharply. He seems almost ... apologetic? Careful?

"Provided..."

Wait, he's not done?

"Provided that Emerson is in a committed, loving relationship at the time of inheritance. She must present her significant other to my attorney, Adrian Hale, for verification of the relationship's authenticity. Mr. Hale will assess the genuineness of said relationship through observation and questioning. If Emerson is not in such a relationship, or if Mr. Hale determines the relationship to be fraudulent, the entire estate and its contents shall be sold, with all proceeds donated to literacy charities."

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >22

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Conflicted – Darker Steamy Shorts Read Online Lena Little http://www.booksnovels.com/conflicted-darker-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Sat, 28 Feb 2026 17:29:12 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/conflicted-darker-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

Total pages in book: 14
Estimated words: 13384 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 67(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 >14

What ignites between them is wrong.

Straight up wrong—a passion born from darkness, confusion, and an attraction neither of them can control.
She doesn’t know the monster he is.
He can’t stay away from the light she carries.

⚠️ Extremely dark. Morally complex. Unapologetically steamy.

Perfect for readers who crave antiheroes, forbidden attraction, and dangerous devotion

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

RADOMIR

“No amount of begging will change this now,” I tell him, twisting the silencer onto my pistol. Malcolm is tied to the chair, his face red, tears sliding down his cheeks. Mouth opening and closing like a fish. It’s a sight I’ve seen countless times before.

“You know this is justice,” I growl. “They told me who you are. What you do.”

He starts shaking, then throws his head back as if he’s going to scream.

“I warned you about that,” I snap.

We’re in his kitchen, where I found him. Doesn’t matter to me where the job takes place. It’s a nasty, bloody business, and one room will work as well as any other. Simple. Sneak in, tackle him, tie him to the chair. Give him some final words. Final words that the Bratva ignores. Always. Then leave.

“You should’ve stayed in your lane,” I tell him, aiming the gun.

“Wait,” he murmurs, whimpering.

“Afraid I can’t do that.”

“I have a⁠—”

I pull the trigger, cutting off whatever he was about to say. Men will say anything if they think it’ll give them a few more minutes of life. Blood spatters the wall, the floor. I start untwisting the silencer, getting ready to leave.

On the shelf behind him, there’s a digital photo display. It shows Malcolm standing next to a river holding a fish. Now, it changes, that photo fading out. Another fades in.

I drop my pistol on the floor. Stumble to the shelf and stare as my heart thunders inside my chest.

The photo shows a woman with wavy brown hair. Beautiful, rich, thick, healthy hair, glittering in sunlight. Big round brown eyes and a nervous smile, like she’s ashamed of her teeth or something. Which is insane. They’re not picture-perfect, but they’ve got character.

Just like every inch of her.

She looks nervous about her black dress, too. Self-conscious, maybe. It hugs her curves. I’ve just killed a man, but my pole is twitching, threatening to respond. I close my eyes, take a breath. Open them and stare at a word. Mara.

Who is this woman? Is it his daughter?

I look closer. She’s wearing a badge in the photo. A big ’22’ pinned to one of her breasts. Never thought I’d be jealous of a badge before. I stare at the way the pin twitches the material, making it pull tightly over her big, curvy, juicy mound.

Imagine tearing down that dress and freeing those bouncy tits, sinking my killer’s hands into them. Squeezing them together, then sucking and biting her nipples until they’re erect and tingly.

Setting her on edge, just like the image of this stranger is pushing me to the edge. Stirring urges I cannot control. I turn away and glance down at Malcolm.

Just a mark with a name and an address. Nothing more.

But the Bratva didn’t tell me he had a family.

“Dad?” somebody calls from the front of the house. A high-pitched, naïve woman’s voice. Innocent, unprepared.

I grab my pistol and quickly stalk out the back door. Across the dark yard. I’ve already killed the lights. I press myself against the rear fence, watching the house.

Fuck. This is bad. I’ve never regretted a hit before.

But I’ve never watched an angel with fuck-me innocence in her eyes find her dad’s corpse before.

She switches on the kitchen light. Stands there in a set of hip-hugging jeans, devastation on her beautiful face. She stares at her father for a few long moments. Then opens her mouth in a gut-wrenching scream.

I bite down, grind my teeth. I’m certain of one thing…

I need to protect her. I can’t let anybody hurt her.

Even if I am the one she needs to be protected from. I’m the one who hurt her dad, and, well, hurt her too.

“Dad?” she screams, rushing toward the corpse.

My heart tugs. Emotions I didn’t even know I had suddenly swell. I thought I was fully savage. Way too past undomesticated to feel a damn thing. But I want to bring her into my arms, kiss her as tenderly as a man like me can. As only a man like me can.

But still, under it all, there’s something else.

When she opens her mouth to scream, her face flushes, her tears well. Her body trembles so that her curves jiggle seductively. Just a little. Just for me. Her lips, round, voluptuous, soft, inviting. Glossy.

It is too easy to imagine sliding my aching, rock-hard dick between those pouting lips. Way too easy, and way too intoxicating.

I close my eyes. Take a breath.

I’m fucked!

2

MARA

Two Weeks Later

Isit cross-legged on the guest bed, sorting through the wedding photos.

Kate says I can stay here without working. But I need to keep busy.

Before the home invasion—before I was the one who found Dad—I was trying to get my photography business off the ground. It gives me focus.

The photos shift and warp in the light. Suddenly, Dad’s there instead, a bullet hole in his head. Blood splattered on the floor and the walls. I close my eyes. Breathe slowly.

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