Annabel Joseph – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read

Annabel Joseph – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.ilovenovels.com Fri, 06 Dec 2024 20:23:13 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.9.4 http://www.ilovenovels.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png Annabel Joseph – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.ilovenovels.com 32 32 Slow Burn (Properly Spanked Legacy #4) Read Online Annabel Joseph http://www.ilovenovels.com/slow-burn-properly-spanked-legacy-4-read-online-annabel-joseph Fri, 06 Dec 2024 20:23:13 +0000 http://www.ilovenovels.com/slow-burn-properly-spanked-legacy-4-read-online-annabel-joseph Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic Authors: Annabel Joseph Series: Properly Spanked Legacy Series by Annabel Joseph
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Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)

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The Earl of Augustine is the last of his friends to hold out on marriage, though he knows he must give in soon. After years pining for his heart’s love, Felicity, he’s considered a less-than-ideal prospect, and his whispered reputation as a rakehell disciplinarian doesn’t help. At least he’s not having troubles like Wescott’s youngest sister, the mysteriously perceptive Lady Elizabeth, who’s suffered three broken engagements on her way to nuptial bliss.

Alas, such bliss is not guaranteed. August finds himself compelled to play the hero when her fourth engagement ends with spectacular cruelty before all their family and friends. Their hasty marriage of convenience solves problems for Elizabeth and August, yes, but creates problems too. For August knows he can never reveal the depth of his debauched hungers to someone so innocent and vulnerable, lest he hurt her even more than she’s already been hurt…

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

Chapter One

A Piano Lesson

Oxfordshire, 1826

Lady Elizabeth Morgaine Drake lowered her head, her gaze focused upon her gloves as the carriage pulled into the courtyard. Already, an excited flush heated her cheeks, despite the cold outside. Did her chaperone notice? She brought Larissa to her music lessons precisely because her middle-aged cousin tended to be an absent and unobservant supervisor. Elizabeth looked out the window at Lord Augustine’s stately country manor, then gathered her piano music from its place upon the cushion. She hadn’t touched it all week, by design.

The tall, heavy door opened as she approached, the somber-faced butler admitting her and Larissa with a deep bow. Elizabeth’s father was a duke; she’d grown up accustomed to such scraping and bowing, though it always seemed silly to her. Her father was the distinguished and powerful person. She was just his youngest daughter, flighty and strange, given to whimsy. Whimsy indeed, her conscience chided. These lessons have become too whimsical by half, and you to be married to the Marquess of Fortenbury at Christmas.

She shrugged off such thoughts. Why, a wife ought to improve herself, and Lord Augustine was one of the most talented musicians in London. Truly, his artistry knew no bounds. Her artistry, however…

The butler took their hats and warm, lined pelisses, and guided them through the manor’s grand foyer, past the polished, winding staircase, and into the formal parlor, where the customary setting of biscuits, cocoa, and tea were laid out for their enjoyment. “I shall inform my lord that you have arrived for your piano lesson,” said the butler, bowing again.

“We’re rather early,” said Elizabeth.

“No matter. If you wish, you may proceed to the music room to practice before the start of your lesson.”

“Thank you. That won’t be necessary.”

Larissa collected a plate of fresh biscuits as a maidservant poured tea. Elizabeth looked about the parlor, thinking what a lovely house Lord Augustine kept in the Oxfordshire countryside. St. Pierre was an old family mansion, half done up in a modern way and half left to history. Elizabeth felt ghosts here, but they were the benevolent kind, the sort that had settled in with contented resignation and had no impulse to haunt at all. The windows admitted the afternoon light, and a generous fire crackled beneath an ornate oak mantel, ensuring a perfect temperature.

“The cinnamon biscuits are my favorite,” said Larissa. “I believe they’ve just come out of the oven.”

“Lord Augustine knows how much you like them. He instructs the cook to make them for us on piano lesson days.”

Well, for Larissa. Elizabeth felt too nervous to eat, or perhaps she was too enthralled by August’s great, fine country house. Many things enthralled Elizabeth. Everything had an energy. She listened and learned from that energy and perceived more sometimes than she wished to. It took some time before she realized herself isolated in this ability. Others could not intuit the things she did.

Of Larissa, she perceived a harmless personality: goodness and a deep love for biscuits, sweetness, and comfort. Of Lord Augustine’s butler, a fervor for duty somewhat tempered by an impatience for womenfolk. Of her husband-to-be, Lord Fortenbury, she sensed deep rectitude and faith which made him seem solid. Her father called Lord Fortenbury an “upstanding gentleman,” a summation with which she agreed. He was a wealthy, lofty peer, quite handsome, and a good marriage prospect. He was certainly the best prospect she could manage at this point, with her history of broken engagements.

She’d hardly come to know the first marriage candidate, Lord Cole. He’d died in a tragic digestive accident, choking upon a fish bone shortly after their betrothal was announced. She’d very much liked her second fiancé, Lord Sylvanbrook, until he’d succumbed to a brain apoplexy in ungenteel surroundings mere days before their nuptials. She’d been very, very wrong about his suitability for marriage. Her third prospect—her third!—had died in a fall from his horse two weeks after he’d proposed to her in her father’s study. A fall, her parents said, but she learned later he’d sailed over his horse’s head and into a tree because he’d been racing with a friend.

People had wondered at that, why she had not foreseen this outcome and tried to prevent it, as if she had such specific powers of precognition. As if she might foresee that a horse would stumble! Perfect strangers ascribed all sorts of mysterious powers to her, which was utter nonsense. If she’d known Lord Greyfield might die, of course she would have tried to prevent it. Greyfield had been handsome and virile, if somewhat avaricious of her dowry. One hadn’t needed special powers to understand that. She sensed less avaricious leanings in Lord Fortenbury, which improved his stature as a fiancé.

As for Lord Augustine, she had known him so long and so well that her perception of him contained too many feelings and energies to dissect. Which was nice, in a way. Sometimes she didn’t wish for nagging observations about this or that companion. She only wished to exist with that person. Her closest friends were not readable, merely comfortable.

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Mad With Love (Properly Spanked Legacy #3) Read Online Annabel Joseph http://www.ilovenovels.com/mad-with-love-properly-spanked-legacy-3-read-online-annabel-joseph Sat, 15 Oct 2022 22:39:05 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/mad-with-love-properly-spanked-legacy-3-read-online-annabel-joseph Genre: BDSM, Erotic, Historical Fiction Authors: Annabel Joseph Series: Properly Spanked Legacy Series by Annabel Joseph
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Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)

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The Viscount Marlow’s got a reputation for wildness and wicked behavior. He’s earned the nickname “Mad Marlow” through years of determined vice, but now he’s in love with his friend’s sister, the glitteringly pure Lady Rosalind. She’s kind, polite, obedient, and well-respected—in short, everything he’ll never be. Whispered promises and a secret kiss lead to a marriage proposal, one her protective parents dismiss out of hand.

That should be the end of their provocative love affair, but instead, it’s the beginning of a journey fraught with deceit and danger, and passionate disciplinary sessions for a young woman Marlow fears he’ll never deserve…

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

Chapter One

A Rabbit Funeral

London, 1823

George Bernard, most commonly known as The Honorable Viscount Marlow, leaned against a tree in his friend’s town house garden, surveying the crowd of mourners from his vantage point near the back. At the garden’s edge, beside a small, white memorial, his friend the Marquess of Townsend delivered a eulogy for his wife’s deceased pet rabbit. A fully serious eulogy, spoken with great tenderness and not a hint of dry sarcasm.

Lord Townsend, the driest of dry at sarcasm. Lord Townsend, formerly rumored to be heartless.

This was the same Townsend who used to spank the courtesans at Pearl’s for looking at him the wrong way. Lofty, cynical, stick-up-his-arse Townsend, now lovingly eulogizing Bouncer the rabbit before dozens of guests because his wife had cared for the creature as a pet. What had come of the world? What had come of him and his friends’ raucous bachelorhoods? Why were all of them here in Townsend’s back garden paying tribute to a dead rabbit who, incidentally, had been consumed by Lady Townsend’s pet python?

He shook his head, then disguised the movement by jerking his long hair out of his eyes. He was here mourning the rabbit too in this unforeseen new existence. Reckless, dashing, you-mustn’t-marry-him Marlow was standing amongst all the others with his head bowed in respect.

To a rabbit.

Lately consumed by a snake.

He stifled a sigh and shifted his weight to his other foot. Could he leave yet? He liked both Townsend and his wife Jane very much, but if he had to withstand another moment of their cloying affection for one another at this damned rabbit funeral, he might well scale the tree he stood beside and fling himself from its highest bough.

He allowed himself to imagine, as an amusement, his own funeral following hot on the trail of this one, perhaps in this same garden for convenience. Would the ton mourn him more or less than Lady Townsend’s rabbit? Hard to say.

He was shaken from his dreaming by a half-hearted cheer offered up to Bouncer’s memory by his cousin Lord Augustine. Good old August. He could always be counted on to be artless at the most entertaining times. Now people would mingle and say what a good rabbit Bouncer had been, and eat some of the glorious repast set out for guests. They’d sit in the bright spring sun and speak of the Season’s highlights so far, the best balls, the most brilliant matches… If his mother could catch him, she would tell him which young ladies of the first water were still available, should he wish to pay his addresses.

He did not wish to pay his addresses. Ever.

Better to steal away, to seek a hiding place where he could be here but not really be here. Once everyone started mingling, this tree near the back would not be hidden enough. Even here, Rosalind, Townsend’s youngest sister, had found him. She’d caught his gaze three separate times, peering back at him from her spot near the front. Each time their eyes met he could tell she felt caught in a transgression. She’d drop her gaze and turn away, pretending to speak to her mother or her cousin.

Sweet Rosalind, his joy and agony, his flame and burn.

He wasn’t sure when he’d become aware that Rosalind loved him, whether it was before or after he’d developed feelings for her. Why did she idolize him? Who knew? Perhaps she’d been born with some predilection for men with blond hair, or his particular tall, rangy build. It wasn’t his character or anything he’d done for her. He had no redeeming qualities. Not like her.

Marlow had watched Rosalind grow from a honey-haired child to a quiet, shy teenager and now a demure young woman new on the marriage scene. He’d always felt protective of her; they all had, for she had a delicate way about her that inspired protective feelings.

But at some point, his protective instincts had reeled drunkenly sideways into something else, something she must never understand, something she wouldn’t be capable of understanding with her virginal glances and blushes. He could not admit the twisted fantasies he entertained because she was so bright, wholesome, and untouchable, and he so perverse.

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A Proper Lord’s Wife (Properly Spanked Legacy #2) Read Online Annabel Joseph http://www.ilovenovels.com/a-proper-lords-wife-properly-spanked-legacy-2-read-online-annabel-joseph Sun, 17 Jan 2021 19:49:00 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/a-proper-lords-wife-properly-spanked-legacy-2-read-online-annabel-joseph Genre: Erotic, Historical Fiction, Romance Authors: Annabel Joseph Series: Properly Spanked Legacy Series by Annabel Joseph
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Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)

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Read Online Books/Novels:	A Proper Lord's Wife (Properly Spanked Legacy #2)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	Annabel Joseph
Language:	English
Book Information:
Lord Townsend’s been skulking about France for weeks, having fled London with a broken heart. Why’d he have to lose the love of his life, the beautiful Lady Ophelia? And to his damned best friend? If he can’t have Ophelia, he’ll have vengeance. He vows retribution upon Lord Wescott and returns from France with a solid plan. A solid plan that swiftly goes awry. Lady Jane McConall is minding her business—and her small winter garden—when she learns she’s to wed the devastatingly handsome Marquess of Townsend. Goodness, who on earth would refuse? She vows to be the very best wife to this dark, mysterious man, to make him love her even though they’re little more than strangers. She doesn’t realize yet that her prospective husband nurtures a long-standing affinity for order and discipline. Nor does she realize a plot is afoot, a plot that will come undone at the worst possible time...
Books in Series:	Properly Spanked Legacy Series by Annabel Joseph
Books by Author:	Annabel Joseph

Chapter One

Revenge

December, 1822

Edward Lionel, Marquess of Townsend, strode across St. James Street feeling incredibly smug about his afternoon’s work. One day home from the continent, and he’d already engineered a satisfying act of revenge against his former friend, Lord Wescott.

It involved getting married, yes, but sometimes sacrifices were warranted.

He stopped in the doorway of his preferred gentlemen’s club, taking in the familiar scents of tobacco, smoke, and leather. Ah, it was good to be home, even if London was a cold, muddy mess in the thick of an early winter.

He handed his cloak and hat to the attendant, smoothed his dark hair, and went to the dining room in search of his closest friends, Viscount Marlow and the Earl of Augustine. He’d barely entered when the two men stood, calling his name in a boisterous fashion more suited to a boxing emporium.

“Is that Townsend I see?” Marlow said.

“Look at him, in the flesh!” Augustine strode to him, grinning. “He found his way back to London after all.”

He’d been gone so long their noisy breach of decorum didn’t bother him. He’d drifted around the French countryside for three long months, devastated that Wescott, one of his best childhood friends, had stolen the love of his life. The loss would always hurt—Lady Ophelia had been meant for him, he knew that—but at least he’d been able to pull off a satisfying counterblow.

“Come and sit, Towns,” said August, his black hair messily tousled, as customary. “Are you hungry?”

“We’re drinking more than eating,” Marlow confessed, pale blue eyes glinting beneath his famously white-blond hair. “We’ve missed you. How was the hunting in France, my friend?”

He meant women, not wildlife. “Très bon,” Townsend answered, although, in truth, he’d been too heartsick to respond to any advances that came his way.

He glanced around the half empty room. Things weren’t as busy at White’s outside the Season. Come spring, there’d be no empty tables, as married gentlemen returned from their countryside haunts. Speaking of married gentlemen… “Wescott’s not here, is he?”

“No,” said August. “But if he was, we’d have to broker a peace between you. You can’t hold that grudge forever.”

“I certainly can.” He poured himself a glass from the spiced brandy on the table. “He stole the woman I loved.”

“I don’t know that he stole her so much as saved her life in a fire,” said Marlow.

Townsend glared at him. “Even so, I can’t forgive him. You don’t know the whole story. The man is no longer my friend.”

“The two of them are happy, anyway.” August ignored his obvious anguish to deliver the cursed update. “They’re content as lovebirds, now that they’re over their rough start. He took her to Wales and everything. Taught her how to fight with swords.”

“He taught her swords?” Townsend found the idea preposterous. “She’s not strong enough to wield a sword. She’ll end up maiming herself.”

“She’s not your worry anymore,” said Marlow. “You’ve got to face that. Lady Wescott’s happily married, and you’ve got to make amends with Wescott before Christmas, anyway, so the four of us can be friends again.”

Townsend did his best to hold back a smirk. He generally tried to be a proper fellow, not the smirking sort, but his recent victory was too great not to gloat a bit. “He won’t want to be friends again when he learns what I’ve done.”

“What have you done?” Marlow and August asked at once.

“I’m going to be married,” he announced, raising his glass of brandy.

“Married?” Again, both his friends spoke in unison. They both sounded displeased and ignored his invitation to toast.

“It’s bad enough Wescott caught a leg shackle,” said Marlow. “Why are you getting married now?”

“That’s fifty percent of us, right out of commission,” grumbled Augustine.

“You’re supposed to ask me whom I’m to marry,” said Townsend.

Marlow threw up his hands. “Fine. Who are you marrying, Towns? Who’s the unfortunate innocent?”

“The Earl of Mayhew’s daughter,” he said triumphantly. “The woman Wescott was meant to marry before he lost her by ruining Ophelia’s life. Isn’t it capital?”

“The Earl of Mayhew’s daughter?” Augustine echoed. “Isn’t she—?”

“In the country right now? Yes, but I’ve spoken at length with her father. We talked about how difficult a time she’s had since Wescott jilted her.”

“But…Townsey…”

“Of course, I didn’t mention Wescott’s name when I brought it up,” he continued over his friends’ protests. “That would have been unseemly, to confront him with the whole debacle, so I went about it delicately. Her father was instantly agreeable to a contract. He said, considering her situation, that Lady Jane would be happy to wed me right now. A Christmas wedding in Berkshire! I understand it, really. Wescott left her in a terrible lurch when he dropped her in favor of Ophelia.”

“Townsend, dear fellow—” Marlow tried again to interrupt, but he held up a hand.

“I don’t want to hear any scolding,” he said in a strident voice. “If Wescott can steal my intended away, I can steal his.” His friends would never understand how deeply Ophelia’s loss had wounded him. He took a drink of brandy, savoring the heat on his tongue. “The idea came to me halfway across the Channel, and I couldn’t get home fast enough. Thank God her father was in town or I’d have had to slog all the way to Reading. I would have done it, though, to pull this off.”

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Rival Desires Read online Annabel Joseph (Properly Spanked Legacy #1) http://www.ilovenovels.com/rival-desires-1-read-online-annabel-joseph Sun, 29 Jul 2018 01:57:33 +0000 http://www.test123.demo2.xyz/rival-desires-1-read-online-annabel-joseph Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Historical Fiction, Romance Authors: Annabel Joseph Series: Properly Spanked Legacy Series by Annabel Joseph
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Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)

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Read Online Books/Novels:	Rival Desires (Properly Spanked Legacy #1)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	Annabel Joseph
Language:	English
Book Information:
Lady Ophelia’s voice is so lovely, so incomparable, she’s permitted to break convention and appear on the London stage. The young ingenue has more admirers than she realizes, but after long years cloistered at a Viennese music school, she has no idea how society’s games of courtship and seduction are played. The Marquess of Wescott is prone to bucking convention too—not always in a good way. He and his friends are frequent subjects of gossip for their rakish behavior, like their regular forays to Pearl’s Emporium, where lovers of discipline explore risqué fantasies in secret rooms. Wescott and Ophelia’s fates collide on a dry autumn night, when a fast-moving fire strands them together on the outskirts of London. As the sun rises, they learn convention can only be stretched so far. They’re obliged to wed in a quick, quiet ceremony, and embark upon married life as little more than strangers. From the start, their dueling personalities tangle into knots of frustration and regret. But marriage is marriage, and they must learn to live with one another. Lord Wescott tries to bring his wife into line using the disciplinary tactics he’s honed over the years, but Ophelia’s not so easily tamed. She’s a stubborn soul, determined to resist her husband at every turn. Life is not an opera, and love is not easy. For Wescott and Ophelia, the battle has only begun…
Books in Series:	Properly Spanked Legacy Series by Annabel Joseph
Books by Author:	Annabel Joseph Books

Chapter One

A Fire

London, 1822

The Marquess of Wescott leaned away before his victim’s fuchsia-pink slipper could connect with his forehead. It caught the edge of his gold-blond hair instead, which had long since straggled free of its velvet tie.

“Don’t be naughty, Ellie,” he scolded, delivering a few more spanks to the quivering backside balanced upon his lap. “If you can’t behave yourself, I’ll have to tie you up.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t be so cruel, sir,” she cooed, twisting herself upright until she managed to straddle his thighs. She tugged one of his wavy locks, not at all intimidated by his stare.

“I think we both know I can be considerably crueler.” He taunted the buxom courtesan with a hard twist of her nipples, reveling in her pain-filled moan.

Across the room, his friend Viscount Marlow tightened his fingers in Berta’s hair, urging her to take his cock deeper in her humming throat. She wiggled her ample arse while she serviced him, showing off the cane welts he’d made minutes earlier.

“If only Lord Townsend was here, my sweet,” he said, thrusting between her lips. “He’d have been pleased to add a few more stripes to your bottom while you suck me off.”

“Ooh.” She paused long enough to simper with theatrical alarm. “He’d bugger me too, wouldn’t he, milord? Right up my sore arse, hard and rough like?”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Marlow pushed back his riotous, white-blond hair and favored her with a grin. “And Towns would love to do it. Too bad he’s off pining over someone.”

“Pining over who? Some society lady?” Ellie sniffed. “Such a faithless customer. He hasn’t been here in weeks.”

“Tedious, to be in love, and miss out on such glorious perversions,” said Wescott, arranging Ellie back over his lap.

“More tedious still to be in love with someone he can’t tell us about,” said August from the silk-draped bed. The dark-haired man was more formally known as the Earl of Augustine, but he didn’t look very formal now as he stroked his rigid cock, waiting his turn. “I bet he’s burning for Lady Pissy Pot.”

“Good God, not her.” Wescott spanked Ellie’s cheeks for emphasis, then pointed at his friend. “And it’s Lady Priscilla Pott to you, you perverse bull calf. She’s got money and class, even if she hasn’t the best temper. You wish you had half a chance at courting her.”

“I wish no such thing. Unlike you, I don’t have anyone on the hook, and I prefer it that way.”

Wescott rolled his eyes. Everyone in the ton knew he was all but betrothed to the beautiful Lady June, not that he wished to think about that now, with a famously lewd courtesan draped across his lap.

“If you ask me, Miss Priss would be perfect for Towns, with his love of proprieties,” said Marlow. “As for me, all I want is right here.” He fondled Berta’s full, round arse, then bent her over a chair for more caning. The lass danced and whined at each stroke, but also arched her back with the grace of a quality professional.

No, talk of engagements and marriages didn’t belong in high-class brothels like Pearl’s Erotic Emporium, where duties fell away and fantasy reigned. Townsend’s secret sweetheart might cut into his randy activities, breaking up their foursome for a while, but there was still plenty of fun to be had. Wescott sent Ellie over to tend to August’s waiting erection and settled in to watch Marlow flick a cane against Berta’s reddening arse. Why did he enjoy the frantic struggling and crying of women? Why did he enjoy punishing them, and watching them go wild?

And what would happen once he won the hand of Lady June, and settled down into a society marriage? All his life, women had thrown themselves at him with lusty abandon, earning him a reputation as a rake. His handsome features, combined with his bold height and stature, had been more a curse than blessing. His parents, the Duke and Duchess of Arlington, hoped a marriage would improve his reputation, but life would be dull without forays to the brothel.

At Marlow’s invitation, Wescott gave Berta a few stripes of his own, flicking the cane mercilessly against her already tender cheeks. She gave a tormented squeal at each stroke, her feigned agony rousing him to full staff for the third time that night.

“Go on and take her cunny, you horny bastard,” Marlow offered. “I’ll have her mouth.”

Wescott shoved into the courtesan’s soaked quim, fucking her steadily enough that she could still fellate his friend, but firmly enough to elicit some ball-tightening groans. Meanwhile, August alternated between spanking and diddling Ellie on the bed, until her giggles and cries rose to moans of ecstasy.

Suddenly, a gruff male voice interrupted them, and a fist pounded on the door. Charlie, one of the house bruisers from downstairs, shouldered it open and entered, gasping for breath.

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Torment Me Read Online Annabel Joseph (Rough Love #1) http://www.ilovenovels.com/torment-me-1-read-online-annabel-joseph Sun, 21 Aug 2016 13:57:33 +0000 http://www.test123.demo2.xyz/torment-me-1-read-online-annabel-joseph Genre: Alpha Male, Bad Boy, BDSM, Dark, Erotic, Romance Authors: Annabel Joseph Series: Rough Love Series by Annabel Joseph
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Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)

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Read Online Books/Novels:	Torment Me (Rough Love #1)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	Annabel Joseph
Language:	English
ISBN/ ASIN:	B015WXYNES
Book Information:
Chere isn’t happy with her life as a high-class escort, but she can’t seem to find the motivation to change. Then she takes on a mysterious new client who won’t share his name, or even allow her to see what he looks like. Their first session is a headlong tumble into tantalizing sensation and fearsome control that leaves Chere picking up emotional pieces she didn’t know she had. “W” is roughly seductive, and dominant to the core. His demands shock her as much as they turn her on, and soon the line between bad choices and emotional fulfillment becomes alarmingly blurred… Note: This book is super rough. There’s love, but it’s rough. Hence, Rough Love series. This full-length novel is book one of a three-part storyline that culminates in Happily Ever After. But, full disclosure, it’s going to be a rough ride.
Books in Series:	Rough Love Series by Annabel Joseph
Books by Author:	Annabel Joseph Books

The Introductory Session

There are a lot of fucking weirdos in the world. I know because some of them are my clients. Something about money and privilege turns men into perverts, and you don’t want to expose the wife to those unseemly urges. Not when you can hire a high-class call girl and meet her in an upscale hotel.

It was the W Hotel today, near Union Square. I crossed to the elevators and checked Henry’s email again. New client, two hours. Super asshole about privacy. Put on the blindfold before you knock on the door.

I slid a hand into my designer bag, past condoms and sex toys, to locate the black eye mask the client had provided. It couldn’t be a pink, fuzzy, soft blindfold, or one of those cucumber-scented spa things. No, it was heavy black leather with a buckle in the back. Like I said, fucking weirdos. Here’s some news for the privacy assholes of the world: We escorts are as concerned about our privacy as you are. The escort-client relationship is a covenant. You don’t out me, I don’t out you. Let’s keep things pleasant and professional. I know how much you’re paying. To the best of my ability, I’ll treat you well.

I stopped outside a corner room on the eighth floor and double-checked the number. My stomach jumped a little. You never knew what you were going to get with new clients. Henry checked them out pretty thoroughly, but still, you never knew. Money and respectability didn’t mean you weren’t going to death-choke a whore on the eighth floor of the W Hotel.

I’d had pretty good luck the last ten years, so it wasn’t that hard to pull out the blindfold—okay, let’s be honest, leather fetish mask—and strap the thing onto my eyes. Maybe he was really that concerned about privacy. Maybe he had some kinky games in mind, which might be fun. Maybe he was butt ugly. There was no way for me to find out. I couldn’t see a damn thing.

I knocked on the door and hoped he answered before someone came strolling down the hall. What would they think of me in my pale pink, skintight, high-class-whore business suit and stilettos, with the black blindfold strapped onto my head? They’d probably think, pfft, New York, and go about their business.

I heard the lock click and I felt very, very nervous, since I couldn’t tell if or when the door opened, or who might be standing there to guide me inside. I jumped when the client took my arm.

“Miss Kitty, I presume?” His voice was deep and lacking inflection, or maybe I was just lacking the vision to see his expression.

“Meow,” I said, flirting into the darkness. “That’s me.”

Miss Kitty. Sweet, petite, sensuously feline, but not in a pet-play kind of way. Unless the client was into it. I had long, white-blonde hair (fake, so fake) which I straightened to a bouncy shine twice a week. Unlike my hair, my size D boobs and curvy body were all natural. I was a friendly, pretty, brown-eyed, bleach-blonde kitty, ready to crawl into your lap and blow your mind.

The faceless stranger pulled me into the room and collected my wrists behind me in a rough, strong grip. “I’m not going to call you Miss Kitty. What’s your real name?”

And my real name—Chere—came spitting out of my mouth. I can’t say why, except that his forceful grip compelled me to reveal it.

“Chere?” he repeated, like a taunt. He was cinching my hands behind my back with, oh my fucking God, zip ties. I could hear the susurrating sound of the tiny tabs and feel the unforgiving plastic. Jesus. Zip ties. So murder-y.

“Since this is an introductory session, we should talk for a minute before we go any further,” I said in a firm voice.

“Oh, I think I’m going to run this rodeo, especially considering what I’m paying to have this ‘introductory session’ with you.”

Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Just because his voice was deep and harsh, just because he felt big and muscular, just because I couldn’t see a thing, just because my hands were zip-tied behind my back...it didn’t mean I was turning my last trick.

“Don’t struggle, or those ties will hurt your wrists,” he said. He picked me up and deposited me in a chair, one of those slick, padded, modern chairs they had at all the W hotels. I usually liked being manhandled, but I didn’t like it as much when I couldn’t see or move my arms. The room was silent. He was still. I didn’t know if he was close to me or far away.

“Will you take off the blindfold?” I begged in my sweetest voice.

“No.” Not his sweetest voice. More like his deep, rough, mocking voice.

“Pretty please? I’m dying to see what you look like.”

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Taunt Me Read Online Annabel Joseph (Rough Love #2) http://www.ilovenovels.com/taunt-me-2-read-online-annabel-joseph Sun, 21 Aug 2016 01:57:33 +0000 http://www.test123.demo2.xyz/taunt-me-2-read-online-annabel-joseph Genre: Alpha Male, Bad Boy, BDSM, Dark, Erotic, Romance Authors: Annabel Joseph Series: Rough Love Series by Annabel Joseph
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Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)

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Read Online Books/Novels:	Taunt Me (Rough Love #2)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	Annabel Joseph
Language:	English
Book Information:
It’s been two and a half years since the mysterious W disappeared from Chere’s life, and things are getting better. Sort of. She’s nearing the end of her design program and looking forward to a new career, even if her heart is shuttered for good. But loneliness is a powerful thing, and she finds herself tempted by a no-strings-attached BDSM partner who happens to be her former professor. She knows it’s a terrible idea, and that he could never live up to W’s level of passionate mayhem, but she’s been waiting so long to be bound and hurt. She’s been waiting so long to feel something… Unbeknownst to her, someone from her past has been waiting too. And when that someone realizes she means to move forward with this new partner, he barges back into her life to express his displeasure in the only way he knows… Note: This book is super rough. There’s love, but it’s rough. Hence, Rough Love series. This full-length novel is book two of a three-part storyline that culminates in Happily Ever After. But, full disclosure, it’s going to be a rough ride.
Books in Series:	Rough Love Series by Annabel Joseph
Books by Author:	Annabel Joseph Books

I turned my head in the pulsating dark room, caught by a flash of blond and the hint of a white, tailored shirt. My heart rate accelerated as I looked past spanking benches and web racks to a cluster of clubgoers in the corner. By the time I filtered out the leather vests and silk bustiers, the white shirt was gone. A trick of the light, or that girl flitting across the room with the white collar.

It had been two and a half years, but I still thought I saw W sometimes. I’d catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, but then I’d look closer and realize he wasn’t there.

Random things reminded me of him. A dominant stance, a hint of cologne, a man’s ironic look or sneer. I stayed on the subway an extra hour once to watch this guy smile down at his device the way W used to smile down at me when he was torturing me in one of his depraved sex games. Sometimes I followed tall, muscular men down the street because they moved the way he moved or looked the way he looked. I hated myself for doing these things, because it meant I was still as weak and stupid as I’d been the first day I met him at the W Hotel.

I despised W for what he’d done to me in the course of our escort-client relationship, the way he’d humiliated me and turned me inside out, and made me love him when he’d never wanted more than a sex toy. Two months. He had fucked me up completely within the space of two months. Years later, the wounds still lingered, festering emotion and unsettled angst.

Now I watched for him at places like this, in slick, exclusive BDSM clubs in Manhattan, in hopes I might get to confront him one day. I stood on the outskirts, in all the dark corners, thinking of the things I’d tell him, the things he hadn’t let me say. I hate that you left me. I hate that you pretended to care.

The last and only time I’d heard anything from W was a little over a year ago, when I’d received my apartment deed and title in the mail. It had come from the legal offices of Klein and Dunsingbush, containing my full legal name and address, and the name and address of the conveying party. W’s real name? Of course not. The property came to me from “Taunt, Incorporated,” his dummy corporation. I remembered the poetic allusion at once, as I’m sure he meant me to:

I’d rather have the want of you

The rich, elusive taunt of you

He was an asshole. A generous asshole, but still. His taunts were all around me and he knew it. Living in his apartment was a taunt, visiting these BDSM clubs was a taunt, my memories of him were a taunt I wished I could forget. He’d left me, deserted me, knowing full well I’d never be able to get over him. Taunt, Incorporated? Fuck you very much.

Since then, there’d been no other W-related contact, which was probably for the best. I wanted my heart to be free, and I’d kept it free of other entanglements since I’d walked out of the Gramercy Park Hotel with W’s glib dismissal in my hand. Good luck, starshine, he’d written.

I repeated that to myself whenever I started to feel too much, or care too much about someone who attracted me. It had become my mantra of self-awareness. Good luck, starshine. You’re just going to get fucked again. I didn’t even want to try. Love hurt too much, and I was clearly bad at it, based on my past and the selfish, harmful jerks I’d fallen for.

Instead I prowled the kink clubs in search of W, in search of closure, as if there could ever be closure for our fucked-up thing. I’d try to resist, stay home and watch TV instead, but then I’d think, what if this is the day he shows up? What if I miss him? I was a design major, not a math major. I chose not to think about the insurmountable odds of running into one soul-destructing pervert amidst the thousands in attendance at fetish clubs in New York City on any given night.

Forget the odds of running into him in New York—a rich guy like him might play in a different city every weekend. Vegas, London, Manila, Hong Kong, Berlin, the fucking Bahamas... By the time you added up those odds, running into him again seemed pretty impossible.

Good luck, starshine.

Ugh.

I watched a nearby couple whispering to each other, a thin, blond submissive male and his bear of a Dominant. The sub wore a black leather harness that accentuated cut muscles while simultaneously making him seem lithe and petite. Directly across from me, a woman moaned under her Domme’s whip. I couldn’t see anything of W in that statuesque and businesslike dominatrix. She was restrained elegance, and he was...

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Trust Me Read Online Annabel Joseph (Rough Love #3) http://www.ilovenovels.com/trust-me-3-read-online-annabel-joseph Sat, 20 Aug 2016 13:57:33 +0000 http://www.test123.demo2.xyz/trust-me-3-read-online-annabel-joseph Genre: Alpha Male, Bad Boy, BDSM, Dark, Erotic, Romance Authors: Annabel Joseph Series: Rough Love Series by Annabel Joseph
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Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)

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Read Online Books/Novels:	Trust Me (Rough Love #3)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	Annabel Joseph
Language:	English
Book Information:
It’s been three years since they first met, and Chere is finally where she wants to be: in Price’s dungeon. Well, she’s in his dungeon part of the time. The rest of the time, she’s living in his home, eating his food, sleeping in his bed, reading his books, wearing his—well, no, he won’t let her wear anything. In fact, there are a lot of things he doesn’t allow, more than she ever imagined in her torrid fantasies. Life under Price’s control is an adjustment, and sometimes a nightmare. It’s not long before she realizes she’s in way over her head… Note: This book is super rough. There’s love, but it’s rough. Hence, Rough Love series. This full-length novel is the final book in a three-part storyline that culminates in Happily Ever After. But, full disclosure, this is the roughest part of the ride.
Books in Series:	Rough Love Series by Annabel Joseph
Books by Author:	Annabel Joseph Books

Chapter One: Owned

Once upon a time, there was a lost, lonely princess, and a rough-edged prince who owned a castle with a dungeon. The dungeon was hidden away behind a secret door, but the princess knew it was there because it had become the center of their relationship. It was okay.

Mostly okay.

In fact, the princess dreamed about the dungeon as much as she dreamed about the prince. She loved and hated both of them, her dreams a peculiar mixture of happiness and dread. Sometimes the prince tormented her, whipped her or choked her while he whispered lurid threats in her ear, but sometimes he gave her poetry, real poetry he’d written only for her.

You lean over your work

Lips pursed, then moving

Whispering unintelligible words of affection

As you bring beauty to the world

I ran my fingers over the paper that lay front and center on my worktable, reading his words when I should have been working. I was the princess, even though most days I didn’t feel like it. I still persisted. I wanted happily ever after with my prince.

That was complicated too.

I folded the poem and put it in a drawer with the others, and refocused on my work, on the two gleaming silver ovals in front of me. My studio was quiet today. Sometimes I listened to an eclectic playlist as I worked with my metals and soldering irons, but today I worked in silence because I was a failure, undeserving of music.

As promised, Price had given me some money to start my jewelry business, and rented a space for me a couple floors below his office. My studio had only two rooms: a front room where I worked and stored my supplies, and a back room done up as a lounge for prospective clients, with large, comfortable chairs and a central table for setting out samples and discussing designs. So far, the only person I’d met with in there was Price. Most of the time the back room sat empty, the light from the single window moving across the carpet and chairs.

It had been a month since I set out on my new career as a boutique jewelry designer. I’d amassed a backlog of beautiful gold and silver pieces, earrings, bracelets, necklaces...but no clients. Starshine, Ltd. had received exactly one order since its inception, and that order came from Price—two bracelets with attachment points for chains, in the style of manacles. On the order form he wrote Must stand up to the frenzied pulling of a one hundred and twenty pound woman in the course of a long and grueling punishment session.

I weighed a hundred and twenty pounds. I’d failed to find my first customer by the end of August.

Yes. I was fabricating a pair of shackles for myself.

I deserved to be punished, because after three years at one of New York’s top art schools, I’d fallen way short in launching my career. I’d lamed out, full stop. I’d been more concerned with being my Master’s slave and obsessing over his poetry than bringing my jewelry designs to the world. The whole reason he’d held me at arm’s length for three years was so this wouldn’t happen.

I frowned and fitted one of the manacles around my wrist. I didn’t want them to be stark metal bonds, but works of art. I wanted these instruments of torture to be pretty and exquisitely fitted. I wanted something good to come out of this. I wanted to please the man I thought of as both my Master and soul mate, but the project was also shadowed by sadness. I wasn’t measuring up to our unspoken agreement, and he was calling me on it. I was scared about what that meant.

I clicked the clasp together and wiggled the manacle on my wrist. The fit was true. The design was pretty.

So why wasn’t I happy?

I took it off and arranged it on the table beside the other manacle with a carefully calculated distance between them, connected by a chain. It was a metaphor for us, because we were connected, but not really together. He said he loved me, but he didn’t love me yet. He didn’t trust me, or perhaps he didn’t trust himself, and earning that trust was going to be a long and complicated process on top of everything else. Clients were the last thing on my mind. My career didn’t seem that important anymore, when our relationship was in this shifting stage of vulnerability.

The door swung open. Only one person came here, and he never knocked. In the big, wide world he was P.T. Eriksen, famous architect, but when I wasn’t calling him Sir, I called him Price. He was tall and strong, with piercing blue eyes and blond hair, and bold, expressive features. At the moment, those features were deliciously intent. He locked the door behind him, then strode toward the back room, not even glancing at the manacles. He was already shrugging off his suit jacket. I jumped to my feet and followed.

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