Crystal Kaswell – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read

Crystal Kaswell – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.ilovenovels.com Wed, 20 May 2026 17:51:46 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=7.0 http://www.ilovenovels.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png Crystal Kaswell – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.ilovenovels.com 32 32 The Plus One Pact Read Online Crystal Kaswell http://www.ilovenovels.com/the-plus-one-pact-read-online-crystal-kaswell Wed, 20 May 2026 17:51:46 +0000 http://www.ilovenovels.com/the-plus-one-pact-read-online-crystal-kaswell Genre: Alpha Male Authors: Crystal Kaswell Advertisement

Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)

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Romeo Galante is living the dream. Long days by the pool, late nights with beautiful women, mornings in twenty million dollar mansions. Sure, said women pay for his company, and his family is increasingly suspicious of just how he pays his bills, but he’s happy. As soon as he finds a date for his brother’s wedding. Someone who needs exactly what he offers.

Ivy Vaughn is a fraud. The therapist turned podcaster tells tall tales about her flings with Spanish bullfighters while her nights remain dull. So when Romeo makes her a strange offer–a week of lessons in love if she plays his doting girlfriend–she agrees.

She used to playing a part. It should be easy, right?
Wrong. See, it’s one thing to fake wild stories.
It’s another to stare into Romeo’s dark eyes and whisper I adore you and not fall in love…

Pretty Woman meets Nobody Wants This is this witty, steamy romcom from USA Today bestseller Crystal Kaswell. For fans of Ali Hazlewood, Tessa Bailey, Helen Hoang, Emily Henry, Sally Thorne, Roxie Noir, Lauren Landish, and Christina Lauren

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

Chapter One

Ivy

Outside, the sun is shining. The sky is blue. The sort of blue that makes you feel at peace with the universe. Spring in the Mediterranean. Rebirth. Beauty in the world. Whatever.

But I'm not outside.

I'm inside, in a beautiful apartment in Barcelona. The sun shines through the big windows here. And it's so bright in my heart I can practically see the blue skies.

Because I'm here with a Spanish bullfighter. Naturally. It turns out Barcelona is full of Spanish men. Who would have guessed?

His apartment is in an old building, without an elevator, and the walk up the stairs is torture. We're that desperate to tear each other's clothes off.

It feels as if it takes him a million years to open the door. How can a door open this slowly. It must be the old architecture. Maybe Gaudi designed this building too. Maybe that was the only unique touch. Doors created solely to test the physical body.

Finally, he pushes the door open and whisks me inside—and against it all at once. And he whispers te quiero in my ear.

Te quiero.

Te necisisto.

Te—

I'm running out of Spanish dirty talk.

Which speaks to my own lack of learning. I've lived in Southern California for my entire life. How is it I don't speak this language? How is it I haven't at least had sex with a guy who whispered sweet nothings in Spanish in my ears?

I took three years of Spanish in high school. Surely, I can come up with something.

Dolce—

No, that's Italian. Or is it Latin? Or are they the same? Beso is kiss. Dammit. Meredith didn't write the rest of these lines.

Because that's the thing. I'm not really in Barcelona. And I'm certainly not alone with a bullfighter. I've never even been to Spain.

This story, like all my dirty stories, belongs solely to my producer Meredith.

Because I, Dr. O, host of the county-famous podcast Sex and the OC, am a liar.

Thankfully, podcasts aren't radio. We're not live. Meredith and I pause to go over the details, then we record the way we always do.

I finish the spicy story, in gritty detail. The way my body hummed when the bullfighter touched me. The feeling of my hands against his skin. The sound of his voice in my ear.

The thrill of sex with a stranger.

The silly role-play games we played. We took turns as the bull and the rider.

I'm not sure how that works, actually. The riding itself, I see that. Obviously. I can ride him. He can ride me.

But what about the flag? Did she really chase him around the room waving his t-shirt?

She must feel silly doing something like that.

Or maybe not. That's Meredith. She's an uninhibited freak (her words). I'm… a PhD. I know everything there is to know about sex and nothing about how to apply that knowledge.

But, hey, that's why I'm here, hosting a podcast, not there, in Barcelona, fucking bullfighters.

I'm good here. I'm really good here.

Finally, after we pull a few "tips and tricks" from the story, we move to my favorite part of the show. Caller questions.

I take a quick break to use the bathroom and fix a cup of tea—I need to keep my throat warm, so I don't wear out my vocal cords—then I settle into the studio.

The studio is a small space, one we rent by the day (a big upgrade from my closet), but, at this point, it feels like home. Blue walls, black egronomic chairs, fat microphones, glass walls.

Outside the "recording space," there's a big mixing board (that's where Meredith is, on a chair of her own), with a big couch, and a bunch of posters.

I feel like a rock star here. Like all my middle school dreams of singer-songwriter stardom came true. Only I'm sharing my best friend's secrets.

But that's a problem for another day. Now, it's my favorite part of the show:

Other people's problems.

I nod to Meredith, and she puts on the caller.

"Welcome to Sex and the OC. Tell me about your problem, Jane," I say. It's a little unusual, in this day and age, to actually line up callers. Most people use emails or Instagram messages or prerecorded emails. That's a lot easier, logistically speaking. But this is why we're the fastest growing sex and relationship podcast amongst women in their 20s.

This is why we're on the cusp of breaking into the mainstream.

Well, that and Meredith's special contribution.

That's the problem.

But a future problem.

"Well, uh," The caller speaks with a timid voice. One laced with a mix of shame and embarrassment. "The thing is. I can't come."

This is where I shine.

Shedding light on something most people would rather ignore.

Really, at this point, I've spouted the statistics so many times, my listeners should know them by heart. If Jane Doe (really, she gave the name Jane Doe), is a long-time listener, she should know most women struggle to come from penetration alone.

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A Match Made in Vegas Read Online Crystal Kaswell http://www.ilovenovels.com/a-match-made-in-vegas-read-online-crystal-kaswell Wed, 30 Oct 2024 13:02:40 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/a-match-made-in-vegas-read-online-crystal-kaswell Genre: Alpha Male Authors: Crystal Kaswell Advertisement

Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >103

From USA Today Bestseller Crystal Kaswell comes a steamy, witty best friend's brother romance with a twist.

After the grindstone of medical school, Daphne Webb is letting her hair down. Party in Las Vegas. Check. Blackjack and bodyshots. Check. Marrying her best friend's brother in a drunken haze. Wait, what?

Rule-loving, hard-working lawyer Jackson is used to getting what he wants. Which now includes their marriage. He isn't about to let go of his wife. So he makes Daphne a deal. If she gives their hasty decision a chance--three little weeks--he'll accept her choice to walk or stay.

Fine with Daphne. Her new husband may be handsome, intelligent, and impossibly skilled with a tie, but he's not a miracle worker. He can't convince her to settle down. Not when she's this close to achieving every one of her goals.

That's the thing. At the end of their trial run, Daphne is starting her residency in New York. It's everything she's been working for. And nothing is standing in her way. Except maybe those three little words…

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

Chapter One

Daphne

Medically speaking, masturbation is all upsides. The act strengthens the pelvic floor, reduces stress, improves libido, and releases positive neurotransmitters.

Unlike partnered sex, masturbation comes with no risk of pregnancy, STIs, or falling for unworthy men. There's no struggle to communicate needs or discuss preferences or draw boundaries.

I don't have to remind a guy to grab a condom.

I don't have to explain no, of course, I didn't come. Like most women, I need clitoral stimulation to orgasm.

I don't have to watch him wither from a simple suggestion, as if a request for more, less, harder, faster is a direct hit on his ego.

And I certainly don't have to worry if he's watched so much porn, he expects me to writhe with pleasure from all sorts of acts most women don't particularly enjoy.

It's not just men, of course. Most people don't understand basic biomechanics. As a future sex researcher, I see the breadth of the problem, and I intend to work to solve it.

In my professional life.

In my off time—

What was I saying about the benefits of masturbation? They're not just medical. They're emotional and mental too.

Sex is like anything, really. I can't count on anyone else to take care of me. I take care of myself.

Why did I ever think this would be any different?

Masturbation is the perfect solution to horniness. In theory. There's just one little, tiny issue.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I tell the issue to dissolve into my exhale. I focus on my surroundings. The low hum of the fan. The warm glow of the sun. The soft cotton sheets against my skin.

I try to stay present in the moment.

I fail.

Instead, I go straight to my happy place: Jackson Steele.

My best friend's brother. The gruff, protective, hard-working lawyer three years my senior. The guy who's been in my spank bank for so long he's worn a groove into my brain.

The oxytocin leads to self-love… and a deeper attraction.

And knowing he's off-limits?

There's a reason there's so much student-teacher porn out there. The things we see as attractive in puberty stay sexy. And taboo is always titillating.

People who claim they want an equal society without power imbalances are more likely to participate in BDSM.

People who preach family values are more likely to partner-swap.

And I, the strictly science, future medical researcher who professes sisters before misters every chance I get, fantasize about my bestie's brother.

I claim I do this for research—

No, I am doing this for research, but the deepening attraction to Jackson is both a wonderful benefit and a horrible consequence.

I pull out my lab book and jot a few notes. Day, time, setting, mood, level of attraction to Jackson.

Will taking the pressure off make it easier to see him in three hours? Or will I want him more?

Masters and Johnson didn't cover that. Kinsey either.

I have to take matters into my own, uh, hands.

But, hey, enough preamble. Time for the fun part.

I set my lab book on the bedside table, I slip under the hot pink sheets, I settle into the mattress.

It's a little too small, a little too firm, a little too obviously the bed in my childhood bedroom. The Matrix posters and the shelves of sci-fi don't help. They pull me toward stressful study sessions and crushes on guys who never looked my way.

Guys like Jackson.

And just like when I was a gawky teenager with braces, I still fail to register as an adult woman in his eyes. He still looks at me like a kid he needs to protect.

It's sweet, really. Or it would be if I didn't want to tear his clothes off.

The reality is painful.

But my fantasy?

It's perfect.

My eyes flutter closed. My world fades to a soft shade of white.

My thoughts drift to a familiar scenario.

A sleepover at my best friend's house.

It's early, so early, the sun is just peeking through the sky, casting a soft glow over the world.

I wake up in her room and slip into my swimsuit. The house is quiet. Dead quiet. It feels like I'm the only person in the universe, like the big, beautiful space belongs to me and me alone.

There's a freedom to it. A thrill. The independence of growing up and taking my own space.

I sneak to the backyard with light steps. Only I'm not alone here.

Jackson is awake too.

Despite the interruption to my solitude, I feel no disappointment. On the contrary, his presence thrills me. Fills me with the buzz of anticipation.

He's sitting on one of the lounge chairs next to the pool in his typical summer outfit, a button-up linen shirt and charcoal slacks, hands and eyes on the paperback book carefully positioned over his lap.

He looks like he walked out of a 1950s detective novel. Tall, but not too tall. Muscular, but not overly built. Handsome, but not in a conventional Chris Pine sort of way.

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The Neighbor Wager Read Online Crystal Kaswell http://www.ilovenovels.com/the-neighbor-wager-read-online-crystal-kaswell Sun, 03 Mar 2024 19:19:06 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/the-neighbor-wager-read-online-crystal-kaswell Genre: Alpha Male, Chick Lit, Contemporary Authors: Crystal Kaswell Advertisement

Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >101

The science of attraction is getting seriously tested…

Meet River. He used to be the nerd next door…only now he’s all grown up, got a sleeve of tattoos, and women seem to like him. A lot.

Even Lexi, the girl of River’s teenaged dreams, all bubbly sweetness—never noticed him. Until now.

There’s only one problem. They’re not meant for each other.

Now it’s up to Deanna, the super pragmatic, algorithm-fueled brains behind the new dating app Meetcute to make sure they realize it.
River might be certain he knows true love when he sees it, but Deanna knows differently, and the future of her company is riding on it. All she has to do is prove to him that what he’s feeling for Lexi isn’t love. Not even close.

…even if it means making him fall for Deanna, instead.

Challenge accepted.

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

Prologue

River

Ten Years Ago

Lexi Huntington is the sun, and I’m a planet in her orbit, powerless to resist her gravity.

Or is she the moon and I’m the tides?

The shore, pounded by the waves the tides create?

No. The sun. That’s the better metaphor. It fits her—she’s as bright and brilliant as the ball of fire in the sky.

I scribble the phrase in my sketchbook.

She’s the sun, and I’m a planet in her orbit.

There’s no rhythm to the words—not yet. They need shading. Shaping.

Artistic ability runs in the family, but I lack Grandma’s skill with words. Pictures are more my speed. Princesses with golden curls. Fire mages with white-blonde hair. Acrobatic monks with flaxen locks.

Of course, I draw a lot of curvy blondes. I have inspiration from the girl next door.

After I sketch the scene, I fall back onto my bed, study the glow-in-the-dark star stickers struggling to hold onto the popcorn ceiling. As with everything in Huntington Hills, our house is a bit gaudy.

Grandma curses the nineties architecture but, deep down, she loves the neighborhood. She loves the town. She loves living next door to the family who owns a third of Orange County and half the city.

Thankfully, my room is a refuge. It’s small—only a desk, a bed, a bit of floor space, and a big window overlooking our backyard and the next-door neighbor’s—but it’s mine. The white desk is covered in multicolored sketches. The bed still rocks Spider-Man sheets (under the plain red bedspread, of course). The Roy Lichtenstein posters blend perfectly with the shelves packed with graphic novels. One entire bookshelf is filled with modern classics. Another with adaptations of classic literature.

That’s sort of what I’m doing now, trying to turn my thoughts into a story, the way Grandma does. The visuals I adore—castles with grand towers, knights slaying dragons, waves crashing into cliffs—and the words she adores.

My cousin Fern and I are working on a project for Grandma’s birthday. A small graphic novel, where a butt-kicking adventurer destroys evil and finds love. It combines all of our passions.

Only, Fern is more of a reader than a writer. Which means I’m here, picking up the slack, struggling with how to write the perfect sentence.

Would the love interest say this?

She’s the sun and I’m the planet, powerless to resist her orbit…

Sure, why not?

It’s what I would say, anyway.

I rush back to my desk, pull my large sketchbook—a different one—from on top of my art textbooks, and I draw. Three panels where the love interest, an adventurer, stares at the sky, professing his love for the princess. But not to her, not yet. He’s practicing first.

The second I finish and drop my pencil, I hear it: music next door.

The Huntingtons are having a party.

That isn’t a notable event. The Huntingtons have a party every week, it seems. But I know this isn’t any old party.

This is Lexi Huntington’s Sweet Sixteen.

The Lexi Huntington’s Sweet Sixteen.

Only three days after my birthday. That’s fate. Kismet. Destiny. Whatever word you use, it means the same thing:

We belong together.

Sure, right now, the stars don’t align, but one day, they will. I have patience. I can wait for the right moment.

Tonight, I only want one thing: to offer her a gift. It is her birthday, after all. Who wouldn’t want a four-panel birthday card? I’ve been working on it for the past two weeks, making sure every line and color is perfect.

I stand, stretch, change out of my wrinkled Star Trek shirt into something more appropriate for a Huntington party: cargo pants and a short-sleeved plaid button-up. For me, this is as formal as it gets.

I can’t see what’s happening inside, but outside my window, the party is already humming. At least a dozen people gather by the Huntingtons’ enormous pool, sipping punch and admiring the fake waterfall on the other side of the backyard. And it’s quite the backyard.

The Huntington estate sprawls over half our block. Their pool is as big as our house. Their house is the size of a department store. The rest of their backyard is, well, the parking lot of a department store.

Obscene for the neighborhood, but then the city is named after their great-grandfather.

Usually, I resent the inequality of it. But it’s hard to complain about anything that keeps me this close to the sun.

For a few minutes, I study the party from above, as if locked away in a tower. The fashion, the posture, the music. Something popular on the radio. One of those girl-power pop artists Grandma loves.

Grandma…

Grandma doesn’t want me to go.

Grandma doesn’t appreciate my crush on Lexi. She thinks Lexi will end up hurting me.

But has the sun ever hurt the earth? Okay, never mind, that’s a bad metaphor. I suck at metaphors. That isn’t the point. The point is I don’t believe Lexi would ever hurt me.

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Kiss and Fake Up Read Online Crystal Kaswell http://www.ilovenovels.com/kiss-and-fake-up-read-online-crystal-kaswell Thu, 02 Nov 2023 21:55:53 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/kiss-and-fake-up-read-online-crystal-kaswell Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Forbidden Authors: Crystal Kaswell Advertisement

Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >102

He's her best friend's brother, her worst enemy, and, now, her fake boyfriend...Fresh out of rehab, Damon Webb is putting his life back together. Place to stay, check. Apologizing to his sister, check. Pretending he's in love with his sister's best friend. Wait, what?Fiery lyricist Cassie Steele wants to make beautiful music with Damon. Actual music. She needs a songwriting partner. And since her label wants a real couple, writing real love songs, she needs Damon to play her boyfriend too.Which is fine. The frenemies can kiss and make up. They both need the project, and the cash. It's not like a few smooches are going to melt the ice around her heart.Only their kisses don't feel fake. And she doesn't hate staring into his blue eyes. She likes it. She likes him.No. This is pretend. She's drawing a line in the sand. Their creative collaboration is the only thing that's real. So why are they making beautiful music without their hands on their instruments...From the Kiss and Fake Up is a standalone enemies to lovers, fake relationship, best friend's brother romance packed with sparkling banter, deep emotions, and enough heat to melt your Kindle.

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

Chapter One

Cassie

"There isn't an easy way to say this, so I'll just say it." Frederick looks me in the eyes, all sweetness and sincerity. He folds his hands on the table and speaks with a calm, even voice. "I found another lyricist for the project."

The words land with a thud.

Not only am I replaceable.

I've already been replaced.

That's why he asked me to meet at our old favorite restaurant. Not because we need to sign the final paperwork for our last song. Not because I loved the autographed photos on the clean white walls and the cozy square tables. Not even because it's near his place, our old place.

No, we're here because my ex-boyfriend knows I won't make a scene at an industry hot spot. Because, now, he can dump me as a creative partner without having to hear me scream or cry or even whisper how could you?

His dark eyes stay soft and compassionate. His face stays beautiful. It's not fair he's so handsome. A young John Legend. With the same medium brown skin, the same emotive eyes, the same kind expression.

He looks like a sweet, sensitive guy.

Whereas, with my sharp nose and my winged eyeliner, I look like an angry instigator.

Anyone who glances in our direction will see the same thing: the nice dude and the difficult dame who can't take a hint.

"It's not you, Cass." My former collaborator smiles with sincerity. "You're great."

Yes. I'm great. That's why he slept with someone else. That's why he's dumping me as a colleague. Because he so appreciates me, as a partner, a person, a songwriter.

Because I'm so fucking great.

I stare at my kale salad. The one I always order here. With orange slices and walnuts and avocado, and every other California health food cliché. We used to make fun of that together. He used to tease with love. I used to laugh as I savored the dish.

Now, it tastes like betrayal. It tastes like someone I used to be.

Okay, it still tastes like kale and citrus and rich balsamic vinegar, but the flavors mingle in too familiar a way.

I stab another leaf with my fork and shove it in my mouth so I don't have to respond. So I don't say fuck you, asshole, at least be honest.

I wouldn't like it if he said I don't enjoy working with you any longer; I don't enjoy you as a person any longer. But I would respect it.

Frederick takes a long sip of his iced tea. The one he always orders here, with the same thin lemon wedge and dark-brown hue. "It's not personal." He says it with even less conviction this time. "I just want to go in a different direction. You understand, don't you?"

It's not you, Cass. I just needed to fuck someone else. I just need to work with someone else. But not because I think any less of you.

Right.

I take a deep breath and let out a slow exhale. The restaurant is packed with the usual mix of indifferent locals and industry regulars. Two executives trade deal memos at a table in the back. An agent woos an artist on the patio. The same sunglass-wearing, leather-jacket-obsessed artist who declined to work with me a year ago.

Back when Frederick and I were lovers and partners.

No. He was already fucking her. He was already done with me. I just didn't know yet.

Still, when Mr. Sunglasses said our style didn't fit, I didn't take it personally. Not everyone works well together. Frederick and I no longer work well together. That's accurate.

I need to act as if Frederick is any other musician, as if this is no big deal.

Even in the highly volatile music industry, behind-the-scenes talent conduct themselves with grace. I can't blow a gasket. I can't tell Frederick to fuck off. I certainly can't stand up on the table and play You Oughta Know on my phone, even though it would give everyone the correct impression of what happened.

Just look at Alanis Morrisette. She writes one multi-platinum album with a few angry songs, and thirty years later, we still see her as the queen of the angry breakup song.

Once a woman is angry, that's all she is. None of her other thoughts or feelings matter.

And, yes, Jagged Little Pill is an amazing work of art, but the only thing anyone remembers is her rage. Well, her rage and her inaccurate use of irony. Because women who make mistakes don't get second chances. They're wrong for all eternity.

I take a deep breath and focus on my surroundings. The blue booths against the wall. The locals sipping iced tea and eating club sandwiches. The happy couple next to us, in matching distressed jeans and black t-shirts, whispering to each other.

Oh. They're whispering about us. Everyone can tell my ex-boyfriend is dumping me. Again. And these two lovebirds are sure they won't end up here.

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The Friend Zone Fiasco Read Online Crystal Kaswell http://www.ilovenovels.com/the-friend-zone-fiasco-read-online-crystal-kaswell Fri, 24 Mar 2023 15:26:24 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/the-friend-zone-fiasco-read-online-crystal-kaswell Genre: Contemporary, Erotic, Romance Authors: Crystal Kaswell Advertisement

Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >90

That awkward moment when your best friend asks for a cucumber based demonstration…

Dear Dare,

After all these years, you’re still my best friend. The only guy I trust. Really, who else would respond to my questions about rounding third with a cucumber based demonstration?
That’s what I need now.
Another lesson plan.
But, I want more than a vegetable this time.
I want you.
Think about it.

Love,
Val

P.S. If you’re not into the idea, please disregard this letter. We’re going to be trapped in a hotel room, in Europe, for two weeks, and I don’t want to make things weird.

From the author: The Friend Zone Fiasco is a steamy friends to lovers romance with the perfect mix of witty banter and emotional depth. Plus well developed characters, a curvy heroine with a love of learning, and the brooding best friend who is right under her nose.

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

Chapter One

DARE

Tenth Grade

"How many girls have you kissed?"

What? I ignore the Friends episode flickering on the TV and turn to Val.

She's sitting on the leather couch, right next to me, in her usual after-school outfit—glasses, jeans, loose t-shirt. She has the same dark eyes, the same curvy figure, the same don't be stupid stare.

But something else is different.

"Why?" I ask.

"We've been going out for two weeks."

Not me and Val. Of course, not me and Val. We've been best friends since my dad moved in next door. We hang on his weekends. We text on weeknights. She helps with my math homework, and I, well—

I do things like this. I give her advice on guys.

"Dare?" She taps my shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"He's going to want to kiss."

"So?"

"So!" she huffs. "I've never kissed anyone."

She hasn't? My heart thuds against my chest. But that's ridiculous. Of course, Val hasn't kissed anyone. She hasn't told me she's kissed anyone. And she tells me everything.

Doesn't she?

It's not like I send her play-by-plays of my liaisons (one of the American Lit vocab words for the week). I didn't even tell her when I punched my v-card.

It's just… weird talking about this with her.

"Will you help?" she asks.

"How?"

"How do you think?" She shoots me an are you dense look. Classic Val.

"Don't you want to kiss him first?"

"Why would I want that?" Surprise streaks over her dark eyes. To her, it's a totally absurd question.

"'Cause you like him," I say.

"And all those girls you kissed… you liked them?"

"Enough to kiss them."

"Name three," she says.

I can name thirty. That's not my point. "If you like him, you should kiss him."

"Dare!" She folds her arms. "Don't be stupid."

"You don't want to kiss the guy you're dating and I'm stupid?" I'm the type to kiss and tell. She isn't. She knows that. She knows we’re different.

"What if I do it wrong?"

"There isn't a wrong," I say.

"Oh, yeah, none of those eight million girls were bad kissers?"

"Guys don't think about that kinda stuff."

"None of them were bad kissers?" She raises a brow.

"A few." Some used too much tongue. One had epic dry mouth. And there was the one girl who used so much teeth she made me bleed.

Not that I judged. See, my other friends, the ones at my school, call me Dare 'cause "you have to dare a girl to kiss me." The a-holes think they're hilarious, so they dare girls to kiss me at every opportunity.

Of course, the joke is on them 'cause I've kissed a lot of hot girls this way.

Or maybe that's why they do it. Maybe they're the world's best wingmen.

"I don't want him to think I'm a bad kisser," she says.

"You only learn with practice."

"Exactly."

Oh.

"I need practice." She undoes the band holding her ponytail, and dark locks fall all over her face.

She looks good. Feminine. Sexy even.

But that's beyond weird. Thinking about Val as sexy? Uh-uh. No way. I don't care how ample her chest is. I'm not going there.

"Why do you want to kiss me?" I ask. We're just friends. We're always only just friends.

"I trust you."

Warmth fills my body. Val trusts me. It means something. It means everything.

She doesn't stop to reflect. She stays on her mission. "If you don't want to, I'll ask Brian."

Hell no. She's not asking my kid brother to show her how to kiss. She's not asking anyone else. "I can do it."

"Really?" Relief spreads over her expression.

"Yeah, sure." My heart thuds against my chest.

"If you don't want to—"

I don't wait for her to finish. I slide my arm around her waist; I pull her body into mine; I bring my lips to hers.

Val.

Valeria Diaz.

She tastes like mint ChapStick and Diet Coke and promise.

It isn't like kissing other girls.

It's like the fireworks on the Fourth of July. Loud and colorful and awe-inspiring.

Then she pulls back and looks at me with her usual you're a great friend smile, and the entire world rearranges.

What the fuck am I doing?

"Thanks, Dare. You're the best." She jumps to her feet. "I'm going to call him now."

"That was enough practice?"

"Do you think I need more?"

No. She's perfect. "You're a natural."

She beams.

My heart skips.

She leaves and the feeling lingers.

I ignore it. She's my best friend. She's the only person I trust. I'm not risking that. Ever.

So I force myself to forget.

Really.

Until we kiss again.

Then…

Then I do something very stupid.

Chapter Two

DARE

Today

Thirteen Days Before the Very Stupid Thing

Houston, we've landed.

My cell flashes with Val's text. My lips curl involuntarily.

After four months in Barcelona, she's home.

I miss her.

I miss her like I miss—

There's really no comparison. Val is my best friend, my partner in crime, my other half.

If I skip coffee, I crave caffeine. If I skip whiskey, I crave a buzz. But I have options: tea, soda, beer, wine, whatever.

If I miss Val?

The guys here are barely a consolation prize.

"I see a smile." From his spot at the counter, Patrick shoots me a knowing glance. A you want her in every way glance.

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >90

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The Hookup Experiment Read Online Crystal Kaswell http://www.ilovenovels.com/the-hookup-experiment-read-online-crystal-kaswell Wed, 26 Oct 2022 19:50:16 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/the-hookup-experiment-read-online-crystal-kaswell Genre: Insta-Love Authors: Crystal Kaswell Advertisement

Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >83

Psychologist in training Imogen needs a little fun. Bedroom fun. So she does what any scientific woman would do: she devises a hookup experiment.

Patrick is the perfect participant. Handsome, talented, totally ready to be used. After a tough year, the tattoo artist needs out of his head and into her… research.

The guidelines are simple. One summer. Weekly sessions. Him, helping her discover exactly what she likes.

But human subjects don't follow the rules. And her hypothesis, the one about separating sex and love? That hypothesis is dead wrong…

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

Chapter One

"The Hookup Experiment"

Posted by Hearts and Thorns

Thursday June 16, 9 P.M.

I'm horny.

There's really no other way to say it.

Sure, there are other terms (I'm fond of randy), but they all make the same point: I desire sexual satisfaction.

My hand isn't enough. My vibrator isn't enough. My fantasies of Chris Evans—

Not enough.

I know. It's beyond strange, diving into my carnal needs here. This is usually a space for messy things. But this is messy.

Sex without love?

That's a first for me.

And this is all medication induced.

My new prescription didn't just lift my depression. It left me craving contact too.

I feel my body again.

I feel awake again.

I want again.

Not love or affection.

Sex.

And I know exactly where I can find it.

Chapter Two

IMOGEN

Okay, I don't know exactly where to find satisfaction. That's a slight exaggeration. Otherwise, my online-journal entry is accurate.

It's a strange hobby, offering my secrets to strangers, but I'm completely addicted to the feeling of throwing my thoughts into the universe. It helps me let my guard down, find clarity, and keep a sense of humor.

Yes, I'm a mess, but I'm here. I'm alive. I'm ready to booty call an available man.

How exactly does that go?

It's been a long, long time since I've craved sex this way. Since I've craved sex at all. My last prescription killed my O.

This one might be worse. I'm way too aware of my need for satisfaction.

My ex-boyfriend is off the table.

An App isn't inviting.

Which leaves one excellent option: Patrick Murphy.

The very cute tattoo artist who a) put the hearts and thorns on my ribs, b) left his card with a casual "call me anytime" and c) put his hands on my skin in a way that felt both safe and sexy as sin.

Maybe it's the rush of neurotransmitters from my new tattoo. It's been eight hours and I'm still buzzing. But, for once, I don't want to question my desires.

Patrick has already seen me topless. He knows I'm flat, and he wants to sleep with me anyway. I might as well call.

I channel my roommate's confidence, find my cell, and get straight to the point.

Imogen: Hey, Patrick. This is Imogen. The rib tattoo.

He answers quickly.

Patrick: The gorgeous woman who insisted she didn't need someone to hold her hand?

Imogen: I didn't.

Patrick: I know. How's the piece holding up?

Imogen: Beautiful. Do you want to see?

Patrick: Sure.

Imogen: Here.

No. This is too coy. Men don't understand hints. I need to be more explicit.

Imogen: I need a little help with after-care. In person.

Patrick: Oh?

Imogen: If you're free.

Patrick: Now?

Imogen: Now.

Patrick: You're direct.

Imogen: Why mince words?

Patrick: It's easier, for some people.

Imogen: For you?

Patrick: Not exactly. You said you go to UCLA, right?

Imogen: I live in Brentwood.

I send the cross-streets.

Patrick: Twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes to prepare for my first tryst in over a year.

No problem.

Chapter Three

IMOGEN

Major problems.

What the hell do I wear to host a booty call? My pajamas aren't sexy. I don't own any worthy lingerie. Maybe a trench coach, with nothing under it?

But where would I get a trench coat? This is Southern California. The only people who wear trench coats here play detectives on TV.

No. This isn't for him. It's for me. What makes me feel sexy?

Dark lipstick. Winged liner. Black panties.

There. My skin flushes as I stare at my reflection. It's not that I get off on myself. More the thought of a near-stranger seeing me in only my underwear.

He knocks.

I grab the Fiona Apple shirt I wear to sleep and pull it over my head. I don't feel nearly as sexy in the baggy tee, but I'm not in danger of flashing the neighbors.

The dozen footsteps to the front door feel like a million. My heart thuds against my chest. My stomach flutters. My sex clenches.

Then I open the door and I see him and lust washes my nerves away.

Patrick Murphy is standing on my doorstep in snug jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and a leather jacket.

He's even more handsome than he was this afternoon.

He's super fucking hot.

Sandy hair, freckles, green eyes.

He's tall, but not too tall. Muscular, but not too built. Adorned in ink, but not too—

Well, how could a tattoo artist have too much ink? Really?

"Come in." I pull the door open.

"Thanks." He gives me a long, slow once-over, focusing on my bare legs and the hem of my t-shirt. "Nice place."

"Have you looked at it?"

"No." His eyes meet mine. "Do you want a drink?"

"I'm supposed to offer."

"Might as well mix things up." He smiles.

My heart thuds. He's cute. Way too cute. Cute and sexy is a dangerous combination. A feelings-inspiring combination. And I'm not interested in feelings. Only satisfaction. "Water for me. You?"

"Where are the cups?"

"You're going to serve me a drink in my apartment?" I ask.

"I'm a gentleman."

"Are you?"

"Cups?" he asks.

Okay, sure, why not? I lead him to the kitchen side of the main room then I open the top drawer. (Our place is big, by Brentwood standards, but it's not exactly huge. The kitchen and two-person dining table are on one side. The couch and TV are on the other).

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >83

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Tempting Teacher – The Pierce Family Read Online Crystal Kaswell http://www.ilovenovels.com/tempting-teacher-the-pierce-family-read-online-crystal-kaswell Tue, 17 May 2022 21:20:03 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/tempting-teacher-the-pierce-family-read-online-crystal-kaswell Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary, Erotic, Romance, Taboo Authors: Crystal Kaswell Advertisement

Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 46231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >43

Read Online Books/Novels:	Tempting Teacher - The Pierce Family
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	Crystal Kaswell
Language:	English
Book Information:
One night. One time. No last names. Max, teaching me everything he knows here. And everything he knows there too. Because the man who rocked my world isn’t just an anonymous hookup. He’s my new professor.
Books by Author:	Crystal Kaswell

Chapter One

OPAL

The hotel bar is the perfect place for an illicit tryst.

Adult.

Anonymous.

Upscale.

This isn't a college party. Not even a college party at my famously fraternity-free university.

It's close to a high school party, really, given my background. Prep school, rich kids, thirty-million-dollar apartments overlooking the park.

The setting is right. But the sounds are all different. Soft jazz and quiet conversation, not hip-hop and truth or dare.

Which is more accurate?

Truth. Are you here to meet a stranger for a one-night stand?

Dare. I dare you to find Max and kiss him.

I take a deep breath and push an exhale through my nose. I don't fit into this world, not completely, but I understand it. My brothers thrive here. They've taught me how to blend into the demure, tasteful space of the rich and powerful.

And, hey, I have a fake ID, and I lie about my age. Max will believe I'm twenty-one. Probably. Hopefully.

I run my fingers over my leather clutch as I scan the space. A couple in a corner booth. Two women in suits, talking business. A working girl at the bar.

And there, in the other corner, a man in a suit and a hot pink tie.

Max.

The sliver of silk pulls me toward him. It's all I know about him, physically anyway. He's in a hot pink tie. I'm in hot pink shoes.

We match in the best possible way.

I take steady steps toward him. Slowly, he comes into focus.

Broad shoulders, dark hair, dark eyes, light skin.

The hot pink tie against his stark white shirt.

He's…

Perfect.

Not at all as I imagined him and exactly as I imagined him.

Handsome and powerful and intense.

His eyes stop on mine. They study me carefully, taking in every detail.

The intensity should unnerve me, but it doesn't. I want all his attention. I want him staring like I'm his favorite painting.

That's the other thing we have in common.

Art. And a mutual desire for him to tie me to his bed.

I stare back into his eyes. Nod a hello. Let my lips curl into a smile.

He doesn't smile back. Instead, he holds up his hand and motions come here.

On anyone else, the gesture would annoy me.

On Max?

Fuck. I'm already in over my head and we haven't even said hello.

With every step, my heartbeat picks up. My temperature rises. By the time I arrive at his table, I'm on fire.

He stands. "Opal?"

"Did the shoes give it away?"

His eyes flit to my feet. "They suit you."

"Thank you." My stomach flutters. "The tie suits you." Really. He has the high contrast complexion to pull off the whole bright pink on white on black thing. He looks bold and sexy and masculine all at once. I love that he's wearing pink. I love that he's secure enough to sit in a fancy hotel in a hot pink tie. I love that he's teasing me.

I already like him.

We've agreed to one night, and I already like him.

Fuck.

"Max." He offers his hand.

"Opal."

"Your coat."

I let him take it. "Thank you."

His fingers brush the back of my neck. He traces a slow line across the wool, then he shifts the coat off my shoulders and folds it on the booth. "Sit. Here."

I nearly drop onto the leather bench.

He sits next to me, at the curve of the bench, so he's perpendicular, so he can touch me and look me in the eyes at once. "Comfortable?"

"Yes. Thanks."

"Do you drink?"

"A little."

"What do you like?"

What can I order to sound elegant and mature? Without trying too hard? I don't know wine. Or cocktails. Or anything besides expensive whiskey and cheap vodka. The two alcohol choices of the prep school crowd. The booze from Dad's study or whatever they can convince someone outside the liquor store to buy for twenty bucks.

"It's not a trick question."

Is it that obvious I'm nervous? "Spicy."

"Only spicy?"

"Sweet too, but mostly spicy."

"Fitting." He smiles.

My heart skips a beat. His smile is gorgeous. Perfect. Addicting.

Max hails the waitress. Orders two cocktails, something called tropical heat, and asks for privacy.

"Of course, Mr.—Max." The waitress spins on her heels and leaves.

"Do you come here often?" My cheeks flush. "Sorry, that's a cliché, isn't it?"

"Don't apologize for feeling nervous." He looks me in the eyes.

We're not supposed to share personal details. That's one of our rules. But we can handle a little small talk. "Do you like it here?"

"I do."

"What do you like about it?" I ask.

"The company."

My blush deepens.

"Have you been here?"

"I've been to this type of place. My brother attends a lot of fancy events in hotel ballrooms. I come with him sometimes."

"Do you like them?"

"I like dressing up and sipping craft cocktails. But hotels always look like hotels, no matter how hard they try to make them look nice. And there's something sad about them."

"The transparently corporate attempt at decor?" He motions to an abstract painting on the wall.

Shades of grey in the shape of a martini glass. It's completely competent and utterly uninteresting. "I hate it, too."

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >43

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Ruthless Rival Read Online Crystal Kaswell http://www.ilovenovels.com/ruthless-rival-read-online-crystal-kaswell Fri, 25 Mar 2022 19:04:39 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/ruthless-rival-read-online-crystal-kaswell Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary, Romance Authors: Crystal Kaswell Advertisement

Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 94489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >86

Read Online Books/Novels:	Ruthless Rival
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	Crystal Kaswell
Language:	English
Book Information:
Simon Pierce is the most powerful man in Manhattan. My rival since the ninth grade. And now, my enemy with benefits. Since the first day of high school, Simon and I have competed. Top grades? Simon wins. Better manners? Simon wins. Irresistible stare? Simon definitely wins. So when the bossy billionaire suggests an enemies with benefits arrangement– I dive in headfirst. No feelings. No strings. No falling in love. It’s perfect. In theory. Only the Simon who shares my bed isn’t cutthroat and arrogant. He’s passionate and tender. And pretty soon, I’m losing the one thing that matters: My heart.
Books by Author:	Crystal Kaswell

Chapter One

VANESSA

Most days, I'm good at resisting temptation.

But tonight?

Tonight, my gaze keeps flitting to the one man I shouldn't want: Simon Pierce.

The most powerful man in Manhattan.

The sexiest man in any room.

The man I've wanted and hated since the ninth grade.

Between handshakes and small talk, I watch his deep blue eyes scan the room. I study his soft lips. I imagine his strong hands on my skin.

For two hours, I mingle.

For two hours, I ignore the dirty thoughts circling my mind.

Finally, after my last thanks for considering a donation handshake, I slip out of the hotel ballroom, find the bar, order an Aviation.

One drink to celebrate the victories of the day.

Only I'm not drinking alone.

He's here.

"On me." Simon drops his credit card on the bar.

I swallow the fuck off that rises in my throat. The fuck me too. "Thanks." I'm well-mannered.

The same as him.

No, that's another way he bests me.

Since the first day of high school, Simon and I have competed.

Top grades?

Simon wins.

Better manners at a bar?

Simon wins.

Intense, panty-melting, desire-inspiring stare?

Simon definitely wins.

"My pleasure." He half-smiles. The Simon Pierce signature. Amused, above it all, hot as hell.

"For you?" the bartender asks.

"Whiskey, neat," he says.

"Coming right up," the bartender says.

"Whiskey, really? Are you going to smoke a cigar too?" I ask.

"If you have one."

"Smoked my last cigar on the balcony."

"Next time."

The bartender drops off our drinks.

Simon wraps his fingers around his short. Raises his glass. "Cheers."

I copy the gesture. "Cheers."

He watches as I bring the cocktail glass to my lips.

Mmm. Gin, lemon, floral liqueur. The perfect mix of sweet and tart.

"And you?" he says. "Ordering an Aviation?"

"I like purple."

His eyes flit to my wine lips. "I've never seen you in purple."

"You keep track?"

"A color-coded diary."

Is that a joke? I'm too surprised to laugh. "The color of my outfit?"

"What else?"

Another joke. What the fuck? I actually smile.

We've known each other for a long time. More than fifteen years now. We're not just old classmates.

Our families are friends.

Our companies—I run a nonprofit, he runs a cybersecurity corporation—attend the same events.

We see each other once or twice a month. We make polite conversation. We ignore our past rivalry and current sexual tension.

Occasionally, he teases me about trying to save the world.

And I tease him about having all the money in the world.

No jokes.

Never jokes.

Lingering stares, yes—I can't help it, he wears his designer suits—but never jokes.

"Do you really drink it because it's purple?" he asks.

"I drink it because I like it."

"You drank gin in high school," he says.

"You brought five-hundred-dollar bottles of whiskey to parties in high school."

"You noticed."

His eyes fix on me.

They're dark and intense, like the deepest parts of the ocean.

He watches as I take a sip. Watches my lipstick mark the glass. "What was it you called me then? The Prince of Darkness."

I did.

"Do you still see me that way?"

"By now, you're the king."

He smiles. "Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"An observation."

"You don't like me?"

"Do you care?"

"Yes."

It hangs in the air. He cares what I think of him. He's sitting here, intense and unreadable, and interested in my opinion of him.

"But you're right. I'm not here for polite conversation."

Right about what?

Wait.

He's not here to talk.

Then—

Fuck.

"I want to fuck you." His voice is matter-of-fact and sure, like he's complimenting my dress, not professing his desire to see me out of it.

"You want to fuck me?"

"Yes. I have a room upstairs. A suite. We can stay here, talk about the gala, or your sister's wedding, or my resemblance to Beelzebub. Or we can go upstairs." Intent drops into his voice.

He turns to me. Brings every bit of his attention to me.

My stomach flutters. My thighs shake.

My brain tries to cut in. To remind me, Simon Pierce is a spoiled rich boy turned stuck-up suit.

But I'm too lost in his blue eyes.

He's too handsome.

He's way too handsome.

"It's up to you, Vanessa," he says. "Do you want to stay? Or do you want to go?"

Chapter Two

VANESSA

"It's up to you, Vanessa. Do you want to stay? Or do you want to go?"

My fingers curl into the cool glass.

My thighs shake.

My legs struggle to stay upright.

Simon Pierce is inviting me upstairs.

A million high school fantasies delivered.

And adult ones too.

How many winter breaks did I spend wondering if we'd sneak upstairs at Mom's New Year's party?

How many galas have I spent watching him from across the room, wanting to slap him and kiss him in equal measure?

He's my rival.

And he's besting me again.

Better at broaching the subject of our immense sexual tension.

Better at solving the problem.

Better at fucking probably too.

But then I can't exactly complain about that possibility.

"You can say no." He finishes his whiskey. "I won't be offended."

"You won't?"

"No. I know you want me." His eyes stay fixed on me. "You might hate me, but you want me. You've wanted me since ninth grade."

"I—"

"I want you too."

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >86

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Playboy Prince Read Online Crystal Kaswell http://www.ilovenovels.com/playboy-prince-read-online-crystal-kaswell Thu, 02 Dec 2021 14:59:13 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/playboy-prince-read-online-crystal-kaswell Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Romance Authors: Crystal Kaswell Advertisement

Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 98021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >93

Read Online Books/Novels:	Playboy Prince
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	Crystal Kaswell
Language:	English
Book Information:
My playboy boss wants me to slip into a new position: Fake fiancée. After years mowing through all the eligible women in New York, Liam earned the nickname Playboy Prince. Now, the tech executive needs to clean up his reputation. He can have any women in the city. And he wants me. His purple-haired, smart mouthed assistant. Six months as his fake fiancée in exchange for the cash to fund my start-up. How can I say no? Too bad Liam is the most frustrating man on the planet. Demanding. Rebellious. Extremely charming. Plus the deep blue eyes. The devil-may-care-smile. The tattoos he hides under his suit. Pretty soon, our kisses don’t feel fake. Pretty soon, we don’t stop at kissing. Pretty soon, I do the one thing I shouldn’t: I fall in love with him.
Books by Author:	Crystal Kaswell

Chapter One

Liam

"You're like a son to me."

Shit.

Bad news.

No one follows you're like a son to me with this party is going to be off the chain. Let’s celebrate with the fine scotch I’ve been saving.

Not that I want the scotch.

I know, I know. I'm a spoiled rich kid. I'm supposed to wear designer suits, smoke cigars, sip scotch.

I've got the suit down, but the rest?

Cigars are nasty.

Scotch is bitter.

I'll take a mixed drink any day. The more embarrassing, the better. I love the look I get when I sip a cosmo or an appletini.

Men roll their eyes.

Women giggle. Ask for a sip. Fall into my fucking arms.

Easy peasy.

"Sit," Preston continues. "Have a drink with me." He motions to the leather armchair across from him. Pulls out a decanter filled with brown liquor. Two brandy glasses.

"Let me get that." I pick up the bottle. Fill both glasses. Sit in the burgundy armchair across from Preston.

The same way I have a hundred times.

Preston took over as my father figure when my dad died. Whenever I got into trouble (it happened a lot), he sat me down, told me how much he appreciated me. Then…

This.

I'm twelve again.

A helpless kid, waiting for news about his father's surgery. Desperate to hear anything other than I'm sorry, Liam, but he didn't make it.

It's the office. The stupid shelf full of economic theory.

The oak walls.

The hardwood floors.

The leather chairs.

It's too familiar.

"You're supposed to pour two ounces." He waits for me to settle. "But you've always marched to the beat of your own drum, Liam." He stares into the middle distance with a soft smile. One of those I'm lost in a memory smiles.

I appreciate the look on a former fuck. When it's oh God, do you remember that night in Paris, up against the wall? I've never come that many times before.

This?

I can't fucking do this.

"Give it a chance." Preston raises his glass. "Cheers."

"Cheers." I raise. Force a smile. Swallow a mouthful.

A little sweet, fruity, the distinct taste of expensive alcohol.

Not my preference. But if I'm having this fucking conversation?

I down half my glass.

Preston sets his on the side table. "How is it?"

"Fucking fantastic." I finish the rest. Refill. Settle into my seat.

Preston holds his gaze. The parental one I know. Only mixed with something I can't place.

Usually, I read people well. It's the key to fucking with them properly.

Right now—

It's bad. I know it's bad.

"Harrison's wedding is going to be great." I swallow another sip. Try to find some other change in subject. Harrison is Preston's son. His only son. This is prime celebration time.

Not prime sitting in the study wistfully time.

But, hey, there's booze. That's the common denominator. Drink to celebrate. Drink to mourn. Drink to numb.

Doesn't matter as long as it's good.

"It will be quite the spectacle." Preston nods. "He's over the moon. He adores her."

"It's good to see him in love." It would be. If his fiancée wasn't as awful as she is gorgeous.

"It is. He's over the moon." His eyes go to his cup of brandy. "I said that, didn't I?"

"Good to hear it twice." My next sip is sweeter. Fruitier. The alcohol is working. Thank fuck.

"I want him to enjoy the festivities without worrying about me."

"We've got a boss bachelor party planned."

"I'm afraid I'm losing my ability to keep up appearances."

Fuck.

"Liam, I mean it. You're like a son to me. Simon and Adam too." He mentions my older brothers. "And Bash… I still feel that loss. I can't imagine how much you miss him."

No, we're not going there. This conversation is torture enough. We're not adding my kid brother's death to it. "He was unstoppable."

"You've always been my most difficult son." He offers a soft laugh. "The best liar."

I don't like where this is going.

"I need your help now."

"Anything."

"I'm dying."

All the air leaves my lungs at once.

The room stills.

I can hear the hum of the air conditioner, taste the apricot in the brandy, smell the leather and oak.

He just—

I—

Fuck.

"I hate to tell you this way, son. I do." His words are practiced. Sure. "I hate to ask this of you."

What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?

"This is Harrison's time. The happiest in his life. I want him to enjoy his wedding without this specter hanging over his head."

"He'd want to spend time with you."

"He will. After the honeymoon. We're setting up the London office together. For six months. That's longer than… I'll tell him once we're settled."

That sounds like bullshit, but I can't exactly argue. Hey, dying father figure, take my advice on how to handle your relationship with your son. 'Cause I'm the expert.

"I know how much I'm asking, Liam. But I need your help."

"How?"

"The symptoms are starting to show. He's going to notice."

"And you need me to cover for you?"

"Like you did for Harrison, when he snuck out to meet his girlfriend."

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >93

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Broken Beast Read Online Crystal Kaswell http://www.ilovenovels.com/broken-beast-read-online-crystal-kaswell Wed, 10 Nov 2021 23:59:10 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/broken-beast-read-online-crystal-kaswell Genre: Alpha Male, Romance Authors: Crystal Kaswell Advertisement

Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 92835 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >87

Read Online Books/Novels:	Broken Beast
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	Crystal Kaswell
Language:	English
Book Information:
I’m broke and out of options. Until reclusive billionaire Adam Pierce offers me a lifeline: a million dollars to play his wife. When Adam Pierce invited me to his secluded mansion, I expected an indecent proposal, not an actual one. The tech mogul won’t reveal his reasons. He won’t explain his intentions. And talking about the accident that left him scarred inside and out? Forget it. For a million dollars, I can swallow my questions. But I can’t ignore the desire in his blue eyes or the demand in his deep voice. And when the brooding beast finally brings his lips to mine, holds me close, whispers sweet nothings in my ear– I can marry Adam Pierce. But can I spend a year by his side without falling in love with him? Broken Beast is a standalone billionaire romance with ereader-melting chemistry and a pretend marriage theme.
Books by Author:	Crystal Kaswell

Chapter One

Adam

"I'm sorry, Mr. Pierce. I dug into every pocket of this asshole's life. And there's nothing I can use. Not officially."

"Unofficially?"

"He has a vulnerability. A woman." He shows off an image on his cell.

A woman holding a sheer sheet to her chest.

Not one of Neil's grainy, long angle photos.

The work of an artist.

Black and white.

Soft lighting.

Beautiful composition.

He scrolls to the next.

The same woman, standing at the window, in the glow of the morning sun.

Her hair swept over her shoulder.

Her head falling to one side.

Her bare back on display.

"She's hot, huh?" He chuckles, pleased with himself. "And even better from the front."

My stomach churns. I'm overcome with the urge to protect her. It's not like me.

After what happened with Bash, I gave up on protecting anyone.

"She goes by Beauty," he continues. "Broken Beauty, technically. There's plenty available publicly, but I can dig if you want more." He raises a brow. "You like her, huh?"

"She's talented."

"I'll say." He chuckles. "She must have a hundred self-portraits on her site. More on social media. She's got the followers to match too. A few hundred thousand on Instagram. Two, three times that on her site."

I pull up her website.

There it is, a picture of her standing in front of a mirror, bathed in soft white light.

The image is well-composed.

The lighting is perfect.

And she's gorgeous.

An unfamiliar sensation overtakes me—desire.

I want her.

I haven't wanted anyone in months, but I want her so badly I can taste it.

"How does she know Fitzgerald?" Is he a fan? Or is there more?

"He's obsessed with her. Shows up at the gallery where she works once a week to buy a new piece. Just to talk to her. Doesn't let on that he's seen her naked."

Mostly naked, but what's the difference?

"He hasn't crossed the line, but it's only a matter of time. I can put eyes on him. Set up a honey trap. Who knows? Maybe she's game to participate for the right price."

"No." It's not enough to put a dent in his marriage, career, image. I need to do better. "I have another idea."

A divorce will destroy his finances.

But a marriage?

That will destroy him.

Chapter Two

Danielle

People say money doesn't buy happiness, but that's bullshit.

Rich people get whatever they want.

The second they hear no, they add another zero to their offer, and voila: the world is their oyster.

Here I am, sitting in the back of a black town car, two hours into a drive to a secluded mansion, babysitting a framed photograph.

It's not even an original painting.

It's a print.

But no, Adam Pierce can't stop by the gallery himself. He can't send an assistant (and a guy with this kind of cash is bound to have at least one assistant).

He asked the gallery to hand deliver the photo.

And since the owner can't be bothered with such a trivial task, he sent me.

His pretty, underpaid assistant.

Emphasis on pretty.

Wear a short skirt, Danielle. Guys like girls with gams like yours.

Okay, maybe my boss didn't say gams. Maybe I added that. Maybe, in my head, my asshole boss sounds like an old-timey journalist.

Or one of those film noir detectives who loses everything to a dangerous woman with a great pair of gams.

Those movies are gorgeous. The black-and-white photography, the lingering close-ups, the cunning woman who destroys the man who underestimates her.

If only.

I close my eyes. Rest my head against the cool glass.

I'm a born and bred New Yorker. I'm not used to long drives. Especially long drives in luxurious automobiles.

Courtesy of Adam Pierce. Not that I'm complaining. As much as I want to find fault with the reclusive billionaire, he paid handsomely.

A thousand dollars for home delivery.

And all to the courier.

He insisted.

Did he know a pretty girl in a short skirt would accompany his new art?

Or is he the kind of guy who takes care of the help?

The car turns onto a quiet street. For a mile, we're surrounded by woods, then a clearing, a rocky beach, a winding driveway.

A mansion straight out of an old movie.

Three stories, stone walls, gargoyles perched on the edge of the steep roof.

Hidden behind overgrown evergreens and a wrought iron gate.

An actual gate made of actual iron.

Did I fall asleep and wake up in a fairy tale?

What the hell?

After we park in the massive driveway, the driver helps me out of the car, opens the trunk, smiles as I remove the framed photograph.

We walk through the equally grand backyard—outdoor pool, enclosed pool, solarium, and all cliffside—then through the French doors, into the ballroom.

An actual ballroom, with a hardwood floor, high ceilings, crystal chandeliers. I have to stop myself from staring. I'm not here to contemplate the eccentricities of the rich.

I'm here to hang this photo and collect my commission.

I hold the frame carefully as we walk up the winding staircase and down the long hallway. All the way to a massive oak door.

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