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

Lena Little – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.ilovenovels.com Thu, 23 Apr 2026 23:09:22 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.9.4 http://www.ilovenovels.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png Lena Little – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.ilovenovels.com 32 32 The Fake Date – Steamy Shorts Read Online Lena Little http://www.ilovenovels.com/the-fake-date-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Thu, 23 Apr 2026 23:09:22 +0000 http://www.ilovenovels.com/the-fake-date-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 19580 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 78(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >21

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

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

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

1

ELISE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nod. Just once.

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

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

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

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

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

"What did she want?"

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

"Elise—"

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

Like, seriously, right?

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

The only monster in my story is the publishing industry.

Ugh!

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

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

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

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

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

My phone pings while I'm sorting through bean deliveries that evening. I almost ignore it, assuming it's another promotional email or, worse, a social media notification about Mia's latest post. When I finally glance at the screen, James's name lights up my notifications.

James: Elias playing in town next Friday. Got VIP seats. Coming with?

My pulse quickens like I've shotgunned three espressos. I haven't seen James in person since Christmas, though we text every few weeks—mostly memes and updates about his hotel empire. He's the only person from high school I still talk to. I've carefully avoided mentioning my stalled writing career, calling it a "side hustle" whenever he asks.

He also has no idea I've been half in love with his best friend for a decade.

I remember the first time I saw Elias King. Freshman year, Mia "accidentally" bumped into me in the hallway, sending my books scattering across the floor. While she continued walking, not even breaking stride in her conversation, Elias stopped. He crouched down, gathered my copy of Stephen King's Carrie, and handed it back with a smile that made my tongue forget how to form words.

"Good book," he said. "Though not really my top three."

I managed to nod, clutching the novel to my chest as he jogged to catch up with his friends. It was nothing to him, just a moment of basic human decency. To me, it was everything.

Two years later, James told me how Elias had publicly declared that anyone who bullied James would answer to him, effectively ending the torment James had endured since elementary school. They became inseparable after that. It only made me crush harder, knowing Elias wasn't just the hottest man I've ever seen, but genuinely kind.

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >21

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The Bodyguard – Steamy Shorts Read Online Lena Little http://www.ilovenovels.com/the-bodyguard-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Fri, 03 Apr 2026 23:15:11 +0000 http://www.ilovenovels.com/the-bodyguard-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

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

<<<<1 2 3 11 >19

Closer than bodyguard and client.
Hotter than professional.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meredith destroys it in five seconds.

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

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

1

MEREDITH

The business kills Dad first, then comes for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why would Dad do this to me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh God. Brian Percy.

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

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

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

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

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

<<<<1 2 3 11 >19

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The Fake Boyfriend – Steamy Shorts Read Online Lena Little http://www.ilovenovels.com/the-fake-boyfriend-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Fri, 03 Apr 2026 23:14:25 +0000 http://www.ilovenovels.com/the-fake-boyfriend-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

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

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >22

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

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

1

EMMY

I'd rather be anywhere but here.

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

I hate it so much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The universe has a cruel sense of humor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adrian continues reading standard bequests.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Provided..."

Wait, he's not done?

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

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >22

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Conflicted – Darker Steamy Shorts Read Online Lena Little http://www.ilovenovels.com/conflicted-darker-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Sat, 28 Feb 2026 17:33:15 +0000 http://www.ilovenovels.com/conflicted-darker-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

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

<<<<1 2 3 11 >14

What ignites between them is wrong.

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

⚠️ Extremely dark. Morally complex. Unapologetically steamy.

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

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

1

RADOMIR

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

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

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

“I warned you about that,” I snap.

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

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

“Wait,” he murmurs, whimpering.

“Afraid I can’t do that.”

“I have a⁠—”

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

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

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

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

Just like every inch of her.

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

Who is this woman? Is it his daughter?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I close my eyes. Take a breath.

I’m fucked!

2

MARA

Two Weeks Later

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

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

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

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

<<<<1 2 3 11 >14

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The Valentine – Steamy Shorts Read Online Lena Little http://www.ilovenovels.com/the-valentine-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Sat, 28 Feb 2026 17:33:14 +0000 http://www.ilovenovels.com/the-valentine-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 19157 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 96(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 64(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >21

The VALENTINE
One card. One night.
No turning back

Alex
I found a Valentine’s Day card under my door one night from my neighbor in 3B—the woman
with the long black hair and dimpled smile who doesn’t know I’ve been watching her for months.
Emily thinks I don’t notice her.
Wrong.
I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to talk to her for eight months, but now she has just handed me an engraved invitation.
Her Valentine’s card doesn’t ask me out for dinner.
No, sir.
It describes—in graphic detail—what she wants me to do to her.
My hands. My mouth. Where. How hard.
Well, Emily…
I am just a man, and your wish is my f**king command

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

1

EMILY

Will you be my Valentine?

It's me, your neighbor from 3B.

You can actually say no. If you do, I'll simply cry in my apartment quietly and deal with it like a grown woman, or move to another country. I honestly haven't thought that far ahead.

No pressure, I promise.

I lower the card, my face burning hotter than the "Mr. Darcy's Sweat" candle flickering on my coffee table. Selena's sprawled on my couch, legs crossed, wineglass dangling between manicured fingers.

Everything about her is perfect. The blonde hair. The makeup. She's the type every guy wants to be with and every girl aspires to be like. An absolute stunner.

"Keep going." Her lips curve into a smile. "You've barely gotten to the good part."

"I think that's enough of a dramatic reading." I set the card down and reach for my own wine. The rosé is too sweet, coating my tongue like liquid candy. Selena brought it—"on sale," she said, which meant it was probably still more than I'd spend on wine.

"Don't chicken out now." She leans forward and refills my glass before I can protest. "The whole point of girls' night is to be bold, remember? You've been obsessing over Mr. 3A for months."

"That's not true," I say, even as my eyes drift to the wall I share with Alex's apartment.

Ugh. Alex Kahn a.k.a Mr. 3A. I thought I was too old for crushes, but here we are.

Selena gives me the look. "Emily, you deeply inhale the air outside his door. Don't think I didn't notice."

My orange tabby, Croissant, jumps onto the windowsill, tail flicking as he stares judgmentally at us both. He always acts like I annoy him. Me, the one who spends half her salary in cat food, toys, and supplies. I once spent almost four hundred dollars for a custom-made tree, and he spent exactly five seconds on it and stared at me as though I smelled like a wet rag.

I swear the men in this building, including those of the feline variety, are grumpy.

"It's not that simple." I pull my knees to my chest and curl deeper into my recliner. "He's ... intimidating."

"That's the appeal," Selena says, stretching her arms overhead. Her silk top rides up, revealing a slice of toned stomach. Suddenly, the box of red velvet cookies in my fridge don't seem worth it anymore. "All that military discipline. Those arms. The broad shoulders. God, his face." She sighs dramatically. "If he hadn't helped you with groceries that day, I might never have noticed him."

She says it casually, like she's not reminding me that she saw him first. Like she's not implying she'd have better chances.

"It was just a couple of books," I say. "Not groceries."

"Whatever." She waves dismissively. "The point is, you need to stop hiding in this adorable little" —she glances around my studio— "cozy space, and actually talk to the man."

"I talk to him," I tell her, scratching Croissant behind the ears when he abandons the window to settle in my lap.

“A ‘good morning' while checking your mail twice isn't talking." She rolls her eyes. "Look at your place, Em. Look at you."

I glance down at my soft curves wrapped in my favorite worn pajama shorts and oversized t-shirt with a faded flower shop logo. Not Dead Yet—the place I currently work at. "What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing! That's what I'm saying." Her voice softens, which somehow makes it worse. "You're cute … in that accessible, girl-next-door kind of way. Most men love that."

I take another sip of wine, bigger this time. The cheap alcohol buzzes through my system, not enough for major drunk decisions but just enough to make Selena's terrible ideas sound plausible.

"The Valentine's card was your idea, Selena."

“Because I know you'd never do it on your own." She picks up the half-finished card. "But this tame little note isn't going to catch the attention of a man like that. You need to make an impression."

I wince. "I'm not exactly impressive."

"Stop that. Do you really want to spend Valentine's Day alone with" —Selena tilts her chin at Croissant— "Mr. Whiskers here? Because that's pretty sad, even for you."

"His name is Croissant."

"Whatever. Are you going to make a move or just keep watching Grumpy Hot Neighbor from your peephole forever?"

Put like that, it sounds pathetic. And maybe it is. Maybe I am. I've been watching him for eight months, give or take, and I notice everything about him. Those muscular thighs and calves flexing as he runs down the stairs. The delicious-looking biceps each time he opts for a muscle tee instead of a dri-fit shirt on his morning runs. The scar through his left eyebrow I've imagined tracing with my finger. His hands. God, his hands. Large and veiny.

I've built entire fantasies around those hands. Like, I had no idea hands could look sexy.

"Fine." I grab the card back. "What exactly do you suggest I write?"

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >21

Advertisement
Protected – Darker Steamy Shorts Read Online Lena Little http://www.ilovenovels.com/protected-darker-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Thu, 26 Feb 2026 08:21:02 +0000 http://www.ilovenovels.com/protected-darker-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Erotic, Insta-Love Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24405 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >26

Burke
I’m paid to watch people. To get into their lives.
I can read people in an instant. And I’m really good at my job.
But I watch her because I want to. Because I like to.
She’s a sweet girl, a beautiful girl.
But I’m content to admire her from afar.
Something about her fascinates.
But when he walks into the coffee shop where she works, I instantly sense something is off.
And when I hear him ask her out.
I know that something is definitely not right. She’s in trouble.
And I know that I’m the only one who can do something about it.
To save this girl, I’m going to have to step outside my comfort zone. I’m going to have to think, plan and do things I’ve never done before.
Do I have a choice?
I don’t know. One thing I doknow.
I will not let anything happen to her.
So, NO… no choice.

* * *

Brynn
My life is steady and consistent. There aren’t a lot of surprises.
And that’s okay.
I’ve got a career I’m passionate about in front of me and a lot to look forward to.
Love isn’t one of those things.
But that’s okay.
I can find fulfillment in other ways.
Like working in this coffee shop. But when an insistent stranger walks in one day, I find myself thrust into a situation I never expected.
I am in danger.
I have no one to protect me.
And no idea how to escape.
My very life hangs in the balance.
Then I get help from an unexpected source.
And from that moment on, my life is anything but steady. And everything I thought I knew is turned on its head.
I only know one thing.
I know nothing will ever be the same again.

___________________________________________________________
PROTECTED
A short, dark, steamy story from Lena Little

Protective Hero, Age gap, Alpha, Private Investigator, Trafficking, Kidnapping,
Suspense, High Heat, Slow-Burn romance. No OW/OM, Guaranteed HEA!

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

1

CHAPTER 1

BURKE

“Large coffee. Black, for…” she calls.

I step to the counter and take my cup from her. As I clasp my cup, my finger touches hers. Only the slightest graze, but I instantly feel something deep inside of me stir. The sunlight slants in through the window, making her strawberry-blond hair glimmer. Light glints off her silver-blue eyes. Eyes so pure, they nearly stop my heart. Her full, heart-shaped lips curl upward in a smile that would melt a lesser man. Not me.

“You know, I can tell a lot about a person by their coffee order,” she says.

“Is that so?” I ask.

“She nods. “I can.”

“So, what does my coffee order tell you about me?”

“It tells me you’re steady. Reliable. That you value consistency.”

I grin. “You make me sound predictable.”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. There’s a lot to be said for consistency.”

Chuckling, I raise the cup to her. “Thanks, darlin’.”

“You betcha.”

I walk back to my table in the far corner of the coffee shop and sit down. From here, I have a view of the entire place as well as one of Brynn. I was struck by the cute, pixie-like girl from the moment I set foot in here. And it’s because of her that I’ve been coming back for the last couple of months. I tell myself it’s to do some paperwork for my job, but I could do it at home. In truth, I keep coming back for her.

Brynn is gorgeous. And the moment I laid eyes on her, I had a reaction unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. It was visceral. A foot shorter than me and literally half my age, this girl has fueled more than a few of my fantasies. For the last couple of months, she’s been the star of every filthy thought I’ve had while I jerk off in the shower. Just looking at the girl is fucking intoxicating.

I settle down at my table and open my laptop, keeping one eye on the screen, the other eye on Brynn. I have fantasies rolling through my head like a non-stop porn channel. They make it difficult for me to fill out these reports I need to turn in to my client. But the work needs to get done, so I do my best to muddle through. Mrs. Pringle needs to know her husband is nailing his secretary. It’s what she’s paying me for, after all.

“You look like you could use a fresh cup.”

Raising my head, I find myself staring into Brynn’s silver-blue eyes. My heart lurches, and my jeans start getting tighter as I take in the full, round breasts on her small, delicate frame. I glance at my watch, surprised to find that an hour’s gone by. And when I look at the report on my laptop, I’m appalled to see my report is only half-done.

I sigh. “Yeah, looks like I need one.”

“Working, huh?” she asks as she sets down a fresh cup. “On the house.”

“Thank you,” I respond. “And yeah. Just doing some paperwork.”

She glances at my screen and frowns at the incident report I’m working on. “What do you do? Are you a cop?”

“PI,” I say.

She laughs. “You’re a PI?”

“I am.”

“No offense, but aren’t PIs supposed to like, blend in? Like, be invisible?”

“I blend in.”

She laughs again. “You’re way too big to blend in.”

A smirk tugs the corner of my mouth. “How big somebody is matters less than you think. Most people are so self-absorbed that they don’t notice the people around them. It’s just a matter of taking advantage of their blind spots.”

“Blind spots, huh?”

“That’s right.”

A group of twenty-somethings comes through the door and Brynn offers me a smile. She hesitates, almost as if there’s something more she wants to say, but…

“Well, I should get back to work.”

“Thanks for the coffee.”

“Anytime.”

I sit back in my chair and watch Brynn as she handles her customers. She’s personable. Sweet. And she has this bright, magnetic personality that draws me to her like a fucking moth to a porch light. I won’t act on these impulses—she’s far too young for me. She’s twenty years old—literally half my age. But Jesus Christ, do I want to. I really do. Young or not, there is just something about this girl that re-lights a fire inside of me. A fire that burned out a long time ago.

The twenty-somethings get their coffee and depart, leaving me sitting at my table with about half a dozen other people scattered around the coffee shop. I watch Brynn wiping down the counter and laughing with her co-workers. Her voice is high and light. It’s musical. Not to be too poetic or anything, but her voice, and especially her laughter, reminds me of the crystal wind-chimes hanging outside my bedroom window.

As if she feels me watching her, she glances over. Her eyes sparkle, and a small smile turns the corners of her mouth up. Yeah, I would really love nothing more than to sit her on that counter and rail her right now. But I can’t. I won’t let myself fall into that rabbit hole of lust and desire. It wouldn’t be good for either of us.

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >26

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Bratva Daddy’s Girl Read Online Lena Little http://www.ilovenovels.com/bratva-daddys-girl-read-online-lena-little Sun, 01 Feb 2026 09:23:25 +0000 http://www.ilovenovels.com/bratva-daddys-girl-read-online-lena-little Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 17724 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 89(@200wpm)___ 71(@250wpm)___ 59(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 >18

He’s supposed to be a ghost. Until he sees her.

Lex: 
Dead men tell no tales. And I’m supposed to be dead to the world. I’m an enforcer. The best the Bratva has. Or had.
I want out.
I’m lying low in this house. Being discreet.
Keeping my lights low. Curtains closed.
I catch my curvy, sexy neighbor bending down to pull another set of weeds. She tends her garden.
Her tight denim shorts, Her sweaty white t-shirts.
Amply filled, swaying as she works.
She’s making me savage. Not in a violent way.
My heart hammers like it’s trying to smash out of my chest. I’m tense all over. Nobody has ever had this effect on me. Ever.
It makes no damn sense.

Rose:
Stranger danger. Who is this guy?
My new neighbor is at least six and a half feet tall.
He strides toward me. Purposefully.
Should I run? I wouldn’t get very far.
He wears a loose-fitting T-shirt that shows off his muscular form.
Ink covers every exposed part of his marbled hugeness.  
He stops a few feet from me, his dark eyes scan me up and down.
Something in this simple movement makes my lips tingle. I ache just looking at him.
Oh, damn!
Why me? Why now? 
 
A stone-cold killer.
A sweet, curvy temptation.
A love that defies the rules

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

1

LEX

Dead men tell no tales. That’s the saying. And I’m supposed to be dead to the world.

But my body’s telling me a demanding tale as I stand at the front window. In the home that isn’t really a home. It’s a hiding spot. Never mind that a man like me is more suited to fighting and bloodshed than hiding behind a half-closed curtain.

Whoever she is, she’s making me savage. Not in a violent way. My pole pushes achingly against my pants. My heart hammers like it’s trying to smash out of my chest. I’m tense all over.

In the front yard, my new neighbor leans down to pull another set of weeds. Wearing a white T-shirt that shows her purple bra beneath. Her big curvy mounds shifting with each movement. Makes me wonder what the shape of her nipples are, how easily they get hard when somebody—no, me, not fucking somebody—teases them.

I close my eyes for a moment. Take a breath. Nobody has ever had this effect on me. Ever. It makes no damn sense.

She’s got her light brown hair in a braid over one shoulder. A braid made for wrapping round my fist as I guide her glistening lips to mine. No makeup on her face, just natural beauty, eyebrows knitted in determination.

She turns, tosses some weeds into her garden sack. Gives me a mouthwatering view of her denim shorts barely containing the gorgeous thickness of her ass.

I reach down, my hand almost pressing against my aching length to relieve some of the tension.

I’m not the kind of man who touches myself while secretly watching a woman. What the f…

I grip the windowsill so hard the material flakes away in my hand. I’m sure I feel the house tremble.

She stands, stretches her arms over her head. Across the street, a man is climbing from his car. He looks over at the woman, waves a hand. They exchange words I can’t hear. It seems like pleasantries, plus I know that guy’s married.

But it still pisses me off. I don’t want her talking to anybody else. Those curves, those knitted-in-concentration eyebrows, that round ass and those shifting, heaving tits …

They’re mine.

Fuck.

Calm down.

I want to know what her lips taste like. How desperately she’d try to moan if I pushed against her. Hard. Let her feel the rough texture of my mouth.

She’s not made for a man like me. Can’t be, because she looks civilized and normal.

I’m anything but.

So far, I’ve managed to hide here.

If I leave, I leave at night by the back entrance. Jump the fence and disappear so that my neighbors never see me. If I’m going to stay alive—or avoid slaughtering the bastards the Bratva will send after me—I need to keep it that way.

She returns to her weeding. Kneels in the grass then leans up slightly to adjust her braid.

The tension in my cock begins to pulse. But as she plays with her hair, I can’t stop myself from thinking …

It’s like she’s kneeling before taking me in her mouth, lips pouting, ready for my slick end to glide between her waiting lips and make her moan. I’d flow in and out of her steadily at first. See how much she can take. Then, as her eyes widen with lust and her hand slides between her legs to rub and pleasure the slickness there, I’d shift my hips harder. Firmer. Own her pretty little mouth.

A car pulls up. A sleek sedan that bounces the afternoon sunlight off the hood and the tinted windows. A thin man climbs out, all business, receding hairline and horn-rimmed glasses.

When I see he’s approaching the new neighbor, the angel with the kissable lips and the fuckable-as-fuck body, I take a risk. Crack my window open so I can hear what they’re saying.

“Miss Hart?” the man says.

“Uh, yeah?”

“I’m Roger Kent.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders slump.

Nobody has the right to make her feel bad. The enthusiasm she brought to the gardenwork vanishes. My grip on the windowsill hardens.

“I assume that means you know who I am,” Roger says.

“Yeah. And I guess you’re here to tell me I don’t deserve to live in my own home?”

Roger folds his arms. Looks her up and down, causing bloodlust to surge through me. I clench my jaw so hard my teeth feel like they might break.

“I tried to explain to your mother that this is a good thing. Many people would jump at the check we’re offering.”

“I’m not one of them,” she says.

“Be reasonable, Rose.”

Rose. A fitting name. I want to take her but I might get the thorns instead. Worse, she might get them too. If the Bratva find out I’m alive and discover a woman has finally punctured my ice-cold shield …

I can’t even think about it. I’d kill any man who tried to touch her.

“Please don’t talk to me like we’re friends,” she snaps with admirable sassiness. “All I want is to make this house a home again. I’ve been through a lot lately.”

<<<<1 2 3 11 >18

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The Husband – Steamy Shorts Read Online Lena Little http://www.ilovenovels.com/the-husband-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Sun, 01 Feb 2026 09:23:08 +0000 http://www.ilovenovels.com/the-husband-steamy-shorts-read-online-lena-little Genre: Alpha Male, Insta-Love Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 >18

He’s hockey’s biggest villain. She’s the only one who can save his reputation.
A Steamy, Fake-Dating, Hockey, Forced-Proximity Opposites attract, Fire’n’Ice romance.

***

Sebastian Clay
I don’t give a damn if my reputation is circling down the drain faster than I can blink.
One photo of me grabbing some asshole paparazzi by the collar, and suddenly I’m hockey’s biggest villain.
Thirty million in endorsements? Almost gone.
Family-friendly cereal deals? Dead.
My squeaky-clean image? Buried six feet under.
But here’s the thing nobody knows—I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
Because that piece of shit was talking about Maddison, and nobody disrespects my girl, my Mad.
Maddison Lowden.
Yes, my girl … even if she doesn’t know it yet.
She’s been fixing my messes for three years, calling me out on my bullshit.
I’ve been obsessed with her since day one, and she treats me like an overgrown toddler who can’t tie his own skates.
Now my franchise PR team has proposed the perfect solution: a brilliant solution.
Marrythe woman I’ve been fantasizing about for years.
Fake engagement, real chemistry, one year of playing house with the only person who’s ever made me want to be better. Win-win! Ker-ching!
What could possibly go wrong?

***

Spoiler alert: everything.
And I wouldn’t change a damn thing.

______________________________________________________

🔥 When desire crosses the line,

boundaries don’t stand a chance

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

1

SEBASTIAN

Mad, looks mad as hell.

Get it? Mad and mad.

It's what I like to call her because she looks perpetually pissed off at me … even at our own wedding.

Her forehead furrows, and her nose scrunches like she smells something bad. Is it me? Do I stink?

Then, I realize … nah, it's not me. It's just specifically due to whatever this entire situation is.

I know, I know. She's mortified she's here and forced to do this. But…

Is it wrong that I feel like the happiest man in the world right now? Luckiest, too?

It's like being handed the Stanley Cup without playing or winning the lottery without buying a ticket.

Well, well, well. The stars did align for me today.

Mad's fingers tremble against mine, and I try to tamp down the all-too-familiar longing. My trousers grow tighter as my cock strains against the zipper, and I dig my heels into the floor.

Not now, buddy. Don't embarrass me in front of her and over a hundred guests.

If my teammates ever see me getting hard with the simple act of hand-holding, I will never live that down.

The officiant drones on about commitment and partnership while I focus on the soft press of her palm. Three fucking years I've wanted to touch her like this. Three years of watching her storm into Anya's office after my media disasters, clipboard in hand, those big brown eyes narrowed at me like I'm the biggest problem in her life.

Now she's mine. On paper, anyway.

"Sebastian," she hisses under her breath. "You're crushing my hand."

I loosen my grip immediately. "Oh, sorry."

Someone's pinned up Mad's dark curls with tiny white flowers that match her simple dress. Nothing like the massive princess gowns most hockey wives choose. Mad's dress hugs every curve, stopping just above her knees. Professional enough for a business meeting, sexy enough to make my mouth dry.

Although, to be fair to her, she can wear a burlap sack, and my cock will roar to attention all the same.

Yep, I need help. And maybe some therapy, too.

She shifts her weight, all five feet four inches against my 6'6 frame. So much attitude in one short, curvy body. I fucking love every inch of it.

"Try to look less like you won the Stanley Cup," she says, smiling the fakest smile I've ever seen in my entire life. "This is supposed to be a reluctant arrangement."

"Nothing reluctant about my end of this deal, baby. You know me, I go big or go home. I'm all-in."

Her cheeks flush that perfect shade of pink I like so much. "I keep trying to convince myself I won't regret this, and you keep giving me reasons I should."

I smile at the frustration in her voice. "You're stuck with me now, wife."

"Don't call me that."

"Emergency contact?"

"I'm not."

"Tax write-off?"

She shoots daggers with her eyes. "Clay, shut up."

I can't help it, so I chuckle softly. "Mad, you're a Clay now, too."

"God, I hate you so much."

The rooftop restaurant offers a panoramic view of the city. String lights overhead, flowers everywhere, champagne flowing.

Anya didn't half-ass our fake wedding.

My teammates fill three tables near the makeshift altar, Coach Anderson beside them looking uncomfortable in his suit. The photographer circles us like a shark, capturing every moment for the press release.

A perfect PR spectacle. Exactly what we needed.

Two weeks ago, I wouldn't have believed this possible. But then again, two weeks ago, I was still just fantasizing about Mad, not slipping a ring on her finger.

The locker room stinks of defeat.

Two goals down in the third period, and we couldn't claw our way back. I slam my locker shut, still in my base layers, hair dripping from the shower.

Coach's voice cuts through the silence. "Clay, the PR team's waiting."

"Tell them to fuck off." I pull my shirt over my head. "I'm not in the mood."

"That attitude is exactly why they're waiting." He gives me the look that usually precedes bag skates at practice. "Get your shit together and do your job."

I throw my gear into my bag. It's immature, I know, but I'm beyond caring. PR bullshit is the last thing I need after a loss like this. Some rookie reporter asking what went wrong when it's fucking obvious what went wrong. We played like shit. I played like shit. It was a shit game, period.

***

The media room's empty by the time I drag myself there. Just Mad standing with her tablet, checking her watch.

"You're late."

"Plus points for being a keen observer. Another one for stating the obvious."

Her lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but I'll take it. "Everyone's gone. You missed the press conference."

"Tragedy."

"Anya's going to hear about this."

"Add it to my tab." I step closer, towering over her. Mad never backs up, never shows fear. Her eyes flick up to mine, that spark of challenge I live for.

"Your tab's getting pretty long, Clay."

<<<<1 2 3 11 >18

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Italian Daddy’s Girl Read Online Lena Little http://www.ilovenovels.com/italian-daddys-girl-read-online-lena-little Wed, 07 Jan 2026 10:40:21 +0000 http://www.ilovenovels.com/italian-daddys-girl-read-online-lena-little Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 17451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 87(@200wpm)___ 70(@250wpm)___ 58(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 >18

When desire crosses borders, nothing is off limits.
Some loves are forbidden. Some desires are impossible to ignore

Bella
My best friend bails on me, but I decide to make the most of my solo Italian adventure.
First up is a tour to a fabulous vineyard in the rolling Tuscan hills.
Amongst cypress trees, stone farmhouses and barns.
But Alex, the magnetic owner, won’t stop staring at me.
Curvy, innocent me!
He offers me a personalised private experience.
My cheeks burn. My hips sway like never before. What’s happening to me?
This sun-drenched afternoon tour turns instantly intoxicating in more ways than one.

Alex
She is everything I shouldn’t want—a civilian, a foreigner, an artist, an innocent abroad.
A goddamn tourist.
But I am drawn to this curvy woman in ways that overwhelm me.
I’m dangerously charming, impossibly wealthy.
But I hide secrets that shatter dreams. And destroy lives.
I get what I want, whenever I want.
I don’t want this woman – every bone in me needs her.
She came to Italy for wine and wonder – I can show her so much more.
But will my dark world repel her?
Or can I claim her heart — and her soul?
My desire is too raw to resist — or control.
Can a curvy, innocent artist tame a dark, powerful, Italian businessman?
He knows what he wants: She knows it, too!

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

1

BELLA

“You’re up early, Kitty,” I say, holding my phone to my ear as the rickety bus drives through the rolling Italian countryside. It’s a sunshiny afternoon.

“I wanted to make sure you didn’t hate me,” she replies. “So yeah, set my alarm for this godawful hour.”

“Family emergencies trump impromptu getaways. Chill—please. And take care of your mom. I’ll see you when I get back.”

“Thanks for being so understanding,” she replies.

“Don’t even think about mentioning it again.”

We say goodbye. Then I lean my forehead against the glass. Let a smile spread over my face.

Am I nervous to be traveling alone? You bet I am.

I’m twenty-three and this is the first time I’ve gone on a solo adventure. But this place is an artist’s dream. The light dancing and shimmering as if tempting me to pick up a paintbrush. I think I’ll survive.

I’ve got no choice anyway. I promised Grandma.

The bus stops. We step down one by one, squinting through the bright light at the magnificent scenery and sucking in the sweet, fresh air. The rolling hills are lined with neat rows of grapevines, workers moving between them. Stone farmhouses and barns dotted around the hills. Cypress trees and olive groves at every turn.

And right next to us, overlooking it all, is a big villa.

A man stands on the balcony. I bite down as a layer of sweat pearls on my skin. Not just because I’m a curvy girl in a tight-fitting dress.

The man wears a shirt open at the front. Sleeves rolled up, thick muscled forearms on display. The golden sun bounces in his silver hair. His eyes seem intense, broody, even with the distance between us.

The tourists—including me—gather below him without him even needing to speak. His presence commands it.

“Thank you all for coming,” he says. His husky tone does confusing and impossible things to me.

A shimmer moves up my spine. I fight the absolutely insane urge to press my legs together in response to the sudden flush of heat there.

His accent isn’t what I expected. Old-money American, New York. Sophisticated but without a hint of Italian.

“My name is Alessandro… Alex. I’ll be giving you the tour personally today.”

His eyes roam over the crowd of twenty. Then linger on me.

I bite my lip. Quickly release it. My overactive artist’s mind paints him in strokes of savage hugeness …

His muscles swelling out of his clothes.

His smirk is laced with lust and hunger, although that’s probably all in my head.

Time seems to stretch. His gaze doesn’t move from me. His eyes flit. Down. To my breasts. I don’t know whether to push them together in the sundress or to run away. A sudden shy urge to hide.

There’s something dangerous about him. Something exciting.

Dangerous and exciting?

Get it together, Bella.

“Let’s begin,” he growls, turning away. And we follow.

“This is my favorite area,” he says. His husky voice fills the cellar.

Up close, he’s even more magnetic. Makes me even more insane.

I continually assure myself I’m imagining the looks. The way his dark eyes move from the other tourists and linger on me. My nipples ache. Push against my bra like the garment was designed to give me pleasure. My underwear is wet. Uncomfortably so.

What’s happening to me?

“I like the coolness,” he says. “The darkness.” Again, his eyes move to me. “The privacy.”

My mind spirals. Privacy … with him.

I imagine him pushing me up against a barrel. His hand between my legs. Stroking those big fingers up and down my wet underwear.

You’re soaked for me. Good fucking girl.

I push the thought away—and it returns.

Try again. Fail again.

He walks to the bottom of the staircase. I move too fast. The other tourists are still lingering in the cellar. Not in a rush like me. Don’t need the fresh air as desperately as I do … as if it will clear my chaotic thoughts.

<<<<1 2 3 11 >18

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Auctioned to the Single Dad Read Online Lena Little http://www.ilovenovels.com/auctioned-to-the-single-dad-read-online-lena-little Thu, 25 Dec 2025 22:03:08 +0000 http://www.ilovenovels.com/auctioned-to-the-single-dad-read-online-lena-little Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love Authors: Lena Little Series: Series by Lena Little
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Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >29

He’s older, commanding, and determined to make her his—body and soul.

Ronan
I didn’t come here to bid and find a “companion for the weekend.”
Things like that are for the desperate and pathetic. At least, that’s what I felt before I saw her.
Rayne Silva. A golden-haired, blue-eyed goddess with a face and body that could make men forget their names and go mad with desire. And that’s exactly what happens.
Every instinct in me sharpens, and the ground underneath me disappears as she locks her gaze with mine.
No one else must have her.
She’s mine.
So I place the highest bid.
She thinks it’s just for the weekend, but I know better.
Rayne is in it for forever … even if she doesn’t know it yet.

________________________________________________________________________________________________
Will Rayne surrender to the fiery passion that ignites between them, or
will she resist the allure of a love that’s destined to consume her?

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

1

RONAN

“Ah, shit.”

I almost drop my champagne flute, catching it at the last second. The liquid sloshes against the crystal, threatening to spill over as my focus narrows to a single point across the crowded auction hall that’s been decorated for the holidays.

Her.

Who is she and why do I feel like the floor has just disappeared from underneath me? Like I’m standing on a boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, unmoored and alone?

A woman I’ve never seen before stands on the auction block, blonde hair falling in soft waves around her face. She’s not the polished trophy type these events typically parade. No, she’s soft curves and vulnerability, her blue eyes scanning the room like she's searching for an exit. Well, she probably is, and I can’t say I blame her one bit.

I’ve been to dozens of these “charity companion auctions.” Rich people buying a weekend with beautiful women and men, all under the thin veneer of philanthropy. Normal people buy gifts for themselves at Christmas. This is the billionaire version of that.

I came tonight only because Xavier, my VP of acquisitions and occasional friend, insisted our absence would be noticed. I had no intention of bidding.

That was the plan.

Until now.

The auctioneer drones on about her attributes—as if she’s a prize mare—while she stands there, shoulders slightly hunched, one hand clenching and unclenching, looking like she’d rather be anywhere but here. She wears a simple black dress, modest compared to the other offerings tonight. Nothing about her screams for attention, yet I can’t look away … not even if my life depends on it.

I set my champagne down on a passing waiter’s tray, my decision already made.

No one will have her but me. I’ll break the fingers off anyone who even thinks of touching her, owning her.

No, this woman is mine and mine alone.

“Bidding starts at five thousand dollars,” the auctioneer announces.

Several hands go up immediately. Of fucking course. I shouldn’t be surprised, and yet, fury rises within me as I check out some of the men I know try to outbid each other. I’m this close to wringing their necks for even thinking they’re allowed to breathe the same air as her.

Pathetic, delusional fuckers.

I watch her face as each bid registers—the flicker of dismay, quickly masked. She’s not here by choice. That much is clear.

A heavyset man in the front row raises his paddle. I recognize him—Gerhardt, old money, notorious for his “relationships” with auction companions that extend well beyond the contractual weekend. Something in me hardens when I see his eyes travel up her body. I could crush his windpipe without breaking a sweat. Or maybe I could just glare at him until he withers in my presence. That has always been effective in scaring even men twice my size.

“Fifty thousand,” I call out, not bothering with the paddle.

The room ripples with whispers. People turn to look at me, but I keep my eyes on her. For the first time, she meets my gaze directly. The relief that washes over her face is unmistakable and strangely satisfying.

Interesting.

“Fifty thousand from Mr. Ward,” the auctioneer confirms, barely concealing his excitement. “Do I hear fifty-five?”

Gerhardt turns, scowling when he spots me. He raises his paddle again. “Fifty-five.”

“A hundred fifty,” I counter immediately.

More whispers. The woman’s eyes widen, her lips parting slightly.

“A hundred fifty thousand dollars,” the auctioneer repeats, voice climbing an octave. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is already double our highest bid of the evening.”

I don’t care. Money means nothing to me. I’ve made and lost fortunes in single days. But something about this woman makes me want to empty my accounts just to keep her away from the other men in this room. I’m more than willing to use my bare hands, but, unfortunately for me, auctions don’t work that way.

“Hundred fifty-five,” calls a voice from the back.

My jaw tightens. I recognize this one too—Adrien Keller, tech billionaire, younger than me but with twice the reputation for debauchery.

Fuck no.

The woman’s face pales. Her other hand clutches the small purse she’s holding, knuckles white with tension.

“Two hundred thousand,” I say, loud enough to carry through the now-silent room.

Gerhardt turns back to the stage, contemplating. Keller steps forward, squinting at me through the dim light.

I could do this all fucking night.

“Come on, Ward,” he says with a laugh that doesn't reach his eyes. “Spread the wealth. Two-ten.”

She’s trembling now, barely perceptible unless you’re watching as closely as I am. Something protective and primal surges through me.

“Three hundred thousand,” I say flatly.

The gasps are audible. The auctioneer fumbles his gavel.

“T-three h-hundred thousand dollars from Mr. Ronan Ward,” he stammers. “Do I hear any advance on four hundred thousand?”

Gerhardt shakes his head, disgusted. Keller hesitates, then gives me a mocking bow of concession.

“Going once, going twice…” The auctioneer’s voice rises with each word, drawing out the moment. “Sold! To Mr. Ward for three hundred thousand dollars!”

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