Love Inc Series by Ella James – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.ilovenovels.com Tue, 08 Jun 2021 21:07:11 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=7.0 http://www.ilovenovels.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png Love Inc Series by Ella James – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.ilovenovels.com 32 32 Vegas Royals (Love Inc #0.5) Read Online Ella James http://www.ilovenovels.com/vegas-royals-love-inc-0-5-read-online-ella-james Tue, 08 Jun 2021 20:44:27 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/vegas-royals-love-inc-0-5-read-online-ella-james Categories Genre: Novella, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Love Inc Series by Ella James
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Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
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Vegas Royals (Love Inc #0.5)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Ella James
Language:
English
ISBN/ ASIN:
B08WZFCKSS
Book Information:

The gambler. The damaged one. The playboy with the devastating secret.
The desperate one. The mistress. The good girl who just snaps.
We're tangled in a web we can't break free of. What's at stake? Fortunes. Families. Lives.
Our lives.
The tabloids call us Vegas Royals. This is where our story begins.
*Vegas Royals is a bite-sized introduction to the Love Inc. world.
Books in Series:

Love Inc Series by Ella James
Books by Author:

Ella James


Prologue

Hunter

September—Las Vegas

IT’S EARLY SUNDAY MORNING, and I’m coming off a two-day tournament. I’m tired and hungry, chugging down a DeVille bottled water as I steer my Aston Martin through the clot of traffic on The Strip, crawling toward the private airport behind the golf club.

I won again, with a full house over queens in the last hand, but it was closer than it should have been. I collected my chips just after midnight, and we wrapped the show at 1:30. There was a room at the Bellagio for me, but I’m sick of the Bellagio. The last two times I stayed, I found company in my suite. I didn’t ask for any company.

I’m flying to the vineyard: my house, my big bed, absolute quiet. I won’t get to sleep for another couple hours—I can’t sleep on the Gulfstream—but it’ll be worth it once I get there. I’m tired of Vegas.

I’m still dressed in my poker black, and the jeans and button-up feel like sandpaper on my skin. I take another gulp. My head is throbbing like I just snorted a gram, but I didn’t. Four months sober. Four months celibate, too. No real reason why. I just got bored.

I’m starting to get that empty, ill feeling in my stomach that comes from lack of sleep when my buddy Marchant starts blowing up my phone. I let it ring as I navigate South Maryland Parkway. Twice, three times, four… On the fifth call, I pick up, sounding more pissed than I mean too. “What do you want?”

“I’ve got a favor, man.”

I groan, because I can hear in his voice that Marchant is hyped the hell up. “You got a favor you want to do for me?” I drawl. “Cause I could use a favor.”

“Nah, man.” He hesitates, the way he always does before he drops a bomb. “I need you to come out here. I’ve got something going on. I need you to run backup.”

Run backup? I’m not sure what that means, but I can already tell it’s going to be a pain in my ass. “You must be out your mind. It’s two forty-three.” I move the phone away from my face, scowling. “Are you rolling?”

“What? No. Look, just—hold on just a second.” I hear shuffling, followed by Marchant’s hiss as I roll into the parking lot of the tiny private airport where I keep my plane.

“Dude,” he says, after a moment of muffled static. “I got Priscilla Heat out here.”

He pauses, I guess expecting me to be impressed. When I’m not, he says, “She wants me and some of the girls for one of her videos.”

I shake my head. “I’m at the airport, March. I’m going to the vineyard for a little R&R.”

“You’re a bourbon heir, Hunter. You shouldn’t even have a fucking vineyard.”

I hit a button on my steering wheel, the garage door lifts, and I slide into the fourth slot in the garage. It’s dark in here, making me ache for sleep. “The word is ‘no.’ Have Rachelle watch the ranch for you.”

“C’mon, man, this is Priscilla Heat.”

Marchant is the kind of guy that has a favorite porn star, and Priscilla Heat, the lasered, lipo’d two-time World Boner Award winner, has been Marchant’s ultimate fantasy since college.

“I get it, dude, but use Rachelle.” Rachelle is Marchant’s right-hand woman. She can watch the cameras at Love Inc. just as well as he can, and besides, he’s got Richard on the ground. Richard and a team of big-ass bouncers.

“Rachelle is out,” he says sourly.

“What do you mean, she’s out?” I know for a fact she lives at Love Inc., Marchant’s fluffy bunny brothel.

“I mean her sister died. Rach won’t be back till October first.”

I rub my eyes. “Then tell Priscilla Heat to wait a week.”

“She won’t.” Marchant’s voice is low, almost a growl.

“Why not?” I throw my car door open, wincing as the garage’s interior lights blink on.

As I reach up to pull the cord that turns the automatic light off, I hear another puff, a pause where Marchant hesitates. Then he lowers his voice another octave. “She wants you here, man. She wants to spend the night with you and shoot the video here all week. It’s more than a video. It’s like a doc-u-fuck-ery or something.”

I lean my hip against my ride, looking out the garage window at my waiting jet as I start to understand.

“You need the money.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Damnit, Marchant.” I squeeze the bridge of my nose and swallow a sigh. “When this is over, I’m chaining you to one of your beds. No more going to Tao on Rach’s admin nights, either.”

I’m backing out of the garage a minute later, wheeling around and heading out toward I-215.

MARCH AND I met at Tulane, at the frat house. I had a shitty attitude because I joined under pressure from my father, and March was a party boy, moving through sorority girls like an assembly line. I thought he was full of shit, and he thought I was an uptight prick. But somehow the next semester we got stuck in adjoining rooms, and we’ve been good since.


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Selling Scarlett (Love Inc #1) Read Online Ella James http://www.ilovenovels.com/selling-scarlett-love-inc-1-read-online-ella-james Sun, 11 Apr 2021 14:54:36 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/selling-scarlett-love-inc-1-read-online-ella-james Categories Genre: BDSM, Contemporary, Erotic, New Adult, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Love Inc Series by Ella James
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Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
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(Love Inc #1) Selling Scarlett

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Ella James
Language:
English
ISBN/ ASIN:
B00CCRTFSC
Book Information:

Elizabeth DeVille doesn't belong at a party like this - one where the gowns cost more than her Camry and cigars run higher than her grad school utility bills. Dragged out of seclusion by her best friend Suri, Elizabeth is merely playing dress-up, rubbing elbows with a crowd that banished her troubled family years ago.
Hunter West is tired. Tired of parties, tired of pretending, and tired of trying to right a wrong that haunts him every day. Bourbon heir and professional poker player by day, by night Hunter is gambling with his life in a high-stakes game of crime and blackmail.
When Elizabeth stumbles into Hunter's den of vices, she's a light in the darkness, a flame in the void. And, just like everything he touches, Hunter mars her in a record time. To rectify the damage done, Elizabeth needs money she doesn't have, and she's come up with a foolproof way to get it.
Follow Elizabeth - code-named Scarlett - to the lush Nevada brothel where she'll auction her virginity and risk the only thing that's not for sale: her heart. The highest bidder is a familiar face, with wicked hands and the devil's mouth. And a secret so dark that it could cost her life.
Books in Series:

Love Inc Series by Ella James
Books by Author:

Ella James


Prologue

Hunter

September—Las Vegas

IT’S EARLY SUNDAY MORNING, and I’m coming off a two-day tournament. I’m tired and hungry, chugging down a DeVille bottled water as I steer my Aston Martin through the clot of traffic on The Strip, crawling toward the private airport behind the golf club.

I won again, with a full house over queens in the last hand, but it was closer than it should have been. I collected my chips just after midnight, and we wrapped the show at 1:30. There was a room at the Bellagio for me, but I’m sick of the Bellagio. The last two times I stayed, I found company in my suite. I didn’t ask for any company.

I’m flying to the vineyard: my house, my big bed, absolute quiet. I won’t get to sleep for another couple hours—I can’t sleep on the Gulfstream—but it’ll be worth it once I get there. I’m tired of Vegas.

I’m still dressed in my poker black, and the jeans and button-up feel like sandpaper on my skin. I take another gulp. My head is throbbing like I just snorted a gram, but I didn’t. Four months sober. Four months celibate, too. No real reason why. I just got bored.

I’m starting to get that empty, ill feeling in my stomach that comes from lack of sleep when my buddy Marchant starts blowing up my phone. I let it ring as I navigate South Maryland Parkway. Twice, three times, four… On the fifth call, I pick up, sounding more pissed than I mean too. “What do you want?”

“I’ve got a favor, man.”

I groan, because I can hear in his voice that Marchant is hyped the hell up. “You got a favor you want to do for me?” I drawl. “Cause I could use a favor.”

“Nah, man.” He hesitates, the way he always does before he drops a bomb. “I need you to come out here. I’ve got something going on. I need you to run backup.”

Run backup? I’m not sure what that means, but I can already tell it’s going to be a pain in my ass. “You must be out your mind. It’s two forty-three.” I move the phone away from my face, scowling. “Are you rolling?”

“What? No. Look, just—hold on just a second.” I hear shuffling, followed by Marchant’s hiss as I roll into the parking lot of the tiny private airport where I keep my plane.

“Dude,” he says, after a moment of muffled static. “I got Priscilla Heat out here.”

He pauses, I guess expecting me to be impressed. When I’m not, he says, “She wants me and some of the girls for one of her videos.”

I shake my head. “I’m at the airport, March. I’m going to the vineyard for a little R&R.”

“You’re a bourbon heir, Hunter. You shouldn’t even have a fucking vineyard.”

I hit a button on my steering wheel, the garage door lifts, and I slide into the fourth slot in the garage. It’s dark in here, making me ache for sleep. “The word is ‘no.’ Have Rachelle watch the ranch for you.”

“C’mon, man, this is Priscilla Heat.”

Marchant is the kind of guy that has a favorite porn star, and Priscilla Heat, the lasered, lipo’d two-time World Boner Award winner, has been Marchant’s ultimate fantasy since college.

“I get it, dude, but use Rachelle.” Rachelle is Marchant’s right-hand woman. She can watch the cameras at Love Inc. just as well as he can, and besides, he’s got Richard on the ground. Richard and a team of big-ass bouncers.

“Rachelle is out,” he says sourly.

“What do you mean, she’s out?” I know for a fact she lives at Love Inc., Marchant’s fluffy bunny brothel.

“I mean her sister died. Rach won’t be back till October first.”

I rub my eyes. “Then tell Priscilla Heat to wait a week.”

“She won’t.” Marchant’s voice is low, almost a growl.

“Why not?” I throw my car door open, wincing as the garage’s interior lights blink on.

As I reach up to pull the cord that turns the automatic light off, I hear another puff, a pause where Marchant hesitates. Then he lowers his voice another octave. “She wants you here, man. She wants to spend the night with you and shoot the video here all week. It’s more than a video. It’s like a doc-u-fuck-ery or something.”

I lean my hip against my ride, looking out the garage window at my waiting jet as I start to understand.

“You need the money.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Damnit, Marchant.” I squeeze the bridge of my nose and swallow a sigh. “When this is over, I’m chaining you to one of your beds. No more going to Tao on Rach’s admin nights, either.”

I’m backing out of the garage a minute later, wheeling around and heading out toward I-215.

MARCH AND I met at Tulane, at the frat house. I had a shitty attitude because I joined under pressure from my father, and March was a party boy, moving through sorority girls like an assembly line. I thought he was full of shit, and he thought I was an uptight prick. But somehow the next semester we got stuck in adjoining rooms, and we’ve been good since.


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Taming Cross (Love Inc #2) Read Online Ella James http://www.ilovenovels.com/taming-cross-love-inc-2-read-online-ella-james Sun, 11 Apr 2021 14:54:36 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/taming-cross-love-inc-2-read-online-ella-james Categories Genre: BDSM, Contemporary, Erotic, New Adult, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Love Inc Series by Ella James
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Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
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(Love Inc #2) Taming Cross

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Ella James
Language:
English
Book Information:

For twenty-three years, Cross Carlson was a playboy. You know the type. Tall, dark, and wealthy. Blue-eyed. Charming. He seemed to have it all so easy. But Cross was harboring a terrible secret - one that helped ruin the life of an innocent girl and almost ended his own.
Finally out of the hospital, Cross is flailing, scarred in both body and mind and stifled by the weight of the secret he still keeps. The only way to absolution lies in a Mexican convent, and going there could cost him everything.
If there's anyone who knows what it's like to screw up big time, it's Meredith Kinsey. Just a few years ago, Merri was an ordinary girl with a job at her college newspaper and white picket fence kind of dreams. Now she's holed up in a Mexican convent, hiding from a drug lord who thinks he owns her.
What happens when the only way out of hell is with the son of the man who put you there? They say love conquers all, but does it really?
Books in Series:

Love Inc Series by Ella James
Books by Author:

Ella James


1

Cross

SINCE THE ACCIDENT, I've had a sixth sense. I think it started because of the pain. I don't remember much about the coma—most of it is sounds and smells and feelings stretched apart and pushed together like a dream—but I remember the pain. It was...different than the pain you feel when you're awake. The kind of shit that flows through every part of you. Sweeps you up and swallows you. And lots of times, I could feel it coming like you hear a train from a few miles out.

The day I had the stroke was like that. I had started to come around a little, and my body knew its routines, even if my mind was still in Neverland. I could tell something was wrong when they wheeled me out of my room and into the ambulance, moving me from the private rehab where I started to a state facility for people whose families couldn’t afford more, or in my case, just said fuck it. As they lifted my stretcher into the ambulance, I could feel a current of panic underneath the waves of nothing.

Since I’ve come out of the coma, every time I get that panicked feeling, bad things happen.

Like when I got it two months ago, sitting in my friend Lizzy’s Camry, waiting for her to come out of Hunter West’s house in Napa. I woke up from a nap drenched in cold sweat, just as Priscilla Heat—my dad’s former mistress, who sold her predecessor into the sex trade—walked around the house and tapped her long red nails on my window. And I knew, half a second before I saw the spark of her Taser, that I was fucked. Sixth sense.

Tonight, I tell myself it's just my parents throwing off my equilibrium. Making me feel bad. That weird kind of bad I've come to know and fear. The fingers of my left hand tingle and my neck feels tight. I blink in the mirror, squeeze my eyes shut. Grab a deep breath. Keep shaving.

I don't shave every day anymore, but my pal Suri will be here in a few minutes to accompany me on my grim excursion, and I want to clean up for her.

When was the last day I went out? Suri and Lizzy hauled me to The Napa Noodle…eight days ago? The night before they left for Paris. They got back yesterday—Friday—with Lizzy's wedding gown in tow. I left the house on Monday. Grocery run. So yeah, it's been four days.

I'm taking it slow on my neck—I'm a leftie, and since my motorcycle wreck, my left hand’s pretty much fucked—but when I hear the bell atop the shop door ding, I speed up. Occasionally when I was in rehab, Suri shaved me, and if she sees how long it takes me, even after three month’s practice, she's likely to try again.

My fingers sweat as I finish up my jaw. I hear the clack of expensive heels on the cement stairs leading up to my loft, and—fuck! There’s a sharp sting under the razor, followed by a splotch of blood that quickly snakes down my neck. I'm muttering curses, tossing the razor into the sink, when Suri calls my name.

“Just a second,” I call through the door.

Dammit, I sound surly.

“Okay.” Suri, as always, sounds like she belongs in the angel choir.

I pull open the swing-out mirror, revealing a shallow medicine cabinet that doesn't hold a shave stick. Shit. Through the door, I can hear Suri humming “Sympathy for the Devil.” Guilt prickles through me, like I'm growing a cactus underneath my skin, and I feel it again—that dark tug that's just a breath away from panic.

I use my stupid but working right hand to press tissue against the cut while I ease my left arm into its shirt sleeve. A few of my half-curled fingers get caught on the inside of the cuff, and I'm trying to get my numb hand through when she calls, “C? You okay in there?”

“Fine.” I'm trying for a more chill tone this time, but I don't really manage it. I still sound grumpy. I’m probably the last person Suri should be spending her night with. Except, of course, my asshole parents—and they're the reason for this ordeal.

I smash the tissue onto my jaw and inhale deeply. This was a mistake, letting her go with me. I pull the tissue off my face. It's still bleeding, but it's slowed enough now that I can get my shirt the rest of the way on.

The dress shirt is blue, which I happen to know makes my blue eyes look bluer, not that I give a fuck tonight. It feels like a lifetime since I tried to get a piece of ass—or thought about my appearance. I'm only looking myself over now to see what my parents will see: dark brown hair still a little shorter than I used to wear it; probably a good thing, because it makes me look bulkier. As I run my gaze down my shoulders, chest, and pants, and then back up to my face, I see myself clearly for the first time in a while, and I'm surprised to feel a sick pit in my stomach.


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