Steamy Latte Reads Collection Series by Whitney G – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read

Steamy Latte Reads Collection Series by Whitney G – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.ilovenovels.com Thu, 25 Sep 2025 16:05:00 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=7.0 http://www.ilovenovels.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png Steamy Latte Reads Collection Series by Whitney G – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.ilovenovels.com 32 32 Devilish Bully (Steamy Latte Reads Collection #3) Read Online Whitney G http://www.ilovenovels.com/devilish-bully-steamy-latte-reads-collection-3-read-online-whitney-g Thu, 25 Sep 2025 16:05:00 +0000 http://www.ilovenovels.com/devilish-bully-steamy-latte-reads-collection-3-read-online-whitney-g Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary, Novella Authors: Whitney G. Series: Steamy Latte Reads Collection Series by Whitney G
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Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 23753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)

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Employee Satisfaction Survey Response

0/10 stars. If I could give this a**hole CEO a negative rating, I would. He’s never been wrong a day in his life, turns our meetings into hostage situations, and I swear he cuts people off mid-sentence just to hear himself talk.

I thought employee surveys were supposed to be anonymous.

I also thought it was a great idea to fill one out after half a bottle of cheap tequila… instead of finishing the quarterly project he’s been hounding me about for weeks.

Turns out, I was wrong.

One week later, our CEO is in the middle of a boardroom speech about “transparency” when he pulls my survey up on the big screen—and reads it aloud, word for word.

Including my name.

I’m so effin screwed…

Firing me would’ve been the merciful option.

Instead, he decides to “make an example out of me.”

Now I’m his shadow—dragged into every meeting, roped into client dinners, and shoved onto impossible deadlines that mysteriously appear on my desk after midnight.

He says it’s a “lesson in professionalism.”

I say it’s punishment from a devilish bully with a very long memory.

And if hell hath no fury like a scorned boss, mine is about to make me believe it

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

THE CEO

LUCIAN

Welcome to Hell on Earth…

The digital screen in my executive lounge blazes fiery orange, my face burning at the center of the flames like a storybook villain.

I sip my coffee, waiting for the next insult.

Remember: NEVER make eye contact with Satan, our “beloved” CEO.

Now my face is slapped onto a serpent, above a collage of every person I’ve fired this year—all of them in matching T-shirts: Fuck Lucian Pearson.

On any other day, I’d probably find this amusing, but with a huge IPO looming, the last thing my staff should be doing is plastering this nonsense on every screen in my building.

I’m definitely firing whoever did this.

“You know…” My father stares at the screen, shaking his head. “When I was in charge of this company, I knew every employee by name. I knew when their kids’ birthdays were, and hell, I even got invited to all their weddings.”

“You had twenty employees—total, and your company was nothing like the one I’ve made it into today.”

“My employees loved coming to work, and they never compared me to Satan because I treated them like family.”

“Family on a payroll…”

“Your mom and I wanted them to be happy because happiness equals productivity. And when you add those things together, what do you get, son?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I’ve never believed in that equation.”

“Clearly.” He crumples his cup and tosses it toward the trash bin.

He misses it—as always—and my assistant Brian picks it up and re-shoots.

“That was a very nice shot, sir.” He lies. “You’ve still got it!”

“I know.” He smiles. “I would’ve been in the NBA if I didn’t get into business.”

Right… “Brian, can you give him a tour of the conference level I renovated last month?”

“Don’t bother.” My father huffs. “I’ve seen enough of what you’ve turned my business into, and I’m sure it’s just as soulless as everything else.”

I grit my teeth.

“Isn’t being worth one billion enough, son?” He looks at me. “Do you really need to go public with an IPO to strive for even more money?”

I don’t say a word.

We’ve traveled down this road of conversation too many times before and our final destination is always Misunderstanding Lane or Animosity Avenue.

Somehow, he’s forgotten that he begged me to take over his company when he was bleeding money, when his “family” employees were taking his kindness for weakness and stealing millions right in front of his eyes.

Within five years of me taking over—after putting a lot of distance between me and the growing staff and taking a far more ruthless approach to “business”—Pearson Industries grew from a small upstate paper supplier to the top supplier in the country.

I still pay him and my mother CEO-level salaries even though they’ll never have to lift a finger for the rest of their lives.

“I’m worried that you’ll never find true happiness in life, Lucian.” My father is still talking. Unfortunately. “You barely have any friends, I never hear about you dating anyone, and your mother is worried we’ll never get any grandkids from you.”

Okay, that’s enough for the day. “I need to get to work, Dad. It was nice seeing you here uninvited. Again.”

“You looked beyond handsome on the cover of GQ last month.” He ignores my wish for him to head for the exit, pulling a wrinkled magazine from his breast pocket. “I refuse to believe that you can’t pull a single woman in this city. Unless—are you bad in bed? Is something wrong with your dick?”

Jesus… “There’s nothing wrong down there. Trust me. I just don’t have time.”

“Well, you would if you reconsider the IPO,” he says, putting the paper away. “Rethink that for me and your mom, please.”

“Okay, Dad. I will.” I nod, even though I won’t.

I can’t… I’ve come too far.

He smiles and looks at Brian. “Before I leave, can you post a reminder in his schedule about his mother’s upcoming birthday celebration? It’s a multi-day event.”

“It’s already been done, sir.”

“Good.” My father walks to the hall where his personal driver is standing near the elevator bank.

As always, Brian and I wait until they descend out of view. Then we walk to the windows and make sure that they actually get inside the waiting town car. Sometimes, my dad will turn around and return to the building to chat with my employees.

We’re in the clear today, though.

His car pulls into Manhattan’s traffic, and I exhale.

One crisis down. On to the next.

“Okay.” I look at Brian. “Tell me that he hasn’t spoken to any media lately, and that he didn’t do any damage while he was here today.”

“He sent a mass email to every employee, encouraging them to fill out ‘Rate the CEO’ surveys ahead of the next all-hands meeting.”

“Okay.” I shrug. “It went straight to spam as always, right?”

“No.” He hands me his tablet, showing me the subject line of an email that came from my account.

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Wolfish Player (Steamy Latte Reads Collection #2) Read Online Whitney G http://www.ilovenovels.com/wolfish-player-steamy-latte-reads-collection-2-read-online-whitney-g Thu, 25 Sep 2025 16:04:56 +0000 http://www.ilovenovels.com/wolfish-player-steamy-latte-reads-collection-2-read-online-whitney-g Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary, Novella Authors: Whitney G. Series: Steamy Latte Reads Collection Series by Whitney G
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Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 24610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)

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Subject: Congratulations! We are thrilled to offer you an advance on your next book!

The moment I got that email, I swore my days of being a broke indie author were officially over.
I bought a new house, traveled, splurged on things I definitely didn’t need… and, um—kind of forgot to actually write the book.
By the time my deadline rolled around, I had almost nothing to show for it. My endless “Just need a little more time for my muse” excuses weren’t cutting it anymore.
So, I swallowed my pride and came clean—while hatching a plan to get “inspiration” and pay back some of the advance at the same time. The plan? Get a job at the very publishing company that gave me the deal, so I could:

1) Make money to keep a roof over my head.
2) Start repaying the advance.
3) Gather firsthand material for the office romance I was two years late delivering.

It sounded like a good idea… until I actually got the job.
Until I realized the CEO of the publishing house was an arrogant, cunning wolf in a bespoke suit—
The same man I told to f*ck off two nights ago.
The same man I may have thrown a drink on (but that’s a story for another day).
Now I swear being his so-called “intern” is an exercise in hell… and from the way he’s circling me, I have no intention of being his prey

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

THE CEO

ADRIAN

It takes a certain type of author to make me hate publishing books. The rare and uncomfortable loathing comes every blue moon, but whenever it arrives, it’s always because of an indie author…

I’ve been running Grey Wolf Publishing since the day my father handed it to me at eighteen, and I’ve grown it from a small newspaper business to a conglomerate that lands books on bestseller charts, runs popular podcast networks, and distributes award-winning films.

I know what it takes to pen a compelling story—all the proper avenues to drive it to success—and yet, every last Friday of the month, I find myself bracing for “Red Flag Day.”

With a senior-level editor, we pull up the list of books we’re owed, analyze which authors are on time versus which ones are not, and then try to figure out what the hell is going on.

Every missed deadline isn’t just an inconvenience—it’s a six-figure marketing campaign stalled, an investor breathing down my neck, a brand that looks weaker with every broken promise.

“I’m ready if you are.” Marcia, one of my longest-standing team members, approaches my desk with a coffee. Loyal to a fault, she’s been with me since the early days, sharp enough to anticipate my reactions before I speak. “Let’s start in reverse this time, shall we?”

“Go ahead.”

“First up is Russell Swanson, the social media all-star we signed to a six-figure deal last year,” she says. “He’s penning a highly anticipated sci-fi saga.”

“I remember him.”

“Well, he just turned in his final manuscript, and the editors love his draft, so I’m going to remit part of his payment today.”

“Why is he on our red flag list if he’s not late?”

“He wrote ‘Fuck Adrian Wolfson’ on his dedication page.”

“Tell him I appreciate his offer, but I only fuck women.”

“Do you want me to make him change that page?”

“I’m shocked you’re even asking me that,” I say. “Next author.”

“Shelby Ellington,” she says. “Fantasy author who’s penning the long-awaited Realm of Ruby. She’s asking for another extension.”

“We just gave her one two months ago.”

“Her editor says she really needs it, too.” She tosses me a map of the fictional world. “They’re shifting some things around.”

I glance at the intricately drawn sheet, tracing my fingers from the forsaken mountains to the endless plains.

“Give her one hundred and eighty days to be sure,” I say. “And pair her with another developmental editor for the extra support.”

“Will do.”

We spend the next forty minutes speeding through extension requests, and to my surprise, there aren’t that many today.

“Last up, we have romance.” Her tone suddenly shifts from optimistic to uneasy. “The uh, newest indie romance authors we acquired…”

“I need another cup of coffee first.”

She calls for an intern to refill my cup, and I glance at my printed copy of the list.

Romance is our most profitable genre—the crown jewel of Grey Wolf—but if readers knew half the insane shit these authors pulled behind the scenes, they’d petition to send them to an asylum instead of a book signing.

How the hell can eighteen authors miss their deadlines?

“I’m ready when you are, Mr. Wolfson.” Marcia clears her throat. “Just say the word.”

I say nothing.

“Okay, fine.” She lets out a sigh. “Let’s start with the books that we’ve been waiting on the longest.”

I sip my coffee, hoping deep down that this will zoom by as fast as the other genres.

“The Final Terms by Allyson Harmony,” she says. “It’s the second standalone in an international bestselling office romance series.”

“I remember that one,” I say. “The author didn’t show up to the high-priced re-release party we threw for her.”

“She’s very shy, sir. She always has been.”

“Right… What’s the status of the next book in the series?”

“She was supposed to turn it in last year, but she kept having some personal issues so we kept giving her extensions.”

“That’s not what I asked you.” I lean forward. “What’s the status of the book?”

“She’s requesting an extension via her agent before she reveals anything this time?”

I roll my eyes. “What was her reason last time?”

“Her pet fish died.”

“Excuse me?”

“It was coming off the heels of an intense battle with writer’s block, and she said she needed time to deal with her anxiety.”

Bullshit.

“How much more time is she claiming to need now?”

“A full year.”

I lean back in my chair, jaw tightening. “Remind me how much her deal was worth.”

“Two million dollars.”

“We paid that upfront?”

“No, we only paid half up front. A quarter is due on draft delivery, and we’ll pay the rest on publication.”

“If there’s a publication…” I pull out my phone and venture to this author’s social media. None of her posts feature her face, and she doesn’t have a photo on her “about” page on her website either.

Her bio reads like she pulled it from a How to Write the Vaguest Shit Ever guide:

Allyson Harmony loves writing romance and thriller stories. She also loves drinking coffee with her best friend.

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Selfish Suit (Steamy Latte Reads Collection #1) Read Online Whitney G http://www.ilovenovels.com/selfish-suit-steamy-latte-reads-collection-1-read-online-whitney-g Tue, 05 Aug 2025 19:55:53 +0000 http://www.ilovenovels.com/selfish-suit-steamy-latte-reads-collection-1-read-online-whitney-g Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary, Erotic, Novella Authors: Whitney G. Series: Steamy Latte Reads Collection Series by Whitney G
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Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 29567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)

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Message from UberEats App (A$$h*le Customer):
You're now officially 15 minutes late, so I'm docking your tip for every second my dinner isn't in my hands.
By the way, this was my first—and likely last—time using this app…

The moment I received that message, I should've opened the guy's $300 pasta and wine order and thrown it out the window.

If I wasn't in desperate need of the money, trust me, I would've.

By the time I deliver the order to a hotel suite in Manhattan, I'm soaked from the rain, exhausted, and shocked as hell at who the customer is.

Dominic Sutton.
As in billionaire Dominic Sutton—and the selfish a$$hole who runs the other place I work.

I really should've kept my mouth shut…

When he has the audacity to tip me 3%—three freaking percent—I snap. I tell him exactly what I think of his revolving door of interns, his policy that staff can't even look him in the eyes, and let him know he's the worst CEO in the world.

The sexy smirk on his face makes it clear that my rant doesn't faze him in the slightest.

That's when I take his pricey food and storm back downstairs to my car.
(Yes, it tasted amazing…)

I honestly thought he'd forget all about me—he has far bigger things to worry about.

Until I get to work the following Friday.
There's an email waiting for

Report to the executive floor to see me. Now.

Something tells me I'm about to find out just how ruthless—and selfish—this man really is.

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

THE CEO

DOMINIC

The worst part about running a billion-dollar marketing empire is the fact that you have to sit through an endless session of stupid ideas before reaching an average one. The “brilliant” kind are one in a million, and most of the time, you’re left wondering why the hell you ever got into marketing in the first place.

I’ve always prided myself on being able to market anything, and after seeing so much success, I decided to give back. But sitting through days of terrible presentations makes me want to never do anything charitable in my life again.

“Now that I’ve introduced myself,” the man standing at the front of my boardroom says, “allow me to show you a product that’s about to revolutionize the car industry…”

He pulls a white sheet from a box, revealing… a tire wrapped in bright blue fabric.

“Behold, ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “Tire Toes! I.e., ways to make the tires on your luxury cars feel safe, secure, and cared for.”

Jesus Christ…

“Before you say it, we know that ‘tire socks’ already exist, but those are for cars in inclement weather, and they serve an entirely different purpose. These are for style, for class, for showing the world that you take your luxury car seriously.”

I glance at my partner—Braxton. I’m waiting for him to meet my eyes so I can give him the “Get them the hell out of here” signal, but he has the audacity to look intrigued about this bullshit.

“How do they hold up in rain?” he asks.

“Very well so far,” the guy responds. “The ten customers we’ve had so far haven’t had any complaints.”

“You only have ten customers?” I sit up. “How the hell did you get this meeting?”

“Ten very happy customers,” he counters. “They paid two thousand dollars each for these, so I’d say that’s quite impressive.”

“What exactly do the Tire Toes do?” I ask. “What is their actual purpose?”

“They’re for style and making the tire—which is always left out in the car bragging process—feel good.”

“So, the tires on our cars have feelings?”

“Shhh.” Braxton finally looks over at me. “Let them finish, Dominic. I’m really enjoying this.”

I’m sure.

I mentally check out as the guy drones on. I have six more of these to sit through, and I’m already over it.

Sliding my phone from my pocket, I scroll through my email under the table.

At this rate, there’s no way I’ll have time to step out for dinner between the final pitch and a late-night Zoom with a London client.

As I’m debating where I can possibly go for food, Braxton claps his hands—making me look up.

We’re now alone in the boardroom.

All the Tire Toes have rolled out.

“You know,” he says, “the next time you have the audacity to ask why everyone calls you a selfish asshole, look no further than this meeting.”

“We need to fire whoever let them onto our schedule,” I say. “Did you let them down nicely?”

“I offered ten thousand for their enthusiasm but said we wouldn’t be able to invest.”

“I’m sorry, how much?”

“You spend that on a tie.” He shrugs. “Look at it as a fine for being rude as hell. You didn’t even get up to shake their hands, not even after they left us with a complimentary set of tire socks.”

“Tire Toes,” I correct him. “I’ll send them an apology email. Happy?”

“No.” He smiles. “But I will be if you promise to pay full attention to who’s coming next.”

“What’s the product?”

“Promise me first.”

Hell no. “What’s the product?”

“Straw protectors.”

I give him a blank stare.

I wait for him to tell me he’s joking—that this is just him dishing out sarcasm—but he walks to the door to usher in the next group.

Their oversized pink and green straws tell me all I need to know.

“Tell you what,” he says, “I’ll treat you to dinner to make up for this.”

“My chef’s out of town, and I don’t feel like making a reservation anywhere.”

“That’s not a problem.” He shrugs, pulling out his wallet. He takes out four hundred-dollar bills and hands them to me. “Just use UberEats.”

“Uber what?”

“Eats.” He blinks. “UberEats. You know, food delivery for places that don’t have their own delivery drivers…”

“Is this you leading up to another marketing pitch I’m about to sit through?”

“Oh, wow.” He laughs. “Becoming a billionaire has truly left you out of touch with the real world these past few years, hasn’t it?”

“I’m still stuck on this company’s name,” I say. “Uber and then Eats? As one word?”

He rolls his eyes and takes my phone, downloading the app without my permission. He doesn’t need to ask for my email or ideal password—it’s always Ifuckingrunthiscity with my birth year.

I watch as he refines my preferences, and then my favorite restaurant appears, with their complete menu.

“There,” he says. “Select everything you want, pick a delivery time, and voilà. Oh, and I put your address as the secondary office since that’s where we’ll be working tonight.”

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