First Love (The Love Duet #1) Read Online Xavier Neal

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Erotic, Insta-Love Tags Authors: Series: The Love Duet Series by Xavier Neal

Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)

Ryder Collins wasn’t always this broken.
This bitter.
This miserable.
Once upon a time he was whole.
Excited for what his future held.
So, what happened?
His soulmate walked out of his life.

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

Playlist Selects

Here are five songs from the “First Love” playlist!

Feel free to follow the playlist on Spotify to find more songs I felt related to the book.

1. Rescue Me – Thirty Seconds To Mars (Rock)

2. I’m Still Standing – Elton John (English Pop)

3. The Light – Common (Rap/Hip-Hop)

4. Just the Way You Are – Bruno Mars (R&B)

5. Memory – Kane Brown feature blackbear (Country)

More songs:

Chapter 1


- “You were my first addiction, my sweetest high.” -

The amount of bullshit I hate never seems to stop growing. You’d think at some point it would. That I’d reach a fucking max. Fuck, it’s like the rest of your life has fucking limits why wouldn’t the amount of shit you can’t tolerate, but I can honestly say – and I don’t say much honest shit anymore – that I haven’t reached my capacity in the department.

Especially not in here.

Especially not now.

For fucks sake, I hate the fucking way the walls are painted a perfect, pretentious white. I hate that no matter what happens in this hellhole they somehow always manage to stay that same shade of unblemished white. I also really fucking hate the stupid trite phrases that are framed on them. Shit like, “Keep going.” and “Hang in there.” and “Winners never quit, and quitters never win.”.

Basically, all the bullshit slogans that belong on cheap grocery store greeting cards that most people shell out for when they’re feeling guilty about the text they forgot to send.



There’s one fucked up emotion I’ve made a habit of pretending doesn’t eat at me as much as it consciously does.

Which of course brings me to the very fucking thing I hate most about this poorly staged sanctuary where those with too much money and not enough rules end up on their “journey” to “sobriety”.


“You Collins?” an unexpectedly deep, gravelly voice inquires causing my eyes to shift away from the large windows, which lets the light in.

Too much light.

It highlights everything so effortlessly.

The missed crumbs on the floor and poorly mopped around spots.

Sure, the air smells fucking crisp and clean to the point you’d think everything was sterile yet the sun…the sun reveals the truth the janitorial staff does its best to hide.

That we all do our best to fucking hide.

The edge of my thumb unconsciously strokes my broken hourglass forearm tattoo that’s used to cover up a history of mistakes.

Bar fights.

Violent ex fuck toys.

Couple needle marks.

What’s extra fucked up is I also use the damn thing to remind me of one lesson I’ve actually managed to learn over the years.

Time waits for no one.

Especially not fuck ups like me.

“Gonna take that silent shit as a yes,” says the bald male whose salt and pepper goatee adds to the intimidation his brick shithouse size already indicates.

This asshole can take it however the fuck he wants.

He’s here to do a goddamn job.

Which isn’t to recruit me for whatever fucking motorcycle club he most likely used to ride for.

How the fuck he ended up as a therapist or counselor is a story I wouldn’t mind sitting around to hear.

It ain’t like I really got shit else to do in here.

Besides, shooting the shit with an old MC member would probably work out better than being seduced like the last shrink they sent to break the unbreakable prisoner.

Oh, I’m sorry.


Man, I wish they’d fuck off with that bullshit.

I’m still serving a goddamn sentence. And just because the chains are invisible doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

“Hall left in her notes that you weren’t much of a talker.” An impressed expression doesn’t spread across his grim face, which has yet to look up from the paperwork he’s glaring at. “Good to know her words can be trusted.”

Trusted seems like a stretch.

Bora Hall – the dark-haired bombshell Albanian the old me would’ve fucked twice without hesitating – was more of a toy than a tool for my rehabilitation. The less I talked the tighter her blouses got. The less I seemed to look the more inches she took off her skirt. And when I threatened to not show up at all, she stopped wearing panties. She took my silence as consent to help herself to touching my tattoos, and the dark looks given as heated interest rather than devious amusement.

See…I liked having her beg.

For my interest.

My attention.

My fucking cock.

I liked having power in an institution that thrives on their residents having none.

While I didn’t break the celibacy bubble that I’ve fucking fumbled into, I did get a contact type of high from our games. It was just enough to stir the starving beast that’s dying deep inside. Got it talking.


Reminding me of the days where no one would dare tell me no for I held the keys to what they wanted.




The returned craving for the life that almost completely consumed me led to my refusing of any more sessions with her. And eventually – like most so-called secrets – her unconventional methods for fucking the inmates – of all ages and genders – resulted in her termination.