The Love Duet Series by Xavier Neal – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read

The Love Duet Series by Xavier Neal – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.wownovels.com Sun, 09 Oct 2022 12:20:30 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=7.0.4 http://www.wownovels.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png The Love Duet Series by Xavier Neal – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.wownovels.com 32 32 First Love (The Love Duet #1) Read Online Xavier Neal http://www.wownovels.com/first-love-the-love-duet-1-read-online-xavier-neal Sun, 09 Oct 2022 12:20:30 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/first-love-the-love-duet-1-read-online-xavier-neal Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Erotic, Insta-Love Authors: Xavier Neal Series: The Love Duet Series by Xavier Neal
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Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)

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

*************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:https://spoti.fi/3JMDJ2G

Chapter 1

Ryder

- “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.

Ha.

Guilt.

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”.

Me.

“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.

“Patient.”

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.

Reminiscing.

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

Drugs.

Alcohol.

Dick.

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.

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Last Love (The Love Duet #1) Read Online Xavier Neal http://www.wownovels.com/last-love-the-love-duet-1-read-online-xavier-neal Sun, 09 Oct 2022 12:20:29 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/last-love-the-love-duet-1-read-online-xavier-neal Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Erotic, Insta-Love Authors: Xavier Neal Series: The Love Duet Series by Xavier Neal
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Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >97

Ryder Collins wasn’t always this determined.
This optimistic.
This devoted.
Once upon a time he was fractured.
Resentful.
Disgusted by his entire existence.
So, what happened?
He’s finally given the opportunity to make things right with his soulmate.
Hopefully.

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

Playlist Selects

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

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

1. Come Away With Me – Norah Jones (Jazzy/Piano Pop)

2. Here Ever After – Red Hot Chili Peppers (Rock)

3. Selfish – Slum Village, John Legend, Kayne West (Rap/Hip-Hop)

4. Pusher Love Girl – Justin Timberlake (R&B)

5. Her World or Mine – Michael Ray (Country)

More songs: https://spoti.fi/3JMDJ2G

Chapter 1

Ryder

- “Life without you was barely worth getting out of bed in the morning.” -

“My name is Ryder Collins,” I begrudgingly announce from behind the too short podium. “And I’m a recovering drug addict.”

Fucking obviously.

It’s not like I walked into a shopper’s anonymous meeting.

The goddamn words written on the dry erase board right outside the door tell everyone and anyone walking by exactly why I’m here.

Why we’re all here.

Why we’re all sitting in this bland fucking environment watching each other ramble instead of binge watching something more entertaining on Netflix.

Why we sit in uncomfortable fucking fold out chairs like we’re in a middle school assembly just thinking about how long is left until the bell rings to dismiss us.

I highly doubt that any of us want to be here.

Just like I highly fucking doubt anyone of us want to be standing where I’m currently standing.

Giving this fucking speech I damn sure don’t wanna be giving.

I mean it’s so fucking over rehearsed.

Empty.

Hollow.

I’ve said these words so many times over the past couple of weeks that they’ve completely lost their meaning.

Recovering?

Fuck that, I’m recovered.

I haven’t touched the shit in months.

Shouldn’t that put my ass in the past tense version of that shit?

See, but that’s the thing about being an addict.

You’re always recovering unless you’re using.

You’re always an addict.

It’s a disease.

A fucking plague.

And no matter how hard you scrub your name, your personality, your actions, your goddamn soul, you will forever be permanently branded with the black stain of your mistakes.

Your shortcomings.

Your weakest moments that you wish you could forget.

You know since self-disdain isn’t enough atonement on its own, it only makes sense that you have to bear the bleakest branding possible for however many days you have left on this wasteland we have the balls to call paradise.

Alright.

So maybe I need to attend a crabby assholes anonymous meeting too.

Get some tips on how the fuck to lift my spirits.

Turns out just being “free” doesn’t automatically do that shit.

I grip the edges of the wooden stand a little harder as I begin my insipid retelling of how I found myself on this particular path.

While every gathering begins with the same trite start – the introduction of who you are and what you are – each one touches on a different topic.

Different moments.

Sometimes they have us looking backwards, reflecting on what once was – an exercise I’ve already fucking perfected – and at other times they have us looking forward – an activity I haven’t trained myself to do past the very next day.

“One day a time…” were Doc’s final words to me.

They fucking stuck.

I wake up repeating them.

I go to bed reciting them.

I even jog – fuck, I hate jogging – to them.

Noah says it’s perfectly normal to have a mantra.

That he even has one.

I think he wanted me to ask about it, but I didn’t.

Maybe someday I will.

As for now?

I think he’s just grateful I share mine.

And I’m grateful I don’t feel like he’s judging me for it.

The watered-down depiction of my descent holds the audience attention to the same degree it holds my own when it’s me sitting in the seats rather than standing. Unlike the elaborate version I went through with Doc, which highlighted more to me than I previously allowed it, I deliver one that gets enough of the point across.

I used drugs to numb the pain for years.

Forget who I was.

Forget the fuckups I had made.

In admitting this mistake to a room full of people with the same fault, it feels okay to accept I am no better than they are nor am I worse.

Fact of the shit is…we’re all on the same abstemious journey.

And we are all in need of the same substantial support.

Part of me likes that.

Fuck, part of me finds so much goddamn comfort in that.

At the end of my short story, I escort myself back to my seat to the sound of applause meant to congratulate me on my bravery for telling my tale.

I don’t feel brave.

I feel like a fucking loser.

Maybe there’s a fucking meeting I can go to for that shit as well?

Or a class?

Jan Holtby, our host, and a retired Chief Petty Officer of the Coast Guard, returns to the stand to close the meeting the same way she always does. There’s gratitude expressed my direction once more for speaking, key things to takeaway, and a tough love reminder framed in a military camaraderie sense that tends to leave us feeling ready to handle whatever will come our way this week.

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