6 Book(s) Related to disarming behavior wow

Cynic. F*ck up. Outsider. That's Jameson in a nutshell - not to mention drool-worthy, dreamy, and perfect fantasy object. He's also my older brother's best friend and business partner. I've had a thing for Jameson ever since I was old enough to have dirty dreams. My brother has made it crystal clear that if he catches rough, wrong-side-of-the-tracks Jameson even looking at me, someone will get hurt. That doesn't deter me, though. I want Jameson to be my first. And that's why my brother can never find out what happened. Because Jameson kissed me. No -- not kissed -- he shoved me up against a wall, possessed me, and took my breath away. Then he promptly passed out in my bed, wasted. Now I know that Jameson wants me. I may be off limits because of my brother, but that kiss is branded in my mind. I need another taste of Jameson. I crave his brutal touch. Pinned against the wall, gasping at the feel of his body pressed against mine, crying out in pleasure and pain while he gives me everything I've dreamed about. As long as my brother doesn't catch on, Jameson might just give me exactly what I want… and a whole hell of a lot more. This 50,000-word book is part one of Emma and Jameson's story. It ends with a cliffhanger...

Valorn had been planning the war for years.
Their greatest general already knew that Eldara's army could not be defeated on a battlefield — not as long as one man was standing at the front of it. So instead of attacking the wall, they went looking for the crack.
They found it.
His name was Dane.
Recruited when the war begins, Dane becomes, through brutal training and shared missions, the soldier Captain Rhett trusts above all others. His right hand. The one Rhett risks everything to protect when a spy mission behind enemy lines nearly costs them both their lives.
But Dane has been carrying wounds.
Three of them. Each one small. Each one unintentional. Each one left to fester in silence — until Valorn knocked on the door that offense had already unlocked.
He told himself it was justice.
He did not tell himself the truth.
What follows is the story of a nation built from nothing by one ordinary man's extraordinary vision and how that nation was not destroyed by its enemies, but from the inside, by one soldier's unhealed heart.
The enemy that destroyed Eldara never wore Valorn's uniform.
It wore Eldara's own colors. It had Eldara's own name.
It was called offense.

For five years of secret marriage to Sebastian Hawthorne—one of New York's most powerful attorneys—he still refused to let our son Quinn call him "Daddy" in public.
At the firm, I was his on-call senior associate, the invisible workhorse cleaning up his messes and handling his impossible cases. At home, I was the single mother who stopped waiting up for a husband who never came home for dinner.
Everyone knew the new intern, Delilah Vance, was his favorite—a federal judge's daughter, his hand-picked "rising star."
I used to believe that if I worked hard enough, if Quinn behaved perfectly, the heart beneath all that arrogance would eventually soften.
Until that rainy night when he threw his wife of five years and their son out of their own home to comfort Delilah over some fabricated stalker scare.
And while Quinn collapsed in my arms, gasping through a severe allergic reaction, Sebastian was raising champagne with that woman at an impossible-to-book French restaurant, celebrating her win in a pointless mock trial.
Watching my son's pale face and the hope slowly dying in his eyes, five years of one-sided devotion finally reached its verdict.
The case is closed, Sebastian. I'm done.

“Be careful with that, Emma," my boss at the high-end courier service warned, handing me the velvet-lined case. "That bottle is worth more than your life. It’s for the penthouse gala at the Sterling Heights. If it breaks, don't bother coming back.”

I clutched the case to my chest like it was a newborn child.

The soles of my shoes were so thin I could feel every jagged pebble on the pavement. My feet ached, a dull, throbbing reminder of the sixteen-hour shifts I’d been pulling for the last three months.

But every time I felt like collapsing, I thought of Liam. He met with an accident five years ago and could not work.

So, I became the bread-earner in our family.

Today was our wedding anniversary. And this last expensive delivery could earn me a decent gift for him.

"The host is on the terrace," a waiter whispered as I reached the penthouse, eyeing my worn-out sneakers with disdain. "Hurry up. He doesn't like to be kept waiting.”

I walked toward the terrace, my heart hammering. I just wanted to drop this off, get my signature, and run to Liam. I pushed through the crowd, dodging silk gowns and tailored tuxedos.

Then, I stopped.

The man standing at the edge of the terrace looked familiar.

He was wearing a bespoke midnight-blue tuxedo that cost more than our three years of rent. His hair was slicked back, his posture commanding and regal. He was way too rich to cross paths with me in my entire life.

But, my heart skipped a beat as he turned back to look at his friends.

It was Liam. My Liam. With other woman, offering the world to her.

"Sister, I'm pregnant with your husband's baby."

When the fake heiress, Chloe Mellon，slapped the pregnancy test onto my face, I finally saw the truth.

For ten years, she stole my identity, my family, and now—my husband.

They called me heartless when I refused to play the victim.

They called me cruel when I exposed their affair.

But as I walked out of that mansion, leaving the cheating CEO and his mistress behind,

I realized something:

The only thing I lost was the illusion of love.

The rest? I'll take it all back—starting with my birthright.

Goodbye, Tristan Getty. Enjoy your toxic love triangle. The real heiress is done playing.

The night before graduation, a confession post blew up the school forum:
“Daphne, I’m gonna rip up my Harvard offer onstage during commencement to confess to you—my whole college future as my love token.”
The OP bragged nonstop in the comments that he’d locked down the state’s only full-ride Harvard scholarship, his admission was a done deal, and graduation was nothing but a meaningless formality anyway.
The attached photo showed their interlaced hands. That old burn scar on his forearm—the one he’d claimed he got saving me—stared back like a chain that’s trapped me for ten years straight.
I poured every cent, every spare hour and all my academic resource just to get him into Harvard. I even voluntarily stepped down from the scholarship race and passed the spot to him.
This childhood sweetheart who’d sworn we’d go to Harvard together only hours ago threw every promise out the window for a rich transfer student, willing to gamble both our futures just for a dramatic grand gesture.
I shut the forum tab, pulled up my email to the scholarship committee.
I’m formally taking back the scholarship spot I gave up！