Last to Fall Series by J.A. Huss – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read

Last to Fall Series by J.A. Huss – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.books2020.com Sun, 12 Jul 2026 16:11:02 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=7.0.4 http://www.books2020.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png Last to Fall Series by J.A. Huss – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.books2020.com 32 32 Our Pain Our Pleasure (Last to Fall #3) Read Online J.A. Huss http://www.books2020.com/our-pain-our-pleasure-last-to-fall-3-read-online-j-a-huss Sun, 12 Jul 2026 16:11:02 +0000 http://www.books2020.com/our-pain-our-pleasure-last-to-fall-3-read-online-j-a-huss Genre: Alpha Male, Crime, Dark, Mafia Authors: J.A. Huss Series: Last to Fall Series by J.A. Huss
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Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)

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Some saints are wrapped in sin and some monsters will die for you.

EMMALEEN
Six weeks of dungeon submission.
Two men who complete me.
And then this Irish jerk shows up and stuffs me in a trunk!
I should scream.
Or kick.
Or punch him in the face.
But I don’t do any of that.
Because I'm a hot mess who gets off from taking orders and I can’t tell if this is a kidnapping or a really aggressive meet-cute.

GIOVANNI
Romance is a game I was never going to win.
I built her a dungeon.
He built her a chapel.
I gave her a collar.
He gave her books.
Little Miss Take needs to come home.
To me.
To my rules.
To my monster who never needed to be a saint.
I don't have to be better than him. I just need to be the one willing to die first.

My sin, my sacrifice... until confession became the only way to keep her forever

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

1

The autumn air bites through my suit jacket as I step onto Mama Bavga's front terrace, the heavy oak door closing behind me on the controlled chaos of Sunday dinner cleanup.

Congratulations, October. You're basically the mob boss of seasons—showing up uninvited, making everyone uncomfortable, leaving a trail of dead things in your wake. Very on-brand.

I stop mid-step—halfway down the stone stairs leading to the driveway.

What the fuck was that?

I replay the thought, dissecting it like evidence at a crime scene. The rhythm. The absurd comparison. The self-aware humor wrapped in cynicism.

I just… created an Emmaleen-ism.

All by myself.

A laugh erupts from me as I continue descending the terrace stairs and start walking towards the Aventador.

Somewhere in the past weeks—between the contracts, and the positions, and the poems she writes in perfect terza rima while I fuck her senseless—Emmaleen Rourke has infected my internal monologue.

Her chaos has leaked into my carefully ordered mind like water.

The corner of my mouth twitches. An expression I don't recognize on my own face. Something dangerously close to amusement.

Oh, she would love this. October as a mob boss. She'd spiral it into a fifteen-minute monologue about seasonal intimidation tactics and pumpkin spice as a protection racket.

The thought of her voice—breathless, rambling, somehow both anxious and confident—settles somewhere behind my ribs.

A place located suspiciously close to my heart.

The front door opens on the terrace above me, leaking sounds from inside, then Jino is skipping down the stairs. He passes me, clicking his key fob to make his car chirp. "Gotta swing by my place," he calls over his shoulder. "Need to grab clothes, some gear for tomorrow's session."

"All right. How long?"

"Twenty minutes, probably. I'll meet ya at home."

Home. He's looking at me when this word comes out. The word lands between us like a loaded weapon.

Jino shrugs up one shoulder—a gesture that splits the difference between acknowledgment and dismissal. Half apology for the slip, half defiance that he doesn't particularly regret it.

The movement is casual enough to dismiss, deliberate enough to notice.

I don't correct him. Don't point out that my mansion isn't "home" in any traditional sense of the word. It's just the current operational base, temporary like everything else in this business.

But I also don't miss the implication threaded through his choice of words.

That Emmaleen has become his gravitational center.

That her space—and by extension, my space—has expanded to include him in its orbit.

We bump knuckles—brief, efficient contact that says everything required without wasting words. Then he slides into his black Challenger.

I turn toward the Aventador.

The matte black body gleams under the estate's exterior lights. The scissor door lifts and when I lower myself into the driver's seat, the cockpit wraps around me like a second skin.

When I press the start button, the engine doesn't roar. It detonates—a sound engineered to remind everyone within earshot that power isn't always subtle.

I Follow Jino down the driveway, then we diverge, turning in opposite directions and Sewickley Heights stretches out before me like a carefully curated museum of old money.

The streets are silent, lined with estates hidden behind stone walls and ancient trees. No pedestrians. No traffic. Just empty pavement and the occasional glow of security lights marking properties owned by families who've been here long enough to forget when they first arrived.

The neighborhood fades behind me as I accelerate toward the highway—four lanes of dark asphalt cutting through the Pennsylvania hills towards Riverview.

My estate isn't Sewickley Heights. It never will be. I don't have Mellon money, but my Victorian-era Gothic monolith of dark brick stone sits on five acres of small-town wooded privacy, restored to a level of craftsmanship most of these inherited fortunes wouldn't appreciate.

The estate in Riverview started as a bribe from my father.

A carefully calculated gesture designed to soften the blow of exile. Being sent to Riverview felt like banishment at the time, assigned to manage sleepy operations in a dying coal town while my brothers remained in Pittsburgh, close to the real power and real decisions that shaped the family's future.

Salvatore has always been generous with gifts, but his gifts have never been about affection. They are guilt wrapped in expensive paper, apologies he'll never actually speak aloud, and compensation for the emotional distance he maintains with surgical precision.

But now that Emmaleen is there—and Jino, I have to admit, whose presence has proven more valuable than I initially anticipated—the place doesn't feel like a bribe anymore.

Especially now that Dom and Ricky have stopped treating my dungeon like their personal sex club and moved into their own places. No more stumbling over their weekly rotation of Pittsburgh girls. No more finding discarded lingerie in my kitchen or hearing headboards slamming against walls at three in the morning.

So… Jino's characterization was right.

It's home.

As the highway stretches ahead, dark and mostly deserted this time of night, my mind lands where it's been landing for weeks.

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Advertisement His Game His Rules (Last to Fall #2) Read Online J.A. Huss http://www.books2020.com/his-game-his-rules-last-to-fall-2-read-online-j-a-huss Tue, 16 Jun 2026 12:51:26 +0000 https://www.books2020.com/his-game-his-rules-last-to-fall-2-read-online-j-a-huss Genre: Alpha Male, BDSM, Crime, Dark, Erotic, Mafia Authors: J.A. Huss Series: Last to Fall Series by J.A. Huss
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Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >107

Some snakes are worth the bite, and some kings are worth kneeling for.

Emmaleen
Thirty-seven day-one demerits.
One double or nothing dare.
And zero chance I'm leaving this dungeon, like... ever.

I’m the world's most inconvenient Word Collector. Giovanni Bavga’s biggest liability. I won the last game… technically.
But this one isn’t meant to make me stay.
It’s meant to make me leave.

His game, his rules... until surrendering to him became the only way to win.

Giovanni
Control isn't something you keep—it's something you lose the moment you care.

Little Miss Take recites her penance like prayers and writes poetry that destroys me. Now I'm the one unraveling while she kneels between my legs like she was made for my throne.

Emmaleen Rouke needs to break.
In half.
In pieces.
In a hurry if she wants to stay alive.

I need her in love with her chains and the lock on the door.

My crown, my kingdom... until keeping her became the only way to save her life.

The Last to Fall series is an intense deep dive into the psyche of possession, obsession, and what one man will do to keep the woman he loves alive

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

1

The contrast is obscene. The Aventador—alien spacecraft, alien predator, alien perfection—sits gleaming against brick returning to dust. Nero Nemesis matte black against urban decay.

Rain beads on the windshield, soft and persistent. I don't turn on the wipers. Let it accumulate. Let it blur my view of this place she's been hiding.

It's 7:07. I've been here since 6:45.

I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, counting the twenty-three minutes I've wasted. Twenty-three minutes I could have spent dealing with the LaRiccia fallout. Twenty-three minutes I could have spent making arrangements to contain Rico's disappearance. Instead, I'm parked outside a women's shelter that looks like it should have been condemned during the Reagan administration.

"Double or nothing." The memory of her voice makes my jaw clench. A throwaway line from a woman who doesn't understand that some gambles can't be taken back. Some antes are paid in blood, not cash.

I shouldn't have kept those fucking notebooks at her bedside. Shouldn't have written down every fluctuation in her breathing, every spike in her fever, every word the doctors said. Shouldn't have documented my own pathetic fear when her oxygen levels dropped.

Definitely shouldn't have stayed awake for seventy-two hours straight watching the monitors.

But I did.

What did I expect when I left them behind as evidence that I care?

That she'd just take the money, the passport, and private jet to anywhere-but-here?

That she'd just… play by the rules?

Why the hell would Emmaleen Rourke play by the rules when she can torment me with her weaponized cuteness?

I’m so fucked.

The weeds pushing through the cracks in the parking lot catch my eye. Life finding a way through concrete. Annoying. Persistent.

Like her.

Rico's face flashes in my mind—the shock in his eyes when the bullet hit him. Not fear or anger. Just... surprise. Like it never occurred to him that I'd actually pull the trigger. That his power over me wasn’t infinite. That I’d choose a woman over decades of LaRiccia-Bavga diplomacy.

He miscalculated everything.

The rain falls harder now. Summer is over. The drizzle builds to a steady drum against the carbon-fiber roof. October has arrived with its slate-gray skies and bitter promise of winter. The trees around the shelter's cracked parking lot are tinged with yellow and orange—a transition I didn't notice happening until it was already done.

I check my watch—7:12 now.

Two weeks since Dom and Ricky buried Rico in the woods out in Bucks County. Two weeks of carefully constructed digital breadcrumbs leading to Bangkok, where Deepfake Rico is currently enjoying a vacation complete with Instagram stories and location tags.

Two weeks of preparing for the inevitable moment when Luca LaRiccia realizes his son isn't coming home.

The digital clock on my dash clicks to 7:20. Suddenly, the shelter door flies open and Emmaleen bursts out like she's been launched from a cannon.

She takes the concrete steps two at a time, her lips moving in frantic conversation with herself, hands gesturing wildly at nothing. Classic Emmaleen Rourke crisis mode—all raw nerve endings and no strategy. The woman exists in a perpetual state of last-minute panic, yet somehow survives it every time.

She has no fucking idea where she's supposed to be at 8:00 a.m.

Because I didn't tell her.

The realization settles in my chest like a warm drink on a cold night. This little punishment—withholding the location of our meeting—was calculated. Petty, perhaps, but necessary. Watching her scramble now confirms what I already knew: she's tangled in my game. A fish hooked and fighting, but ultimately dragged along at my convenience and mercy.

I let my gaze catalog every detail of her outfit, an assessment as brutal as a coroner's report.

That blazer. Jesus Christ. Neon pink with shoulder pads the size of dinner plates, like she looted the wardrobe department of a canceled 1987 sitcom. The fabric puckers at the seams, shiny where it shouldn't be, the buttons mismatched as if collected from different garments over decades of neglect.

Below it, a denim skirt hangs like depressed drapery, the hem uneven and fraying. The fabric has that distinctive gray-blue fade of something that's been washed in industrial machines at church basement charity drives for longer than she's been alive.

Her sneakers—I hesitate to even dignify them with that term—appear to have been white once, in the distant past. Now they're a study in urban archaeology, layered with stains telling stories of every puddle she's misjudged. They squeak with each step, announcing her chaotic presence like some kind of deranged metronome.

The outfit isn't just bad. It's a deliberate middle finger. A visual manifestation of "fuck you and your Italian leather shoes." Last week's farmer's market ensemble at least had accidental bohemian charm—this is just sartorial terrorism.

Me: Milan runway, tailored precision, fabrics selected by people who understand the weight and drape of textiles.

Her: whatever fell off the donation truck after being rejected by the third-tier thrift store.

The absurdity compounds as she continues her frantic monologue, completely oblivious to my presence. A $300,000 machine—Italian engineering at its apex, 6.5-liter V12 heart—sits gleaming in this depressing parking lot, and she doesn't even register it.

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Advertisement Her Chains Her Choice (Last to Fall #1) Read Online J.A. Huss http://www.books2020.com/her-chains-her-choice-last-to-fall-1-read-online-j-a-huss Wed, 13 May 2026 18:57:53 +0000 https://www.books2020.com/her-chains-her-choice-last-to-fall-1-read-online-j-a-huss Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Insta-Love, Mafia Authors: J.A. Huss Series: Last to Fall Series by J.A. Huss
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Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >95

Some cages are chosen, and some monsters are worth the chains.

Emmaleen

Twenty-one days until homelessness, nineteen demerits, and one chance at $31,750.

I am laser focused on my goal of getting the hell out of Riverview, PA—and Giovanni Bavga, mob boss, secret poet, in possession of a Lambo and the world’s most amazing green eyes—is my first-class ticket. All I have to do is everything he tells me for the next seven days.

My chains, my choice... until choosing him became the only freedom worth having.

Giovanni

Power isn’t something you take—it something given.

The demerit system was supposed to control Emmaleen Rourke but apparently, Little Miss Take didn’t get the memo. Now I'm the one losing control. Men like me don't fall first. We don't fall at all. In the circles I run in, caring about someone is the most dangerous mistake a man can make.

My game, my rules... until breaking them for her became the only win that mattered.

The Last to Fall series is an intense deep dive into the psyche of possession, obsession, and what one man will do to keep the woman he loves alive. Because some cages are chosen, and some monsters are worth the chains

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

1

Surrender is the purest form of power.

People imagine power as something seized—taken by force, stolen through fear, won through blood. But the truest power requires none of that. It doesn’t chase. It doesn’t beg. It doesn’t raise its voice.

Power waits. It invites. It stands perfectly still while the world rearranges itself to please it.

The weak mistake silence for mercy, composure for restraint. They never understand that patience is the sharpest blade—and that compliance offered freely cuts deeper than any command.

The offering, not the taking, is where power lives. Every bowed head, every averted gaze, is a confession of who holds dominion.

In the end, power isn’t proven in conquest, but in what is willingly given.

And the moment they offer themselves without knowing why—that’s the moment you own everything.

The theory holds.

The world has never failed to prove it.

I hand the valet my keys. His eyes widen as they should—the Aventador isn’t transportation; it’s a statement of intent. He’s maybe twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. The cheap polyester uniform doesn’t fit his shoulders.

“Keep it close,” I tell him, then go still until he meets my eyes.

It takes three seconds. He swallows hard. “Yes, sir.” He clutches the fob like it might detonate, then looks at the car like it might bite.

It should intimidate him. That’s the point.

I turn away, adjusting a cufflink, and look up at the Riverview Hotel. It stands like a mausoleum to better times—ornate molding crumbling at the edges, roofline not quite plumb, flaking paint on the balconies overlooking the river, ironwork curled like lace gone to rust. Once it hosted senators and starlets; now it clings to dignity with the stubbornness of the dying.

Preservation Society. Ironic.

The security guard at the door straightens as I approach. Badge crooked. Rental-company uniform, not hotel staff. Temporary hire. He feigns formality, but his eyes dart to the exits in case I become a problem.

The ballroom reveals itself like a map. Four exits: main entrance, service door by the stage, kitchen access to my right, and—most would miss it—a fire door disguised behind decorative paneling. Two guards posted opposite each other. No visible weapons, but a bulge under one jacket suggests otherwise. Amateur.

Champagne sweats in buckets of melting ice. Dom Pérignon 2008—decent vintage, wrong temperature. They’ve been waiting too long, trying to appear prepared. They weren’t.

The room falls quiet as I enter. Conversations die mid-sentence. Silence spreads like infection. Sixty-seven people, and not one knows what to do with their hands. The men look at their shoes. The women touch their jewelry—a universal tell for insecurity disguised as grace.

Mayor Harmon approaches, flanked by two councilmen—budget and zoning, both forgettable.

“Mr. Bavga!”

Harmon’s handshake is clammy, grip compensating with pressure. I apply twenty percent more and hold three seconds longer. His smile twitches.

“We’re so pleased you could join us tonight,” he says, voice loud for the audience. “Your family’s contributions to the restoration project have been invaluable.”

He has no idea what he’s talking about. The “project” exists only in press releases. The real investment remains invisible.

I say nothing. Silence is always the first test.

“The councilmen and I were just discussing the next phase of development,” he tries. A lie. They were discussing me. Which means they’ve already failed.

A waiter appears at precisely the right moment—young, efficient, aware of tension. He offers a single flute of champagne. Baccarat crystal. Not hotel standard. Borrowed for the event.

I take it, slip a fifty into his palm without looking down. Competence deserves recognition. I trace the rim with my thumb—a habit from childhood. I won’t drink; I never drink in public. But illusion has its uses.

He nods once and vanishes. The only person here who understands his role.

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