Seattle’s Most Eligible Series by Tory Baker – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read

Seattle’s Most Eligible Series by Tory Baker – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.books2020.com Sun, 16 Aug 2026 18:13:07 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=7.0.4 http://www.books2020.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png Seattle’s Most Eligible Series by Tory Baker – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.books2020.com 32 32 Tell Me I’m Yours (Seattle’s Most Eligible #2) Read Online Tory Baker http://www.books2020.com/tell-me-im-yours-seattles-most-eligible-2-read-online-tory-baker Sun, 16 Aug 2026 18:13:07 +0000 https://www.books2020.com/tell-me-im-yours-seattles-most-eligible-2-read-online-tory-baker Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Insta-Love Authors: Tory Baker Series: Seattle's Most Eligible Series by Tory Baker
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Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)

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I make the rules. I just never expected her to make me break every last one of them.

As a man who built an empire on absolute control, I don’t negotiate, and I sure as hell don’t do feelings. My arrangements are always clear: no promises, no forever.
Then came Rory. She doesn’t just capture my attention—she consumes it.

I thought I owned the game.
I thought I owned us.

Until Rory did the unthinkable and walked away.
I gave her space, but when news reaches me that she’s been offered a job on the other side of the country, the illusion of letting her go burns to the ground. Packing up and moving thousands of miles away from me? Not on my watch.

As I close the distance between us, I find out she isn’t just running from us—she’s hiding a secret. She’s about to learn that I’m not letting her go, and nothing will stop me from going after what’s mine

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

prologue

VIKE

Three Weeks Earlier

My alarm blares to life on my nightstand. I slap a hand over the offending device, silencing it, before I roll over, my hand sweeping across the mattress, seeking the familiarity of the woman who’s usually in bed with me. Only my palm meets nothing but cool, smooth, Egyptian cotton. I don’t bother opening my eyes, instead letting my finger drag across the empty space. She’d been in my bed every night for weeks and became an addiction that rivaled making billions of dollars every year.

When I finally force my eyes open, the harsh Seattle morning light bleeds through the slats of the blinds, and I make a mental note to have the fucking things replaced. Where before it didn’t bother me, now it pisses me off something fierce. The silence in the house is deafening. No longer does it seem peaceful. The quiet lazy morning I’d been looking forward to is now hollow. I sit up with the sheets pooling around my waist and take a deep breath, hoping the cold air will clear the thick fog rolling through my brain.

It does the complete opposite, filling my lungs with her—cherry blossom, sugar, and a touch of vanilla. Her scent is everywhere, hanging in the air, woven through the sheets, silently mocking the space she’s supposed to be.

“Motherfucker.” Like a tidal wave, it all comes crashing back. The fog doesn’t clear, it sticks around, heavy, like a lead weight sitting in the pit of my stomach.

Last night.

My eyes drift to the open doorway of the bedroom, looking down the hallway that leads to an open-concept living and kitchen area. Even from here, I can see the edge of the dark granite island. My jaw tightens at the memory as I close my eyes. It’s agonizingly vivid.

Romy came over late last night, no warning, no text, not a damn thing indicating anything was wrong. She walked in using her code to the private elevator, looking like the kind of woman a man would start a war over. I crowded her in a matter of seconds. Neither of us spoke a word as she matched my urgency, pulling me into her, desperate, almost feral with how she pulled and tugged at my body.

I should have realized something was wrong, but I’d been too consumed with her to notice, much like I always am when it comes to Romy. I swear I can feel the heat of her skin beneath my hands as I lifted her onto the kitchen counter. I remember the sound her breath catching when shit clattered to the floor. Her fingers dug into my shoulders, attempting to anchor herself to me. I poured everything I had into her, believing it was another normal night where our mutual obsession takes control.

Instead of taking her there on the counter, I picked her up and carried her into my bedroom with her mouth attached to my neck. It wasn’t until I sat on the edge of the very bed I’m in that she started stripping me out of my clothes. I did the same to her: shirt, bra, skirt, and panties.

I took her, fast, hard, raw, and with a desperate intensity I never felt before. My thick length tunneling in and out of her wet center, both of us clinging to one another, my gaze bouncing from her eyes to where we were connected.

That’s why after she came, with my dick still seated deep inside her, and she said, “I’m done, Vik,” my world was knocked off its axis. She looked at me with deep expressive eyes void of emotion that had burned between us only moments earlier and threw my words back at me, “This is part of the ground rules. You knew this day would come. The only difference is, it’s me calling this off.” I swore under my breath, slowly pulled out of her, and grabbed my pants off the ground.

The ground rules:

Discretion is non-negotiable.

No emotional attachments.

Clean break when either is done, no questions asked.

I watched as she put her clothes back on, running my hand through my hair, tugging at the ends, and trying to keep my tightly coiled control in check. It sucked watching Rory get dressed while she remained calm and collected, then walked out the door. It’d been on the tip of my tongue to ask her to stay, I didn’t because I’m a fucking coward. And the only way I got a lick of sleep last night was by downing more vodka than is good for anyone.

There’s no sense in staying in bed all day, so I grab a pair of dark sweatpants from the floor, pull them on, and walk out of the bedroom. My head is pounding, my mouth dry. I need water, coffee, and aspirin as soon as humanly possible. The kitchen is still a mess: papers litter the floor and pens are scattered right along with them. I don’t bother picking them up. I lean my palms against the cool granite, hanging my head between my shoulders, and take a few deep breaths.

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Advertisement Tell Me You Want Me (Seattle’s Most Eligible #3) Read Online Tory Baker http://www.books2020.com/tell-me-you-want-me-seattles-most-eligible-3-read-online-tory-baker Sun, 16 Aug 2026 18:12:59 +0000 https://www.books2020.com/tell-me-you-want-me-seattles-most-eligible-3-read-online-tory-baker Genre: Alpha Male, Insta-Love Authors: Tory Baker Series: Seattle's Most Eligible Series by Tory Baker
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Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)

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I never planned to get married in Las Vegas.

As the billionaire CEO of Lombardi Holdings, I don’t make impulsive decisions. Each investment is intentional, and the risk is always worth the reward. I’ve spent years trusting my instincts, and they’ve never steered me wrong.
Until one unforgettable night ends with Alexandria wearing my ring.
I remember every second.
Every vow.
Every kiss.
Every whispered promise she made in my arms.
I never imagined she’d wake up believing it was all a drunken mistake. Now we’re back in Seattle, and she won’t return my calls. Alexandria avoids me at every turn, pretending the diamond on her finger and the marriage license that makes her my wife never happened.

Too bad I’m not a man who admits defeat. Alexandria’s my wife—she’s wearing my ring, and I always keep what’s mine

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

prologue

ALEXANDRIA

Consciousness doesn’t return to me in a gentle, sunlit wave. Instead, it hits me like a physical blow, dragging, kicking, and screaming from the heavy, suffocating depths of a dreamless sleep.

“Ugh,” I groan, the sound catching painfully in the back of my throat that feels like it’s been lined with sandpaper. My mouth is bone-dry, tasting of stale, expensive champagne and a lingering warmth I can’t quite name. A pounding ache vibrates behind my eyes, matching the frantic beat of my pulse. I try to roll over, but my body refuses to cooperate. I’m pinned, tangled in a Charlotte’s Web of heavy sheets and a plush duvet. My hair, usually a tamed, glossy cascades of curls, is currently a wild, static-charged bird’s nest, clinging to my damn neck and obscuring my vision. I blink against the dim light filtering through the heavy blackout curtains of the room.

Where the hell am I?

The thought sparks a sudden, icy jolt of adrenaline. I bolt upright, or at least I try to, before the room spins violently, forcing me to squeeze my eyes shut. When the tilt-a-whirl rollercoaster subsides, I look down. The mattress beneath me is massive, a sprawling king-size bed, covered in crisp white cotton sheets and a heavy duvet that’s entirely unfamiliar. I don’t own sheets that aren’t colorful, nor do I sleep on a mattress that feels like a literal cloud. I lift the edge of the sheet to peek underneath, and my heart beats like a stampede of wild horses.

Nothing. I’m not wearing a single stitch of clothing.

Panic, sharp and cold, flares in my chest. I scan the dimly lit room, my eyes darting from the sleek mid-century modern nightstands to the massive flat screen TV that’s mounted on the wall and finally to the luggage rack in the corner. My familiar, slightly scuffed designer suitcase is half-undone with a black silk camisole spilling out of the side. I let out a long breath, my shoulders sagging in relief, and the tension leaves my body in a rush.

At least I’m in my hotel room.

The relief is short-lived, quickly replaced by a sense of dread. If this is my room in Las Vegas, why can’t I remember getting back to it, and why does my entire being feel utterly exhausted as if I spent last night running a marathon?

I throw my legs over the edge of the mattress, clinging to the top sheet like a makeshift toga and securing the heavy fabric around my naked body. When I stand up, my knees wobble, my balance threatening to betray me. I anchor my grip on the nightstand before I navigate the short distance to the bathroom. The chaos that’s my mind is full of blank spaces and shadowy half-memories.

My bleary eyes can’t handle the entirely too-bright LED lighting in the bathroom, so I do my best to avoid it and the mirror all together. I know exactly what I would see in my reflection: dark circles, smudged mascara, and the look of a woman who let Vegas win. Me, the woman who always has her shit together, who can go against men who think they’re smarter than me, and here I am, not having the stomach to face my reflection just yet.

I drop the sheets, walk straight toward the walk-in glass shower, turn the handle all the way to hot, and, without waiting a beat or for the water to create a steam, I step inside. My eyes close as I lift my head, allowing the stream to work its magic against my aching muscles, washing away the physical reminder of a night I can’t place. I raise my hands to sweep my wet hair back and wash the sleep from my face.

But as I lift my left hand, something feels off. A strange, subtle sensation, like a weight is pulling at my finger. I pause, my hands hovering inches from my face. I pop open one eye, my gaze focusing on my hand, and my stomach plummets to my feet.

On my finger, my very important ring finger, sits a platinum band, dominated by a massive emerald-cut diamond. The harsh bathroom light catches on the brilliancy, and dazzling rainbows dance across the gem. It’s stunning, unapologetically decadent, and worst of all… real.

I freeze, except that doesn’t seem to stop the world from spinning. I close my eyes, trying to blink away the ring, only to open them and find it still there. I lower my hand, back up a few paces to slide down the wet, tiled wall of the shower until my ass meets the floor while hot water beats down on my throbbing head and aching shoulders.

I squeeze my eyes shut in a desperate attempt to fill the blank spaces in my head, begging for a memory, any memory to appear. And then, like a camera lens snapping into focus, the first blip returns. A heavy magnetic presence drew me in from across a crowded dimly lit bar. I remember the silhouette of a man—broad-shouldered, towering, and radiating effortless authority that made the rest of the world fade into a blur.

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Advertisement Tell Me You’re Mine (Seattle’s Most Eligible #1) Read Online Tory Baker http://www.books2020.com/tell-me-youre-mine-seattles-most-eligible-1-read-online-tory-baker Sun, 12 Jul 2026 16:10:36 +0000 http://www.books2020.com/tell-me-youre-mine-seattles-most-eligible-1-read-online-tory-baker Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Insta-Love, Novella Authors: Tory Baker Series: Seattle's Most Eligible Series by Tory Baker
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Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26605 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >29

I needed a wife on paper. What I got is so much more.

As a billionaire venture capitalist and part-owner of Sterling Capital, I don’t leave things to chance. Every deal is calculated. Every move serves a purpose. That is, until the board starts questioning my image. They want someone settled down—someone who’s stable and committed. So, I treat the situation the same way I treat everything else: as a business transaction.

It should be simple, no feelings, no complications, and no exceptions.
Until I meet her.
Cory Pierson is everything I never knew I wanted: fiercely independent, unimpressed by money, and challenges me at every turn.
Our marriage is meant to be temporary, but the longer she wears my ring, the more the lines blur. She’s no longer just my wife on paper. She’s the woman I can’t let go

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

prologue

CORINNE

Two Weeks Earlier

“Thank you,” I tell the driver as I step out of the hired car at the entrance of Aura. The little satin black dress I’m wearing hugs my waist before drifting over my hips and outline every curve of my body. The fine lace-edged sweetheart neckline adds a touch of softness to the otherwise slip of material. My shoulders are bare save for the thin spaghetti straps, and the hem brushing the tops of my thighs makes the dress feel less like clothing and more like temptation wrapped in silk. It’s effortless in looks and style.

“Have a good night,” he responds as I close the door. With my purse in one hand and my phone in the other, I make my way toward the entrance, where people are waiting in line to get in, along with a hefty cover charge. If it weren’t for Alex and Jett and their infinite connections, I’d have to fork out more money than I care to spend on a girls’ night out.

While Alex works at Sterling Capital with Seraphina, the same can’t be said for myself. Oh no, sitting behind a computer isn’t my idea of fun. I’d much rather be on my feet all day, wearing compression socks beneath my scrubs and a surgical cap on my head. I once had big aspirations to be a head chef in a five-star Michelin restaurant. Went through the first six months of school and absolutely hated it. My love of cooking wasn’t enough to deal with the grueling screaming non-stop when you so much as make the slightest mistake in the kitchen. A million times worse than nursing school and dealing with hothead doctors.

I avoid the line and head straight for the bouncer. A couple of people make comments, and while I feel slightly bad, you couldn’t pay me to be in their shoes on a Wednesday night.

“Name?” a big beefy guy asks when he notices me.

“Cory Pierson.” He doesn’t look up from his clipboard, only gives me a quick nod, then another bouncer opens the door to allow me inside the ultra-luxurious, uber-classy nightclub. Three floors of a glass and steel tower overlooking the glittering Seattle skyline. The man floor pulses with energy. Music thrums through the hidden speakers, and the bass vibrates under my bright red stilettos as I walk further in.

Alex and Jett worked their magic once again, I think to myself as I walk along the perimeter. Velvet booths are housed by socialites, athletes, aspiring influencers, and everyday people. Yet the true elite never stays downstairs. Hidden behind a wall of smoked glass is an elevator, which will take me upstairs, and once I step inside, the atmosphere changes completely. The music softens, the pulse isn’t as jarring, and the crowd disappears.

“Cory!” Jett exclaims when the doors open what seems like a nanosecond later. The breathtaking views of Elliot Bay along with the city lights stretching into the darkness are elegant and seductive all at once.

“Hey, Jett, Alex, where’s everyone else?” The plush ivory sofa in a private alcove is one of many in the room, each designed to shield conversations from others. Rare artwork hangs along the walls with soft golden lighting that is used as a spotlight. And on the marble table where the girls are sitting are two silver buckets filled with a chilling champagne bottle each.

“Romy is late, per usual,” Alex says when I give her a hug.

“Mischa can’t make it, something about her sister needing help with babysitting,” Jett takes account for our other friend.

“And Genny, along with Seraphina, should be here shortly. Though our girl Sera will probably be over there with all of the head honchos.” Alex nods her head to the other end of the room. That’s when I see him, and not through a boardroom window or on the cover of a magazine at a newsstand. Dominic “Dom” Mercer in the flesh is a whole different story entirely.

The suit doesn’t make the man, the man makes the suit.

A five-figure Brioni suit, black and sharply tailored, hugs his frame to perfection. His white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the neck, exposing a peek of his chest. I somehow manage to plant my ass in the sumptuous seating without making a total mockery of myself.

I continue my perusal of the devastatingly handsome man, and when his gaze shifts and his multi-faceted blend of hazel and ember eyes meet mine, a sudden jolt slides down my spine. Dom is all broad shoulders, powerful athletic frame, and sculpted chest. His dark, short, neatly cropped hair, an effortlessly faded style, matches the man. Then there’s his chiseled jaw, clean shaven cheeks, and a mole that makes him all the hotter on the left side of his cheek.

“Oh no, girl, do not go there.” Genny slides in beside me.

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