Wasted Love Series by Whitney G

Wasted Love Series by Whitney G – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.books2020.com Sat, 30 Aug 2025 08:41:46 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.9.4 http://www.books2020.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png Wasted Love Series by Whitney G – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.books2020.com 32 32 Awaited Love with You (Wasted Love #3) Read Online Whitney G http://www.books2020.com/awaited-love-with-you-wasted-love-3-read-online-whitney-g Sat, 30 Aug 2025 08:41:46 +0000 http://www.books2020.com/awaited-love-with-you-wasted-love-3-read-online-whitney-g Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Mafia, Suspense Authors: Whitney G. Series: Wasted Love Series by Whitney G
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Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 19570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 78(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)

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Book 3 in the addictively suspenseful Wasted Love trilogy...

Ryder has never needed to chase anyone.

He tells the truth—his version of it—and lets the rest fall where it may.

But Autumn wants more.

More answers. More control. More of the man he keeps locked behind silence and shadows.

She’s not asking anymore. She’s confronting.

And she doesn’t understand the dangerous storm she’s summoning...
Because the type of love she’s been longing for?

It’s already here.
But it comes at a cost

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

EPISODE 1

Autumn

“Ladies and gentlemen, we will soon be approaching our destination,” the pilot’s voice filters through the cabin. “Please secure your personal belongings and buckle your seatbelts.”

I don’t move.

I can’t.

Outside the window, clouds break into blinding white, then into nothing. My fingers clamp the armrest, and my cheeks are wet, but I don’t remember when the tears started.

I’m the last person to deplane, and only because two flight attendants helped me to stand.

I grab my bag and walk down the jetway like I’m not inside my body. My legs move, but the rest of me—whatever’s left—is still back in Seattle. Or maybe it’s frozen midair somewhere over God knows what state.

Everything ahead of me blurs until I see her. A face I’ve known forever, torn apart just like mine.

“Autumnnnn.” My mother rushes toward me, flinging her arms around my shoulders. Her perfume—rosewater and rain—hits me so hard I almost fall apart in sobs.

“Oh, I’m so happy to see you. I can’t believe... I’m so sorry...”

“Me too.” It’s barely a whisper. It’s all I’ve got.

My dad wraps us both into a clumsy, too-tight hug. His voice drops like a stone: “We’ve been looking forward to seeing you again, Autumn.”

Just like that, years of silence fall away. Or pretend to.

When we finally break apart, a desk agent wordlessly hands us a box of Kleenex and we head for the exit.

Outside, Buffalo slaps me in the face with its special flavor of winter: wind sharp enough to slit skin, diesel and street salt soaking the air, and a sky the color of poured concrete.

My mom slides into the backseat beside me as my dad starts the car. Her hand folds over mine, and her grip tightens with every mile, like I might shatter if she lets go.

Still on edge, I stare into the rearview mirror every time my dad makes a turn.

I’m waiting to catch a glimpse of black SUVs, suspicious shadows, or men in suits with secrets in their eyes.

There’s nothing.

Only slush-streaked roads and a deafening quiet.

Still, something crawls under my skin, and I can’t help but feel like I brought ghosts home with me.

When we pull into the driveway, I can’t help but notice that the house hasn’t changed.

It’s still a weathered colonial with chipped shutters and a porch that creaks when stepped on too hard. It sits on a quiet street lined with bare maple trees and mailbox flags that never quite latch. Everything is exactly as I remember it—stubborn in the way only childhood places can be.

My mom gets out first and opens my door.

“Dare I ask,” she says, brushing snow off my shoulder, “are you crying because of ending things with Nate?”

“No.” I pause. “I ended things with him a while ago. We’re divorced.”

“What?” Her eyes sharpen.

“Divorced.” I say it again. Flat. Final. “It was finalized a while ago.”

They exchange a look I’ve seen before. One I don’t want to decode right now.

I don’t ask. I don’t care.

“I can’t pretend to be upright another second.” I’m on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry.”

“Let’s get you upstairs.” Her hand presses gently against the small of my back.

I let her lead me.

When we reach my former bedroom, I stop cold in the doorway.

They’ve put it back. Everything.

Same twin bed. Same corkboard, empty but still bleeding pinholes. Same floral curtains I once swore I’d tear down the day I turned eighteen.

It looks like it’s been waiting for me. Like the girl I used to be is still in here, hugging a diary to her chest. Still stupid enough to think she could outrun fate on a one-way ticket.

“We’ll be ready to listen when you’re ready,” my mom says softly.

I nod.

She shuts the door behind her with a gentle click.

I fall face-first into the bed. The sheets smell like dust and detergent and time I’ll never get back.

And then I break.

Not out loud. Just quietly enough that the tears pool in the pillow and the sobs fold in on themselves—small, contained, like they’re afraid of being heard.

They don’t stop. They don’t slow.

They just keep blurring everything until sleep drags me under like an undertow.

Later…

A soft buzz trembles against the mattress.

I roll over, bleary-eyed, and my heart stutters when I see who it is.

Ryder.

For a moment, I’m tempted to open it—to see what he could possibly have to say. But our last argument still rubs my heart raw in all the wrong places, and I can’t trust that voice anymore. Not when it’s cost me this much.

I hit ignore and set the phone face-down on the nightstand.

It rings again.

Him. Again.

It keeps ringing. Again. And again. Until silence finally settles.

I flip the phone over and open my inbox.

Ryder…

Please leave me alone.

I promise to do the same for you.

I’m about to shut it off when one last message appears on the screen:

Ryder

I’ll never make a promise I can’t keep.

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Advertisement Wasted Love with You (Wasted Love #1) Read Online Whitney G http://www.books2020.com/wasted-love-with-you-wasted-love-1-read-online-whitney-g Thu, 03 Mar 2022 16:17:14 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/wasted-love-with-you-wasted-love-1-read-online-whitney-g Genre: Alpha Male, Angst, Contemporary, Dark, Mafia, Romance, Suspense Authors: Whitney G. Series: Wasted Love Series by Whitney G
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Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 48032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)

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Read Online Books/Novels:	(Wasted Love #1) Wasted Love with You
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	Whitney G
Language:	English
ISBN/ ASIN:	B09R3Z1ZB4
Book Information:
The last time my husband gave me an orgasm was … Well, that's never happened. And from the way our marriage is crumbling under the weight of his lies, it never will. Alas, after fighting like hell for a divorce, I promise myself that I'll never waste love on anyone else. I don't even want to 'date' anyone else. But that's until I literally run into a man who leaves me breathless at first sight, a man who etches his way into my memory with nothing more than a single smile and a question. He's an enigma who doesn't want to give me his first name—a man who has more secrets than answers—and from the sexy smirk on his lips, I know that I should stay far away from him. I try to keep my distance, but he pursues me anyway ... When he offers me a job I can't refuse, I throw caution to the wind and take a chance. I should've thought about this a little more. Little do I know, this man is about to take me on a dangerous ride that might cost me everything. Book 1 in the wickedly addictive Wasted Love trilogy.
Books in Series:	Wasted Love Series by Whitney G
Books by Author:	Whitney G

“Don’t get married at eighteen, Autumn. You’ll regret it.”

—My mother, six years ago

Episode 1

Autumn

I don’t love my husband anymore—especially not on these days.

Our flame burned out a long time ago, leaving two severely scorched hearts in its wake. No matter how many times I try to convince myself that a stray ember will soon catch fire, that the old sparks will return someday, the coldness remains.

I married him when I was eighteen years old—when I was young, dumb, and thought I knew everything. I was captivated by defiance, too obsessed with the whole, “But mom, I love him,” and “He’s the only person who understands my deep, dark past,” that I couldn’t see the web I was weaving. (By the way, having strict parents who enforce a midnight curfew hardly equates to having a “deep, dark past.”)

I don’t even think I’m attracted to my husband anymore.

He’s currently on top of me—thrusting in and out of my “sweet kitten”—and the only thing I can think about is whether I turned off our coffeemaker.

I think I hit the switch. Did I hit the switch?

“You like that, baby?” he asks, bringing his lips close to mine. “You like the way this feels?”

“Oh, yeah, Nate.” I moan. “Oh, yeah.”

Wait. Didn’t I say “Oh, yeah” ten seconds ago? Damnit. “Oh, baby.” Say, “Oh, baby,” next.

“Autumnnn.”

“Oh, baby…” I splay my hands across his back, now convinced that I didn’t turn off that coffeemaker.

He speeds up his thrusts, gripping my breasts like he’s attempting to yank them off my body. His kisses are erratic and wet, and I have no idea why he’s using his tongue to lick my chin.

Groaning and snarling, he’s now making some type of feral noise. It sounds like a cross between a wounded bear and a dying tiger.

“Fuck, Autumn,” he pants. “Can you feel me, baby? I’m about to come inside of you.”

“Yessss.” I freeze my eyeballs to their sockets. “I’m almost there. Ahhhh.” And with that, I moan a little louder, suck in big breaths, and shake my legs. Faking yet another orgasm.

I should start keeping count.

He collapses on top of me, his sweaty chest pressed against my breasts, and we lay in silence.

Strained phrases during morning sex are the only conversations we have these days.

Several minutes pass before he whispers, “I love you, Autumn.”

I say it back because I always say it back, because the status of our coffeemaker is bothering the hell out of me, and I need an excuse to get up.

“That was amazing.” I tap his shoulders. “I’ll make some breakfast. You want waffles?”

“Sure.” He lifts his head to kiss me one more time. Then he rolls over, allowing me to roll off the bed.

I wrap myself in a robe and head into the kitchen. As soon as I hit the lights, I look over at the counter.

I didn’t turn it off. I knew it!

I grab a box of waffle mix and a package of bacon. Usually, Nate offers to make breakfast after sex, but I need a moment alone to think today.

I need a fucking break.

Picking up my cell phone, I scroll through my endless list of contacts, wishing I had someone close I could call. Someone who could convince me that these feelings are all in my head or confirm that I’m not alone.

Alas, ever since Nate moved me to this picture-perfect suburbia—with its street names like Whispering Willow, Sweet Sycamore, and My Magnolia—planting new seeds of friendship has been impossible.

I’ve struggled to get close to any of the women here, settling for vapid coffee dates or mindless yoga sessions. Sometimes I feel like they’re all tuned into a never-ending episode of Married Life is Wonderful, and I’m never allowed to complain about where the writers are taking the show.

I toggle between calling my next-door neighbor Julie or Katy—the president of our neighborhood HOA. Since Katy recently complained about our mums being “a little out of season,” I go with the former.

It rings once.

It rings twice.

“Hey there, Autumn!” Julie answers, her voice hoarse. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

“Very. Do you have any free time today? I need to talk to you about something.”

“If this is about Linda Watts’ disaster of a PTA meeting, I will bring over two bottles of wine. I can’t believe she tried to make people buy her shampoo products at the end!”

“No, it’s about—”

“Hey! Put that back on the shelf, Mister. Now.” She sucks in a deep breath. “Right now, Daniel. Stop embarrassing me in this store.”

“Should I call back at a different time?”

“God no,” she says. “You’re the first adult I’ve spoken to today. Hold on one second while I put Daniel back into this cart.”

I lean against the counter as Nate walks into the kitchen. He’s dressed in one of his custom black suits, looking as if his morning orgasm never happened.

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Read Online Books/Novels:

(Wasted Love #1) Wasted Love with You

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Whitney G

English

B09R3Z1ZB4

Whitney G