Read Online Books/Novels:

Accidentally Yours

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Ilsa Ames

Book Information:

Possessive, dominant, undeniable.
She and I are strangers,
But there’s a billion-dollar inheritance at stake.
It’s simple: get fake-married, get the money.
But I don’t want her for a little while. I want her for always.

It’s all supposed to be pretend. Get fake married, have a kid, prove I can have a family, and I get a billion-dollar inheritance from the father I always hated.

It’s all pretend, until I say “I do”. And suddenly, I don’t want sweet, innocent, sassy little June “just for now”. I want her forever.

We’re supposed to play the part for the cameras and the lawyers. I’m not supposed to fall for her. I’m not supposed to want her like this. I’m not supposed to totally fucking lose myself in claiming her body, and possessing her, and just wanting more of her.

We faked it at the altar. But there’s no faking it in the bedroom. It’s all supposed to be pretend. But once I get my hands on her, she’ll know I’m playing for keeps.

I’m her first. Oh, and she’ll be my last. She’ll be my everything, forever, even if she doesn’t know it yet.

This was all about the money at first. Now, it’s all about her.

Accidentally Yours is a full-length contemporary arranged-marriage romance. Hot, steamy, and all the feels, with one extra-hot obsessed alpha hero. Safe, no cliffhanger, and a guaranteed happy ever after!

Books by Author:

Ilsa Ames Books



“Tee-ah-go.” I watched his beautiful lips pronounce his name for the stupid, bubbly blonde that hung over the bar, a move that gave him a good view of her cleavage, I’m sure. It sure gave me more than an eyeful of her pink panties when her tiny black skirt rode up.

I scowled, some sort of female sister-code doing it’s damnedest to stop me from mumbling the word “skank,” even if I was thinking it inside.

I wasn’t bitter, not at all, it was more… envy of her boldness. I pulled the panels of my light olive-green cardigan together and squirmed in my booth seat to try to make myself smaller. I could never be like her, not in a million years, even if I wished I could. It wasn’t in me to be so… well, bold. I was the consummate timid little mouse, a pro at bashful blandness.

That’s why I was in that dark corner with a glass of white wine that’d lost its chill and a romance novel I’d ripped the cover off of. I hated the glances I get when people saw the covers—the guy with the sweeping hair and the rippling muscles, the girl with lust on her face and her dress artfully torn off. Yeah, no. I’d used scissors to cut the cover off of this one. The glances people shot my way whenever I’d read one in public with the cover still on it were judgment of a lonely spinster.

I almost rolled my eyes. Spinster. Was that word even used anymore?

I don’t know, but it described me perfectly. I lived alone, with a cat named Oscar as my only companion. I didn’t even have one of those “sex friends” or “benefit friends” or whatever they were called that people talked about. You know, a guy to do the deed and leave me alone.

Nope. All I had was this, a crush on a stupidly gorgeous, dark-haired bartender, a glass of wine, a cat that tolerated me, and my books. Like this one.

I went back to the romance book in a huff as the blonde ran a finger down Tiago’s hard jaw, I could all but hear the scratch of his beard as she did it, and that fierce scowl returned to my face.

Why couldn’t I be more like that? More like her—bold, confident, knowing exactly what she wanted. Me, I couldn’t decide whether to have a frozen pizza or a frozen burrito for dinner. She wore an outfit that was unsuitable for the chill that still permeated the spring air, even in southern California. I had on a warm pair of jeans and my usual cardigan.

I watched her, my eyes not envious, but sad more than anything. Why couldn’t I be so adventurous, and so open with my sexuality? My brain screamed a word “boring” over and over again and I closed the book. My brain was right, I could bore a librarian to tears. I was fairly certain I had a time or two already.

I never had adventures, I was never asked to go on road trips, mainly because I had no friends, but I’d promised myself long ago, I’d take that trip. I’d live that adventure. As soon as one came along.

Nothing ever happened though, not recently, anyway. When I left high school, I had a dream, a dream of normality. A dream that I’d made reality. I’d never guessed how lonely, or bored, I’d be.

And now, my life was a constant. After the chaos of my youth, I knew what each day would bring now, barring the occasional mishap caused by someone else or my health, and that’s how I’d wanted it.

Sometimes it sucks when you get what you want.



“I’m new in town, care to show me the sights?”

The blonde’s husky, sultry, entendre-laden voice was a temptation most men would be morons to refuse. Now, I’d hate to say something like “but I wasn’t most men” because any man who says that sound like a complete fucking douchebag. But, in this instance, and on that day, I really wasn’t like most men.

Not when it came to thin innuendos from overly-primped up blondes. And definitely not when I’d already chosen to make today the day I made my offer.

“You know, I’d love to,” I grinned, my deep voice rumbling through the air between us, making the blonde’s breath catch a little. “But I have work to do and an early day tomorrow. How about you drop by some other time?” I gave her a wink with hazel eyes that were more gold than anything, and one of those patented grins that always drew the ladies in. Charming, sexy, but also a little self-deprecating. They ate that shit up.

Plus, it was just a line. And in this case, a completely empty, meaningless one. Something bartenders say to be charming, I guess. Not a single part of me actually hoped she’d ever stroll back in to drape her tits over the bar like that. I mean, c’mon, I was a red-blooded guy just as much as the next, but something that, well, laid out and easy never appealed to me. The blonde was just trying too hard, and to me, it came off as unappealing, no matter how low her shirt was unbuttoned or how high she’d hiked that skirt of hers.