Novels by E.N. Rachelle

It’s too damn early to be this pissed but I fucking hate Mondays. And traffic. And rain. And whoever invented the Jones Tower parking lot layout deserves a special place in hell.I’ve had exactly three hours of sleep. Two of which I spent talking myself out of dragging Harper into my place. So, not much sleep. But Iʼve got exactly ten minutes until the meeting, ten minutes to stop thinking about the elevator, the way she pressed against me, and how that insistence in my chest has been quietly reorganizing everything I thought I know about wanting someone. The memory is bone-deep and, frankly, inconvenient.Harper. Harper. Harper.“Fuck.”I slam the trunk of my car shut hard enough to make the SUV groan, muttering under my breath as a fat droplet of rain hits the back of my neck. Perfect. Just perfect. The one goddamn morning I forget my umbrella, and the sky decides to open up like it’s got a personal grudge against me.Which, honestly, fair. So do I.Yesterday night pre-date was… hol

I haul her into the backseat, my mouth crashing against hers, groaning when her thigh brushes my cock. Her dress is bunched up around her hips, her legs wrapped around my waist. She gasps against my mouth and I deepen it, tongue sliding against hers, hands in her hair, her fingers tugging at my shirt like she needs more.Tinted windows. Best fucking invention ever.I slide my hand up her thigh and feel her tremble.“We shouldn’t have had wine tonight,” I mutter against her neck.She moans. “We’re not drunk.”“Then what’s our excuse?”“Desperation.”She’s right.“You’re making it hard not to fuck you,” I growl.“Matthew,” she moans, grinding into me, “if you don’t fuck me, I’ll fuck myself.”My cock twitches so hard I nearly black out.“Fuck.”And that’s the last coherent thought I have.My fingers yank the neckline of her dress down, exposing her lace-covered tits. My mouth finds one, then the other. Sucking. Biting. Marking. I want to ruin her for anyone else. Want her walking into r

7:35 p.m. sharp. I’m at her door.She opens it like she’s been waiting behind it for ten minutes—and the second I see her, I stop breathing.Holy fucking hell.The dress is red.Short enough to make me wonder what I did right in a past life, but long enough to make it worse. It hugs her in every place I’m trying not to look. The kind of dress that should be illegal in public if men are expected to think straight.I want to fuck her against the wall.Thin straps. Low back. Low neckline. Minimal makeup. Her hairʼs half-up, just a few loose strands teasing the curve of her jaw.And her legs.Jesus. Those legs.It’s Harper, but it’s also not. It’s like looking at a dream I forgot I had.She smiles when her blue eyes meet mine, then bites her lip. Like she’s nervous.She shouldn’t be doing that.Not if she wants to make it through dinner.“Hi,” she says.Jesus fucking Christ.I should say hi back.Instead I stare.“You okay?” she laughs softly.No.I’m not.“Uh huh.” I offer my arm. “Letʼs

Board meetings are hell.And I’ve sat through a lot of them. Multi-billion dollar mergers, tech acquisitions, shareholder tantrums—none of them ever tested my patience like this one.There’s a man across from me talking—Slovak accent, maybe Czech—about quarterly returns like they’re an aphrodisiac.I want to kill him.Not because he’s saying anything wrong—he’s not. He’s actually making some decent projections. Our quarterly profits are up, the Prague expansion is moving faster than projected, and the board members are practically jerking themselves off over the latest valuation increase.But I don’t give a damn about quarterly returns right now.All I can think about is her.Harper.God—I lean back in the leather conference chair, force myself to blink, to nod, to pretend like I haven’t been mentally replaying last night for the last seven hours straight.Her mouth. Her hands in my shirt. Her breath against mine. Her soft gasps. The exact way she melted when I whispered, Then don’t

The next morning, I wake up early—because apparently fake Harper is a morning person now—and decide to lean into the influencer thing.I throw on a sports bra, some Lululemon leggings Harper didn’t even take the tags off, grab a smoothie, and record a reel for Harper’s IG page.Organic matcha, fake yoga stretches, a three-step cleanse. I even toss in a wink at the camera and say something about “alignment and ambition.”“New morning routine🌞✨” I caption it. I tag some PR brands and make a mental note to send them traffic stats later.It’s obnoxious. Edited. Slightly out-of-sync with reality.But hey—it’s what she’d do.The followers eat it up. Likes roll in. Comments, too.I reply to none of them. Because my thoughts are still in last night memory.I think of our messages. Feeling sixteen all over again.And stupid. So stupid. At noon, Britney walks in unannounced, tosses her purse on the couch, and sighs like she’s lived ten lives since I saw her last.“Okay. So. Morning orgasm? Am

The first thing I do when the door closes behind Matthew is lean against it and let my knees try—and fail—not to give out. The second thing I do is laugh. And Wednesday—out of all days—might just be my favorite now. Yes, Iʼm including the day I found out I didnʼt actually fail sophomore bio and the day I scored a free cherry pie at that highway diner in Ohio because the waitress thought I looked “tragically sad and probably needed sugar.” This one still wins. Because I can still feel Matthewʼs lips on mine. I can still taste him. It wasnʼt supposed to happen, not like that. But holy God, did it happen. And now Iʼm walking around this penthouse like I've been possessed by the spirit of a woman whoʼs had really, really good sex, except we didnʼt even get to the sex part. I float through the rest of the day. Like literally float. I water a succulent I don’t remember Harper having, rearrange her skincare by pH level and expiration date, and then go full psycho and alphabetize the pa