Novels by Raven Writes

His grip iron, his hips never slowing. I was trapped beneath him, stretched around him, and I loved it-loved the helplessness, loved the violence of it, loved that it was him reducing me to this gasping, writhing thing.“Look at me,” he commanded. “Look at me while I fuck you, Thessaly. Look at me and know you lost.”I forced my eyes open, glaring up at him even as my body betrayed me, my hips rising to meet his thrusts, my inner muscles fluttering around his cock. “You-fuck-you haven’t made me cum yet. That’s not winning.”His smile was feral. “Yet.”He shifted his angle, grinding his pelvis against my clit with every thrust, and I cried out, my head falling back despite myself, my wrists straining against his grip. “You-god-you asshole-““Say it,” he panted, his own control fraying, sweat beading on his forehead, his chest heaving. “Say you’re going to cum on my cock. Say it like you hate me.”“I hate you,” I sobbed, the pressure building, coiling, ready to snap. “I hate you I hate

Caelan pinned my wrists above my head with one hand, his body heavy between my thighs, and I arched up against him, hating how good it felt, hating that I wanted more.“Say it again,” he demanded, his free hand dragging my sweater up, exposing my stomach, my ribs, the black lace of my bra.“Fuck you.”He dipped his head, mouth hot against my collarbone, teeth grazing the tendon in my neck. “You first.”I struggled against his grip, not to get free but to feel the restraint, the delicious helplessness of being held down by someone who knew exactly how much I wanted to fight. He laughed against my skin, the sound dark and pleased, and then his mouth was on my breast through the lace, sucking hard, and I cried out, my hips bucking upward.“Sensitive,” he murmured, moving to the other side, leaving the first wet and aching. “Good to know.”“Don’t act like you’ve thought about this,” I panted, even though we both knew he had. We both had. Every argument, every cutting remark, every time ou

The first time I met Caelan Voss, he was vomiting into a potted fern at my cousin’s wedding.I was sixteen. He was seventeen, the son of one of my uncle’s business partners, all sharp cheekbones and sharper arrogance. Even green around the gills, he’d looked me up and down like I was a disappointing appetizer and said, “You clean up decent for a Holt.”I’d dumped my sparkling cider on his shoes.That should have been the end of it. Two families who ran in overlapping circles, a summer wedding collision, nothing more. But fate has a sick sense of humour. My father-Theodore Holt of Holt & Associates Architecture-decided Caelan’s father, the equally insufferable Magnus Voss, would make an excellent mentor. Caelan spent the next two summers interning at my father’s firm. I spent those summers watching him weasel his way into my father’s good graces, watching him absorb praise that should have been mine, watching him smirk across conference tables while I fetched coffee I hadn’t offered to

They cleaned up separately, embarrassed and giddy, and when they reconvened on the couch, they didn’t finish the movie. They just talked, their fingers intertwined, about how good it had felt, about how they wanted to do it again, about all the things they wanted to try.That night, Jerry went home and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his body still humming. He thought about Jane’s face when she’d cum, the way she’d looked at him like he was the only person in the world. He thought about the heat of her, the friction, the perfect pressure. And he thought about what might come next.They met again the next evening. Jane’s parents were still away, and the house felt like theirs alone. They ordered Thai food and ate it in her bedroom, sitting cross-legged on her bed, the air thick with anticipation.“I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” Jane admitted, pushing her noodles around with a fork. “About you. About how it felt.”“Me neither,” Jerry said. “I kept replaying it in my head.”“I w

Jerry had lived next door to the empty house for sixteen years before anyone finally moved in. The Victorian on the corner of Maple and Third had sat dormant through his entire childhood, a boarded-up relic that neighbourhood kids swore was haunted. By the time he turned nineteen-a sophomore at the local community college, still living at home to save money, working weekends at his uncle’s hardware store-he’d stopped noticing the FOR SALE sign that had faded in the front yard.Then, one humid August afternoon, a U-Haul rattled down the street.Jerry was on his porch, nursing a lemonade and trying to make sense of an organic chemistry textbook, when the truck backed into the driveway. He watched without much interest as a middle-aged couple climbed out, followed by a girl about his age. She was wearing cut-off denim shorts and an oversized band t-shirt, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses sliding down her nose. She carried a cardboard box labelled BO

Leander Crowe had spent the last eight months thinking about his boss’s hands more than was strictly professional. Not just the hands themselves, though they were hard to ignore. Long fingers, strong knuckles, always clean, always steady. It was what they stood for. Control. Certainty. The same hands that signed contracts worth millions and quietly dismantled competitors without ever raising their voice. The hands of Silas Varrick, CEO of Varrick Technologies, forty-two years old, six-foot-two, and built like someone who had never once been told no in his entire life.Leander was twenty-four, six months out of graduate school, still half-convinced someone would realize they’d hired him by mistake. He told himself the tight feeling in his chest whenever Silas walked into a room was just nerves. He told himself the way his gaze kept catching on the breadth of Silas’s shoulders, the way tailored fabric sat across his chest and the hard line of his thighs, was simple admiration. Respect f

I sat down at my desk and opened my laptop. An email notification popped up almost immediately, the subject line reading: Reopening— The Grand Reynor Development.I clicked it open, scanning through.Aurélie,Confirming our conversation this morning — let’s meet tomorrow at 10 AM to discuss the first steps into reopening the Grand R project. Given the scope involved, I’ll need you handling the database side of things directly: organizing existing files, previous contracts, event timelines, and any internal documentation tied to the project before it was shelved. I’d like you to compile everything into a clean, comprehensive document — a complete history of the project from inception through its abandonment, including any notes on why it was halted in the first place. Once consolidated, we’ll use that as our foundation moving forward. You’ll essentially be running point on the archival side while I handle external stakeholders. Looking forward to getting started.— M.L.I read it twice

I had just gotten to the office. The air felt new — the same way it had felt back when I first started, when everything about this place still carried the weight of possibility and tension instead of routine.I set my bag down and walked over to the coffee maker across from my office. Donovan had refused any that morning because he’d had somewhere to be before sunrise and promised he’d grab something on the way. I made myself a hot cup instead, breathing in the familiar aroma of it, savouring the quiet before the workday properly began.I turned to head back to my desk and paused mid-step, surprised to see Marcus walking toward me.He looked tall and whimsical as ever — his bald fade crisp, his slightly muscular frame filling out a clean, deep navy suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe combined.“Mr. Marcus,” I said, extending a hand. “Good morning.”“Sure is a good morning,” he said, shaking it, “because I was wondering if you’d like to join me on this new project. Be

Aurélie Tess Blackwood POVWe sat up in Donovan’s bed, both of us quiet, staring at a picture hanging on the wall opposite us. Donovan sat behind me, his back against the headboard, and I could feel his eyes on me instead of the photograph — like nothing else in the room mattered more than watching me exist in his space.I lifted my hand into the air, flexing my fingers, watching the ring catch the low bedroom light. The gem sparked with every small movement, and a smile tugged at my mouth. I didn’t bother hiding it.“So,” I said, turning to finally meet his gaze, “what does this make me?”A small smile pulled at his lips too. “My girlfriend.”I giggled softly. “So you’re my... boyfriend?”“I’ll be whatever you want.” His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “But yeah. Definitely.”“The word feels foreign on my tongue,” I drawled, testing it out slowly, deliberately. “Boyfriend. Boyfriend. Boyfriend.”He laughed, the sound low and warm. “You know you don’t have to call me boyfriend.

Donovan Reynor.I pulled up to her house, and the moment I saw her step through the door, something caught hard in my chest, sharp enough that a tear almost slipped free before I could stop it.She had no right to be that stunning.But there she was anyway, walking toward the car in a deep emerald dress that caught the streetlight in ways that made my mouth go dry.When she closed the distance between us, I took her hand and pressed an open-mouthed kiss against her knuckles. “You’re stunning in that dress.”“Thank you.” Her cheeks flushed a soft pink. “You look really breath-taking yourself. Maybe just a little something for the final touch.”She leaned in, pressing her lips against my left cheek, leaving behind the faint mark of her lip gloss and the warm impression of her mouth.I wore it with pride. Shamelessly. Like I’d achieved something rare and worth flaunting.“Thank you,” I managed, trying to contain the ridiculous amount of excitement building in my chest.*****Aurélie Tess

They were moving forward with the next project, as decided by the board. It should have been something different, a plan that had been sitting pending for over six months, something the executive team had flagged as urgent more than once. But somehow, in the way boardrooms sometimes defied all logic, they'd voted instead on a project that had been abandoned years ago, shelved and forgotten in some archive nobody bothered opening anymore.There wasn't time to prepare for it. The meeting had been called almost impromptu, and I had no idea what the project actually entailed, its history, its original scope, or why it had been scrapped in the first place. But I knew instinctively, from the way the room shifted the moment it came up, that it had to be something significant.So I sat there and took notes the way I always did. Key points. Dates. Names that mattered. Anything I'd need to memorize later, just in case someone asked me to recall it on the spot.Half an hour later, it was decided

I got to work the next morning still riding the residual warmth of everything that had happened last night with Addie and Julia. It was fun but the body sores came after from all the shouting, dancing and drinking.I’d barely settled into my chair, barely gotten my laptop open, when the intercom buzzed sharply.“Miss Blackwood, my office. Now.”I raised an eyebrow at the tone, professional and clipped, the same voice he’d used with me back when we were nothing more than boss and secretary. Old habits, apparently, died hard, even now.I grabbed my notepad out of instinct, still not fully awake, and made my way to his office.The moment I stepped through the door, he was already on me, enveloping me in a hug so tight it nearly knocked the breath out of my lungs, one hand reaching back to lock the door behind us in the same fluid motion.“I missed you,” he murmured against my hair. “I couldn’t sleep. I kept reaching for you and you weren’t there.”“You’re dramatic.”“Maybe.” He pulled b