Showing results by author "Elodie Hart" in All Categories

When you've been told your whole life that something is sinful, you have two options. Avoid it like the plague, like it has the power to destroy all that is good and pure. Or become as fixated upon it as Eve was upon that apple. I'm sick of the push-pull of terror and temptation. It's tearing me apart. I just want a bite of the apple. More than a bite. I want to devour it. Have its juices spill from my lips. And by apple, I, of course, mean sex.

I cultivated my shamelessness. I wore it as a badge of honor at my convent school, and I've been turning it into an art form at Alchemy, the club whose social media I manage. My boss, though? He's the most proper person I've ever met. No one would peg him as the finance director of a sex club. (I mean, no one's pegging him at all, which is probably his problem. #justsayin) I get it. He's a widower, single-parenting two little girls while holding down a massive job. He needs an outlet, something just for him.

I want to run a sex empire and be taken seriously in the old boys' club that is the business world. I want to be the poster child, not the plaything. So, I stay polished. Tasteful. Beyond reproach. Until Anton Wolff joins Alchemy. He's the UK's most charismatic billionaire, and he's looking for a club that's as discreet as it is debauched. As classy as it is carnal. I think I've seen it all—until he shares what he desires from his Alchemy experience. And what he desires, above all else, is me. I think I'm afraid of the Big, Bad Wolff.

I bet most women would give a kidney to shoot a steamy Regency TV drama with Hollywood’s hottest movie star. Right? Not me. Because said hottie is also the ex who dumped me on Twitter five years ago. I’m playing the Duchess. And the Duke is… you’ve got it. Twitter Boy, straight from rehab and a box office bomb (karma's a bitch). The world is watching, giving me the perfect platform to show him he was out of his mind to cast me aside. It should all be fine, save for a few minor hurdles: this guy was made for tight breeches.

I've endured fifteen years of underwhelming marital sex with Lord John Russell. One front-page tell-all from his secretary puts an end to that misery pretty efficiently. As the media furor rages around our divorce, two things become abundantly clear. One: it's time for some decent orgasms, which is why I've joined the Unfurl program at London's top sex club, Alchemy. Two: it's time to take control of the narrative, for myself and for other women. That's why I plan to document my sexual revolution on camera.

My little girl has a life-threatening heart condition, and I'd like to think I'd do anything to save her. Anything at all. But it's not until the most lucrative, shameful opportunity falls into my lap that I learn just how far I'll go to protect her. The opportunity? A "full-service" executive assistant role through the discreet agency Seraph, putting my body and my soul at the mercy of a ruthless billionaire who has a reputation for eating women like me for breakfast: Brendan Sullivan.

They've warned me in hushed tones that my new boss is a "profoundly complex man." It takes me approximately twenty minutes to establish that billionaire Ethan Kingsley is as straightforward as they come. He's a walking, talking textbook on dysregulation. Its title? How to Lose Friends and Alienate People. In the space of a year, he's burnt through one marriage and three executive assistants, and he's well on the road to messing up the only real thing in his life: his relationship with his teenage son.

I've always shot for the moon, but if you'd told me I'd be earning seven figures at twenty-four, I would never have believed you. And if you'd told me that I'd earn every penny of that success by selling my body and my soul, I'd have laughed in your face. Still. Here I am at Seraph, an elite agency that recruits only the most well-educated, accomplished and discreet women. Our area of expertise? "Full service" executive assistants to the most powerful men in the world.

Adam Wright may be a self-made billionaire, but he's also a beast. Most children grow up hating a storybook villain. Based on the injuries that man inflicted on my brother, I grew up hating a real one. When he sort of kidnaps me and drags me back to his fairytale mansion, it feels like yet another cliché antihero stunt. Here's the thing, though. Most villains don't weep real tears when they see you having a diabetic episode. They don't abandon their billion-pound empire so they can roll up their sleeves and pull your company back from the brink of bankruptcy.

Shame. Prejudice. Fear. All woven into the very fabric of my being. I'm swathed in them like the most suffocating cloak. Beneath this toxic mantle, I wear my desires close to my heart. Where it's dark. Where they're safe. Until I meet Darcy, a dancer at Alchemy and the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. The only problem? Her boyfriend, Max. She makes me feel alive, but he arouses emotions I've taken great care my entire life to condemn and deny and bury. Emotions I've always been taught are sinful and wrong.

I may be a total princess, but I’m not looking for a prince. Or even my usual type of wealthy, overly-groomed playboy. I’m done with smooth. I want a bit of rough. A real man, with a real job. One who’s good with his hands and not afraid to get them dirty. Someone exactly like the foreman on the new community project my team’s volunteering on. Aide. He’s delicious. Even his name says “I know how to get the job done”. And his demeanour says “I could have you moaning in five seconds flat”.

A Very London Christmas is a grumpy sunshine, single dad, nanny-boss romance containing enough festivity to warm the Scroogiest hearts and a healthy sprinkling of Christmas spice!

Do you absolutely need to see Max, Dex, and Darcy exchange vows? Want a front-row seat to the sexy chaos that ensues when Cal decides to raise money for the rainforests? Desperate for that spreader bar scene between Adam and Nat? Have you long harbored a suspicion that Anton's Terrible Twins will cause even more havoc as they get older?

When Elodie Peach joins our school's History department, her clear green eyes, joyous ways and swan-like neck enchant me as much as Anne Boleyn’s charms captivated Henry VIII five hundred years ago. Monday to Friday, I’m grumpy Mr Vaughan, Head of History. Zero personality, except when I’m teaching. So passionate about my field that my pupils bought me a highly inappropriate t-shirt last year.