“You ever come here?” he asked.
She didn’t register his meaning at first—not until he pinched her clit. “No,” she gasped.
“Not even once? No making out in the confessional?”
God, he wouldn’t let up. Circling and circling until her hips were moving in tandem. “No, we’re not…not Catholic. Don’t confess.”
“That’s a shame, sweetheart. I’d love to hear those wicked thoughts of yours.”
She shook her head—hard. “I’ve always been good. Always tried to be good.”
Even though she’d failed. He was her serpent, luring her out of the garden, but she wasn’t mad. She didn’t want to stay locked up anymore. Eden was just a pretty prison when you got down to it.
His fingers sped up, moving with her hips. His voice was low in her ear. “If I sat next to you during service, I’d slip my hand under your skirt and touch you right there, in front of everyone.”
She moaned, clutching his arm.
“Shh. You have to be quiet. You can’t let them know what I’m doing to you.”
His words spun the picture. She shuddered, imagining a packed chapel and staid sermon. And right beside her—Lock. Or Keaton. Her personal weakness and unlikely salvation.
His fingers plunged inside her, thumb relentless on her clit, and she shattered. She broke apart, crying his name—Keaton. She rocked against his hand and dug her nails into his back and used him just as much as he used her. He anchored her in the storm. He whipped her with wind and breathless pleasure. He was inside and out and all around her, slicking the air with salt and sex.
The climax stole her breath and gave it back in gasps and soft whimpers. He soothed her when her body jumped, petting her until the orgasm had passed, leaving her wrung out and slumped against the wall. His kiss against her forehead felt like a benediction, but his damp fingers pressing into her mouth made it even sweeter.
“Suck,” he murmured, but she was already licking his fingers clean, turning the tables so that lust fired in his eyes. The bulge pressing against her hip proved he hadn’t finished yet. And wouldn’t finish—not until they’d figured this out.
That old contract was null and void. The new negotiations…well, she had a few tricks in her bag. Like tugging his head down so he could taste her on her tongue. Like nipping his lips so he groaned and humped her urgently.
She smiled. “Forever is a very long time.”
“Hailey, you are not—”
“Boring. I know.” She straightened her clothes, grateful for the dark nook he kept her in. He was always taking care of her, even when he didn’t want her to know it. “But what if I’m the one who gets bored?”
A slow grin spread over his face. “Is that a challenge?”
She shrugged. “All those parties and groupies. There’s a whole world to explore.”
His hand cupped between her legs, over the fabric. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. But no one sees this except for me.”
“Never?” she said, thinking of his command at the concert. That had been fun.
“Unless I order you to,” he amended.
Her wicked smile matched his. “Can I get that in writing?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
EPILOGUE
Lock pushed through the crowd, ignoring his red-faced agent's shouts about photo ops and fan-club obligations, and raced for the rear exit. Let the other guys helm the PR machine for the night. Only one obligation mattered.
He was a mess after a full set and two encores, but they'd booked the chapel for midnight. No time for a shower or a change of clothes. He peeled his shirt off and used it to wipe his face, smearing eyeliner and sweat.
Two burly men with security vests propped open the door. The crowd outside sprang to life with shouts and camera flashes. A young woman burst through the throng, yanking her top down to expose a Sharpie pen tucked between generous cleavage. “Mark me, please.”
The only woman he wanted to mark was waiting in the back of the limo parked a few feet away. The bodyguard by his side shouldered between them. “No autographs, ma'am.”
He used her momentary meltdown to make a dash for the limo. For Hailey.
As soon as the door shut behind him, he relaxed and let the stage persona slip. Lock has left the building. Keaton Shaw melted into his woman's warm embrace, the brush of her lips, the sweet scent of her presence, totally oblivious to their audience.
“Not in front of the baby!” Chloe said, covering the sleeping infant’s eyes and making an exaggerated O with her mouth. Tim, decked out in a powder-blue tuxedo, smirked and shook his head.
“Good show?” Hailey asked.
“Not the same without you in the wings.”
“We had important business to attend to tonight. And sister stuff.”
“Um, and sister stuff isn't important business?” Chloe teased. The baby let out a tiny squeak, and Keaton prayed it wouldn't start bawling.
“Of course it is. And mommy stuff.” Hailey cooed, leaning over to peek at the little scream machine gurgling on Chloe's lap. At three months that kid could hold his own with a thrash metal band. And he was kind of cute when he started blowing those little bubbles at the corners of his mouth. Keaton decided he should get him an agent. Probably one less vicious than his own.
“And wardrobe. I better get big brownie points for this,” Tim added, tugging at the hot-pink cummerbund wrapped around his waist.
“If by points you mean trifle, then yes.” Chloe patted Tim's belly and turned back to them. “Are you guys ready? I'm ready. I can't thank you enough for doing this. Especially after we eloped on you last year.”
Hailey squeezed Keaton's knee and grinned. “The timing worked out perfectly. The tour stop and Tim's break from Youth Nation.”
Keaton snorted. Tim was a good guy, but ribbing him was too much fun to resist. “Church camp.”
“Nondenominational youth outreach program,” Tim corrected.
“Yes, you mold them and I warp them. I'm keeping you in business, buddy.”
“You don't warp them; you give them an outlet for their pain.”
“Don't get all deep on me now, Pastor Tim. There's time for that at the ceremony later.”
“Don't call him that,” Chloe and Hailey said in unison, giggling.
“Not yet, anyway. But, soon,” Chloe added.
The limo stopped, and the driver lowered the privacy window. “Sir, we've arrived.”
His heart raced the way it did before he stepped onstage. His palms tingled. Hailey threaded her fingers with his and squeezed. A warm calm spread through his chest. He’d made a lot of poor choices in his life, but this wasn’t one of them. “I feel a little silly, shirtless and filthy, while you guys are glammed up.”
Tim leaned forward. “I got you covered. There's tux rental inside.”
“Absolutely not!” Hailey shrieked. “I want you exactly like this. Think of the pictures.”
And he did. Her all in white—from the princess dress down to the fishnets—and him, half-naked and exposed. His heart ached with the sweetness of it.
“Oh, I almost forgot. For luck.” Hailey tucked a scrap of blue satin into his pocket, her eyes flashing mischief. Were those panties? He checked. They were.
He hauled her into his lap, laughing, rucking up her dress, digging his fingers into the netting on her thighs. “Baby, I don’t need luck—I don’t need anything—as long as I have you.”
MORE FROM AMBER LIN & SHARI SLADE
The next book in the series, One Kiss with a Rock Star, is available now.
Half-Life bassist Krist Mellas is caught in a PR nightmare after his dirty sex video blew up online. His agent has the solution: a fake engagement with sultry pop princess Madeline Fox. Krist can’t think of anything worse than a charade with the bubblegum bombshell…except losing the band.
Madeline knows better than anyone what it means to live a lie in the spotlight. She’s determined to help Krist without e
ver letting him find out what it costs her—or about her girlhood crush on him. But after a smoking hot back alley encounter with him leaves her breathless, she can’t deny she wants the snarling bad-boy rocker.
In a world of glitter and diamonds where the kisses are fake but the climaxes are real, their facades start to crack. And the publicity storm may shatter them both.
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OTHER BOOKS BY SHARI SLADE
Devil’s Host MC Serial
Ride Me Hard #1
Break Me In #2
Drive Me Wild #3
Hold Me Down #4
The Half-Life Series
Three Nights with a Rock Star
One Kiss with a Rock Star
Second Chance with a Rock Star
OTHER BOOKS BY AMBER LIN
How to Say Goodbye
Chance of Rain
The Half-Life Series
Three Nights with a Rock Star
One Kiss with a Rock Star
Second Chance with a Rock Star
Historical Romance
Letters at Christmas
Falling for the Pirate
Betraying Mercy
ABOUT SHARI SLADE & AMBER LIN
Amber Lin and Shari Slade are the USA Today bestselling authors behind the bad boys of Half-Life.
Website | Shari’s Newsletter | Amber’s Newsletter
Forbidden Rock Star
(Red Hot Rock Rhapsodies)
by
Madelynne Ellis
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FORBIDDEN ROCK STAR featuring PARADISE KISS ~
Nathaniel Darke:
She knows just how to press all my buttons. Bass-playing bitch, crawling under my skin.
I want to believe one good shag will cure me of her.
But instead, I end up addicted.
Loveday Trevaskis:
Nathaniel Darke is a perverted tit fucker. I know because I let him fuck mine.
He’s the enemy. I ought to run away from him as far and fast as I can.
But I don’t.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
It turns out that having one set of sexy rockers inhabiting my head isn’t enough, thus Paradise Kiss were born. Unlike my superstars Black Halo, these boys are just beginning their journey towards international fame and fortune. I hope you’ll join them for the ride, which, if their antics so far are to go on, promises to be a wild one.
Love Madelynne xx
ONE
Nathaniel Darke
“Sign it with big smoochy kisses.”
I pause when I hear the footsteps approaching, silver Sharpie poised over the back of a T-shirt that Dane’s current squeeze is modelling. Officially, she’s running the merchandise table for tonight’s gig, but it’s hard to see how she’s going to shift much stuff while her lips are glued to those of my idiot younger brother.
I glance upward without raising my head, unsurprised by what I find. This showdown was scheduled the moment I saw Bitch Slap were on tonight’s billing. If I was a good brother, I’d give Dane a kick, but we’re not exactly seeing eye-to-eye at the moment. Not after the bastard blew me off and left me to talk to the music execs alone while he did the horizontal mambo with a girl he’d picked up in the taxi rank. Not this girl—the current one he’s playing throat hockey with—or one of the three rock chicks approaching. At least, I don’t think it was. With Dane, it’s hard to predict, especially of late.
“Hi, Jess,” he says, coming up for air right before she strikes.
Oh, yes!
Right hook.
Smack on the nose.
No one can accuse Jessie Lyn of hitting like a girl. There’s power enough in her skinny frame to lay most guys out cold.
Dane’s head snaps backward. The girl in between them yelps, then makes a sensible choice and ducks before Jessie decides on a follow up.
Instead, Ms. Lyn contents herself with a growl that sounds an awful lot like “Bastard, fuckwit, shit prick!”
I can’t honestly disagree with most of those.
“What the fuck?” Dane yells.
Aw, shit!
Dane only goes and wallops her right back. Fucking dickwad of a brother. I’m not saying he should stand around and take it, but striking a woman, even when provoked, is plain barbaric.
I’m going to have to friggin’ intervene.
Then again, given that it’s three against one, maybe just sitting tight exactly where I am, is a better plan.
Jessie recoils like a spring, fists raised ready to block anything else that’s coming. Her two band mates, girls I’ve never clapped eyes on before, but who look as if they’ll happily put his eyes out, and then stuff his dick down his own throat, circle in from the sides, velociraptor-style.
“Do you want to tell me what your fucking problem is?” Dane yells, while throwing me a side-eye.
Like I’m actually going to provide him with back-up.
Well, I might if things get serious. I do need him in full working order for the gig tonight given everything that’s at stake.
I dip my chin and pucker my lips into a kiss, letting him know I’m keeping Caitlyn safe. Not that I imagine Dane recalls her name. Apparently, it’s old-fashioned to want to know whose mouth you’re tasting. Guess I’m plain archaic.
Meanwhile, Caitlyn has wedged herself between my feet and the end of the merchandise table.
“Hypocritical Bitch,” Jessie yells.
It’s a storming song. Not one of our best, but definitely Dane’s best offering.
“What about it?”
Jessie’s eyebrow’s shoot up her forehead, because, yeah, we all know it’s about her. I know, Knox and Joel know, Jessie and her two pals, hell, even Caitlyn knows, and I’m not sure she’d heard anything by us prior to an hour ago. Anyone who’s ever heard the track knows, because while the lyrics stop short of actually mentioning Jessie by name. He only went and slapped her likeness on the goddamned cover sleeve.
“It’s just a song.” Dane smirks showing far too many teeth. It’ll be his own fault if she knocks a few of them out. “As if you meant enough for me to want to sing about your skinny arse every night.”
Jessie comes for him like a pinball. Lightning fast. She ignores his face this time, and aims low. Grabs hold of his tackle and squeezes so hard he’ll be singing soprano tonight. Let’s hope Knox is up to filling in on backing vocals, because we need this gig to be A-grade given who’s going to be out there watching.
Jessie’s two band mates grab his arms, slowing Dane’s retaliatory swings down to bullet time micro-movements. He’s getting his arse whooped, and he at least partially deserves it.
It’s only when they crash into the table, and buttons, pens and download codes go flying that I decide it’s time to send them all back to their respective corners. “Can’t we discuss this reasonably?”
“You expect him to be reasonable?” Jessie yaps.
Dane makes an unsavoury snorting noise. “I’m not the one who walked out because band practice was eating up all the time we could’ve had together, and then started my own fucking band.”
I didn’t actually know that bit. I’d kind of figured it from the lyrics, but Dane’s not exactly a man of many words, not when it comes to emotional shit. I put that down to us having weathered too bloody much of it. Talking it over never provided us with any sort of solution. Putting it down on paper as lyrics, that’s a whole other story. It was…is our ticket out of the shit, because while we currently have a foot on the rung, I’m not interested in hanging on, being half-way up or even at the top without a fucking enormous safety harness and a dozen karabiners holding me in place. We’re so close to that point, I can almost taste it in the air—a subtle metallic tang, with a dash of electric spice.
Tonight’s the night when we move out of the kiddie league and into the premiership.
“You are so fucking dead, Daniel Darke,” Jessie hollers, leaning right into Dane’s face.
Looking at them almost lip to lip, it’s a toss-up whether they’re going to kill one another, or fuck each other senseless. If there wasn’t an audience they could lose face in front of, I’d bet on the latter.
“Leave it, Jess. He’s not fucking worth it.” This from the red hot pixie with the bright gold hair. “We’re on in twenty minutes.”
I’m genuinely astonished, when this simple tap on the shoulder makes Jessie back right up.
“Yeah, you’re right, of course.” She brushes palms with her friend, like a match-point has just been scored.
Dane seems equally surprised when the three women link arms and head for the stands.
Perhaps he ought to be relieved he came off relatively unscathed, although he’s down anyone to face suck, because Caitlyn suddenly decides to show supreme dedication to restoring our merchandise to its rightful place on the table, and not scattered across the whole bloody front of house.
“You might have weighed in,” Dane bitches.
“You might consider keeping your fists to yourself.”
“She hit me first.”
I shake my head because that still doesn’t make it right. “You have at least 60 pounds on her. And you knew how she’d react once she got wind of that track.” The same way anyone who wasn’t simply going to curl up and die would react.
“It’s a good track,” he snarls defensively.
“Did I say otherwise?”
“We’re still opening with it, right?”
He’s a glutton for punishment, my brother. “Maybe it’d make more sense to end with it. If you want to cause a riot, at least do it when we’re about to walk off stage, not before we play our set. The point is to get our music heard.”
“Second to last,” he negotiates. “Then we can reprise it for the encore.”
BANGED: Rock Stars, Bad Boys & Dirty Deeds Page 38
