by Milly Taiden
She couldn’t get inside fast enough, and Evan took forever to fold his bulk into the tiny space, but when they’d zipped the netted opening back up for a hint of privacy, she lay back and let the moment draw out.
“Did I do good?” Evan asked her.
“Better than good. I think we need to have one of these pitched in our backyard at all times.”
“We can sleep in it every night until we build our house.”
“Sleep? What’s sleep got to do with it?” She snuggled in close and turned over, spoon-fashion. Might as well finally finish what they started back on that most frustrating night of her life back on the show.
“I was hoping you’d remember this,” Evan said, sliding his arms around her, and hugging her close. As he set out to explore her body with his hands, caressing every curve, stroking her breasts, teasing her nipples, the fire within that seemed insatiable whenever he was near began to build anew.
She loved the feel of him nestled against her, the hardness of him pressed along her skin. She loved knowing what was to come, but relishing every moment of the process it took to get there.
She began to rock back against him and heard his murmured grunt of pleasure. As he slid a hand lower, exploring her, stroking her, she parted her legs, allowing him better access.
“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he said.
“I love you.”
He stroked faster and with a moan of wanting, she eased into position, telling him she wanted more, now—right now.
He pushed inside her, but only just a little, then pulled out before pushing in again. With each stroke he reached a little farther, but his slow pace and teasing motions stoked her fire so high she nearly cried out in frustration. Reaching behind her, she gripped his hip and tried to pull him inside. Evan only chuckled into her hair.
“Patience,” he said.
“I’ve never been patient! You know that!”
“I do know that,” he said, and pushed all the way in with a strong stroke. Bella gasped and moaned as he pulled out and pushed in again. This time his pace suited her just fine and she moved with him, every stroke a streak of liquid pleasure between her legs.
“Is this good?” he asked as if he didn’t know the answer.
“Yes!” she gasped. “More.”
“You got it,” he said and redoubled his efforts.
Just when Bella thought she couldn’t contain her desire anymore, she went over the edge and came in crashing waves of sensation and pleasure. Evan came with her, his shouts of release echoing in her ears like the crash of the surf on the sand outside their tent. When they collapsed together, spent and blissful, she reached back to give him a kiss.
“Just give me a minute and we’ll do it again,” he said, kissing her back.
“You promise?”
“As many times as you like. To the victor go the spoils.”
She rolled over to consider him. “You sound pretty pleased about that.”
“Losing that show was the smartest thing I ever did.” He reached up and tugged one her curls. “I love you, Bella.”
“I love you, too.” And she reached for him again.
***
The Cowboys of Chance Creek series continues with
THE SHERIFF CATCHES A BRIDE
Mason Hall, Navy SEAL, knows all about difficult assignments, but his current mission is one for the record books. Not only must he find a wife—and get her pregnant—or forfeit the ranch his family has prized for generations, he must also convince his three brothers to marry, too—before the year is up. Who knew one city girl and three wayward brothers could put up such a fight?
See THE SHERIFF CATCHES A BRIDE at:
Amazon
About Cora Seton
Cora Seton loves cowboys, country life, gardening, bike-riding, and lazing around with a good book. Mother of four, wife to a computer programmer/eco-farmer, she ditched her California lifestyle nine years ago and moved to a remote logging town in northwestern British Columbia.
Like the characters in her novels, Cora enjoys old-fashioned pursuits and modern technology, spending mornings transforming an ordinary one-acre lot into a paradise of orchards, berry bushes and market gardens, and afternoons writing the latest Chance Creek romance novel on her iPad mini. Visit www.coraseton.com to read about new releases, locate your favorite characters on the Chance Creek map, and learn about contests and other cool events!
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Table of Contents
Their Second Chance by Milly Taiden
Forever Sheltered by Deanna Roy
Kiss of Memory by V. M. Black
The Cowgirl Ropes A Billionaire by Cora Seton
What a Girl Wants (Rock Stars in Disguise: Rhiannon) by Blair Babylon
Beyond Love and Hate by Zoe York
Ripped by Olivia Rigal
Ready to Fall by Daisy Prescott
My First, My Last by Lacey Silks
Azure by Chrystalla Thoma
Wicked Little Sins by Holly Hood
The Royal Elite: Ahsan by Danielle Bourdon
All for Hope by Olivia Hardin
High Risk Love by S.J. Mayer
Rush by Violet Vaughn
First Taste by Mira Bailee
The Perfect Someday by Beverly Preston
St. Charles at Dusk by Sarah M. Cradit
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WHAT A GIRL WANTS
(ROCK STARS IN DISGUISE: RHIANNON)
by Blair Babylon
WHAT A GIRL WANTS
(ROCK STARS IN DISGUISE: RHIANNON)
by Blair Babylon
WHAT A GIRL WANTS (ROCK STARS IN DISGUISE: RHIANNON)
© Malachite Publishing LLC, 2014
Music is a bitch mistress.
When Rhiannon is hired as a back-up singer for Killer Valentine, the hottest breakout rock band on the planet, her contract includes an iron-clad no-fraternization clause. However, it doesn’t take her long to figure out that Killer Valentine is falling apart from the stresses of touring and promotion. The band’s manager Jonas Rees, a green-eyed starmaker, is frantically trying to prevent them from self-destructing during their grueling tour and right before their first major-label record deal, but neither Jonas nor Rhiannon can deny the attraction that flares between them.
When the band’s problems threaten to derail the tour and Jonas slips and reveals their relationship, the lead singer demands that Rhiannon choose between music and love.
Why Rhiannon Got the Gig
Rhiannon’s “interesting” voice hadn’t gotten her the gig as a back-up singer.
It wasn’t her looks, either, that was for damn sure. Thousands upon thousands of gorgeous bombshells with silver pipes pounded on the doors of L.A.’s pot smoke-stinking clubs, auditioning for managers in sleazy back rooms for a one-song gig that might change their lives but would probably just tire them before they had to wait tables the next day. Rhiannon was shorter, plumper, than all those beauties, and she fought her curly red hair every damn morning, trying to not look like a frizz-headed singing orphan.
At the audition—the mysterious audition for which she’d had to scratch her signature on a non-disclosure agreement to even try out and her agent could only pass on that it was for a major up-and-coming hard rock ensemble,—Rhiannon strode through the crowded lobby of the hotel, packed to standing room only with freakishly svelte women fighting with their voices, running cacophonous scales over each other, each trying to be the effervescent voice that the band heard singing in the lobby and was compelled to investigate the owner of such an immortal instrument.
Rhiannon walked right through that deafening chaos and warmed up in the ladies’ room. The golden ceramic tile bounced her bright voice back into her ears, and she ran soft scales to limber up her throat, using tones from her phone’s piano app for her starting notes. The ha
nd soap smell in there was so strong she could taste rose water in the back of her throat.
When she was done, she took a seat on a couch with four skinny girls fuming cigarette smoke from their clothes who were sizing each other up because they evidently found Rhiannon, with her chubby arms sticking out of her sundress, to be no particular threat. She wore a sundress with no coat because, even though it was just a few days after New Year’s Eve, she still hadn’t acclimated to the manufactured seasons of southern California and the sun always felt summer-hot on her Chicago skin.
The tummy-tucked, boob-jobbed girls wouldn’t even smile back at her.
She didn’t get mad at them, of course. Rhiannon never got angry.
She hummed to keep her throat warm, running scales.
The casting agent standing by the door shouted across the lobby full of singing women, who reminded Rhiannon of a flock of honking storks. He butchered Rhiannon’s name, pronouncing it Rain-ann-ann-on Macallen.
Could have been worse. He could have actually said Annie.
She drew herself up to her full five feet plus two whole inches, lifted her pudgy chin and nose in the air, and walked into the conference room.
Inside, a black-suited security team stood behind five men sitting at a conference table. The seated guys looked like a staff meeting on Olympus: like the platinum-blond Sun God Apollo shone brilliant in his beauty beside radiant Eros, God of Love, who slept beside the seductive devil, black-haired Thanatos, who was the deification of Death, and two more blazingly beautiful demi-gods.
Rhiannon stopped hard, nearly catching her high heels on the carpeting.
Oh my God.
Those guys had been on the cover of last month’s Rolling Stone—all shirtless in the cover photo because they were beyond ripped, they were frickin’ shredded— because they had released two indie, MP3-only albums that had gone platinum.
The article’s headline was War Breaks Out over Killer Valentine because three major-label recording companies had launched a vicious bidding war for their next work.
Holy cow.
Well, she wouldn’t have to worry about anyone looking at her on the stage.
What an amazing opportunity flashed through her head, and instead of her throat closing up with nerves because she sure as hell didn’t belong in the same room with these guys, she sucked a breath deep into her lungs and left it all on the floor.
Her piece, an a cappella arrangement of No Doubt’s “Don’t Speak,” had been transposed into the right range for her bright mezzo soprano voice, and she sang the crap out of it even though she could hear all the beautiful women with the coloratura voices and low-cut dresses warbling in the lobby behind her.
The drummer, Tryp Areleous, began tapping out a complementary beat on his thighs and the table with his long fingers as she sang, even though he looked asleep, slouched in his chair with his head resting on the back of the seat, sunglasses covering his eyes. His mussed black hair twitched with his drumming hands.
She got into it more, letting his beats infuse her voice.
He drummed harder. Tattoos of scarlet roses and black swirls peeked through rips in his white tee shirt as his muscles flexed with the beat.
When she had blasted the last note, the drummer turned toward her from his slouch and took his sunglasses off. His dark, dark eyes, as mysterious and inky as his middle name, Diavolos, settled on her for a second, like he hadn’t looked at her until just then. Rhiannon had committed every word of that Rolling Stone article to memory and was in desperate danger of shrieking a fangirl squee.
Tryp Areleous tossed her resume down the table at the other guys. “She’s got a rocker name, Rhiannon. That’s cool.” He pronounced it just like Stevie Nicks had, Ree-ANN-un, the right way. Tryp continued, “And her last name is a scotch whiskey.”
Yep, Macallen.
Rhiannon’s thighs weakened, and her breath floated high in her chest when he said something nice. Tiny, tiny, tiny flickers of hope for a callback flickered in her head. Wisps of dreams that they might hire her didn’t even poke out their ghostly heads.
“I am less concerned with her name,” Xan Valentine said. He had been working both thumbs over his phone the whole time, only glancing up at her once with little expression. His long, brown hair had been bleached pale blond below his shoulders. His posh British accent was pronounced when he spoke, but she had never heard any of it in his singing voice. The Rolling Stone article hadn’t said if he was from England or not. “Names can be changed, if they haven’t already. Her voice is interesting.”
Two other guys, Rade Delcore and Grayson Jones, most likely, seemed deeply asleep, sprawled back in their chairs. The last guy, Cadell Glynn, the lead guitarist, was working on something on a tablet and yawning.
“Hey, Rhiannon,” Tryp said, jutting his chin at her. “You wanna suck my dick?”
Rhiannon blinked.
Her eyelids fell over her eyes. The room turned black. Her lashes clapped together, and conflict swarmed in her head.
If she sucked his dick, maybe they would give her the job. They would see that she was a team player, that she did what she was told.
If she sucked his dick, then she would be just another cock-sucking groupie to them, not an equal, not a band member.
If she sucked him off really well, maybe they would overlook her lumpy body and curly strawberry blond hair and too-operatic voice for rock.
Maybe they would like her.
One of her knees trembled, ready to bend.
She shouldn’t have to blow somebody to get this job.
But the next girl might do it.
Or the next one.
Or the one after that.
There were probably a hundred more singers out there, and at least some of them were desperate enough to blow the whole band, every night, if that’s what it took.
Or, she could be the funny redhead and throw it back at him.
Her glowing red eyelashes lifted. Light flooded her eyes.
Tryp was still grinning at her, inordinately proud that he had said something so crass.
“Oh, hell, no,” Rhiannon told him. “That’s what the fucking groupies are for.”
Tryp laughed and put his sunglasses back on, leaning back and continuing beating out his rhythm line on his legs and the table.
Xan Valentine slapped his phone on the table. “Piss off, Tryp,” Xan Valentine said, scowling at the drummer. He turned back to Rhiannon. “Sorry about that. He’s a wanker, sometimes. What instruments do you play?”
“Guitar and bass.”
“And what have you been doing to prepare for a career as a musician?”
Rhiannon whipped her phone out of her purse and thumbed open the calendar, setting it to the week-at-a-glance view, which looked like a seven-row quilt blocked in with primary colors. “The black blocks are travel time, because this is L.A. Other than that, almost every waking minute is rehearsing, performing, or coaching sessions.” And just enough of a part-time job to eat. “I sleep four hours a night.”
Xan Valentine held out his hand, palm up, fingers wide.
Rhiannon faked some confidence and walked across the carpet to hand him her phone. His long, pale fingers closed around it. The death’s head rings and silver chains on his wrists clashed with the black, well-cut suit he wore.
He perused her phone. If she could get a picture of him holding that phone in his hands, she could sell the outdated thing on Ebay for three times what it was worth, but her camera was in the phone.
He asked, “What is this Blue Mountain River Band?”
“A southern folk-rock ensemble that I sing with. There are three principal singers, singing harmony.”
“And Leapin Lightning?”
“Hard rock. I’m the principal singer, there. I write most of the lyrics for that band, too.”
“I don’t see any social time on here, time for friends.”
“I’ll make friends after my first album goes platinum.”
He
glanced up at her, and one dark eyebrow rose. “Or a significant other?”
“No boyfriend,” she said. “Music is a jealous bitch.”
Xan Valentine raised both eyebrows. “Indeed, she is. You’re interesting, Rhiannon. What would you do with all these other commitments?”
“All of them are scratch bands, not permanent. They all break up and reform every six months or so. It won’t be a problem.” No one was safe from being summarily tossed out on their ass, and some people just picked up and left with no warning, just stopped coming to rehearsals and taking the band’s calls. Every time she played with every one of those guys, she wondered if it would be the last time she saw them.
He tapped Rhiannon’s phone and held it to his ear, staring at her with his intense brown eyes. She fought the urge to turn, to protect her lumpy body from his inspection.
He asked, “It’s ‘Rhiannon,’ correct?”
His pronunciation was right, if British, so she nodded.
“Gaston,” Xan Valentine said into the phone, still looking up at her. He said it with a straight-French accent, so very European.
Gaston was the name of Leapin Lightning’s lead guitarist. Her knees were feeling a little wobbly, like she might be sick.
Xan Valentine said, “I’ve got your lead singer Rhiannon here, and I’m considering offering her a job with our band. Is there anything I should know?”
Rhiannon’s face burned like she’d been splashed with a bucket of hot water.
“I see. Thank you.” He hung up her phone. “He said that you indeed have that flexibility and then called me several compound words. I think he should like to keep you.”
He looked up at her again, his dark brown eyes watching hers, and she shrank a little under the gaze of that very successful musician who was only two years older than she was. Too many magazine articles compared him to Da Vinci. Magazine articles would compare her to a toad mired in mud, but no one wrote articles about her, of course.
