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My Night with a Rockstar
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My Night with a Rockstar
Copyright © by Jane Anthony, J. Bengtsson, Dawn L. Chiletz, L A Cotton, Crystal Kaswell, Michelle Mankin, Anne Mercier, Alyson Santos, Kacey Shea, Lisa Suzanne
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial Fuses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Cover photo by Michelle Lancaster @lanefotograf
www.michellelancaster.com
Cover model Tommy Pearce @tommyfierce
Cover design by Lori Jackson
https://www.lorijacksondesign.com/
Interior Formatting:
Elaine York, Allusion Publishing
HATE F*CK - JANE ANTHONY
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Thank you for reading Hate F*ck!
About Jane Anthony
RIPPLE EFFECT - J. BENGTSSON
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
About J. Bengtsson
CONVERTED - DAWN L. CHILETZ
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
About Dawn L. Chiletz
ROCK - L A COTTON
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Other Books
About L A Cotton
CONFESSIONS OF A ROCK STAR - CRYSTAL KASWELL
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Other Books
STORM - MICHELLE MANKIN
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Part II: Present Day
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Thank you for reading STORM
About Michelle Mankin
BURNING LUCIAN - ANNE MERCIER
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
About Anne Mercier
BASS(MENT) WARS - ALYSON SANTOS
Blurb
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Other Books
About Alyson Santos
WILD LOVE - KACEY SHEA
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
About Kacey Shea
ASK ME LATER - LISA SUZANNE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Other Books
About Lisa Suzanne
Thank You
An Off Limits Short Story
ABOUT THE BOOK
I hate him.
Chett “Lizard” Connelly, the front man for Steele Hammer with his arrogant attitude and evil tongue that gave him his nickname. He was a one night stand that stretched on for two years, a f*ck frienemy that became my roommate until his music career took off.
He’s too hot for his own good.
I detest his aloof blue gaze with the passion of a thousand dying suns.
I despise the smug smile that obliterates my self-control.
But most of all, I loathe myself every time I f*ck him.
Hating him is easier than admitting the truth.
I should have ran the moment I saw his stupid, gorgeous face, but I sat on it and fell in love instead.
Maribelle
Walking up the dingy stone pathway leading to my apartment, I spot my neighbor on a lawn chair near the foot of the equally grimy stairs, her mangy dog tied up with a rope.
“Hey, Mrs. Lorenzo. How are you today?” I crouch to scratch under the dog’s chin, but the old woman shoos me away.
“Your music is too loud.” Her pruney face twists in a scowl. “I can’t even watch Wapner with that racket.”
My eyes widen, then immediately roll. Lizard must be home.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lorenzo. I’ll take care of it.” I slip my thumb into the shoulder strap of my backpack to hold it steady as I jog up the steps to our second-floor apartment.
The screaming cry of Vince Neil rattles the walls. I stop at first, my lashes fluttering as I take in the scene: An empty whiskey bottle tipped on its side trickling onto the glass coffee table. The small sink in the kitchenette filled with dishes. And the denim-clad legs of my on again/off again bedmate dangling over the sofa’s arm.
That asshole.
Lizard’s shirtless chest rises and falls with each sleeping breath. I pull the plug on the stereo, and a deafening silence follows. “Wake up,” I grumble, kicking the cushion.
Lizard startles awake. “What the fuck, Belle?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.” I narrow my gaze, cupping my jutted hip. “You don’t come home all night, you don’t call, now here you are asleep on my couch at three thirty in the afternoon blasting my neighbors into oblivion?”
He sits up and runs his hand through his hair before angling forward on both elbows. His long, lean body curves with the movement, his sinewy back pulling taut.
I’ll be honest; when I first met him in that small, New Jersey nightclub two years ago, I didn’t think much of him. Tall and slim, with a shock of platinum hair that hung down to the middle of his back, he wasn’t usually the kind of guy I’d look at twice, but something about him spoke to me that night — and it wasn’t that evil tongue that gave him his nickname — it was the way he carried himself. His devil-may-care, I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude lit a fire inside me, and that was it. I was done for.
But now, I see him staring up at me with that same arrogant blue gaze, and I just want to scratch his gorgeous face off. I hate that aloof look with the passion of a thousand dying suns, and I hate that I’ve let him use it to weasel under my skin, but most of all, I hate myself every time I fuck him. I should have ran the moment I saw that stupid, sexy smile, but I sat on it and fell in love instead.
“I crashed at Slade’s after the show.”
I don’t dignify his haughty response with an answer. I know what staying at Slade’s means. It’s code for I got hammered atop a pile of naked groupies. I spin on my heel and stomp into my bedroom but stop short at the sight of the laundry basket spilling onto the floor. “Didn’t I ask you to put these away, like . . .” — I make a big show of dropping my backpack and staring down at my Swatch — “twenty hours ago?”
“I
didn’t get to it yet.”
I grind my teeth, swiping the once-folded clothes back into the basket. Two years. I’ve been living with this idiot for two fucking years, and we’re still in the same spot we were then. He blows in like a hurricane, then leaves me to deal with the aftermath. “Of course you didn’t. Why am I even surprised?”
Lizard’s body fills the open doorway, and I’m immediately flushed with fury over how mine heats at the sight. Flaxen hair spills over his broad shoulders, his naked torso tight and toned. He’s beautiful. I know it sounds trite, but better words haven’t been written to adequately describe him. He’s chiseled perfection, and I’m a damned parishioner at his feet.
“What’s with the attitude?”
Resting the basket on my hip, I turn to face him. “Oh, I’m sorry, princess? Is my attitude hurting your hangover?”
He narrows his gaze. “You know, I didn’t come home to get bitched at.”
Baring my teeth, I fire back, “Then why did you? I had a shit day, and it would be nice to come home and not have to refold and put away your laundry on top of it.”
His lips twist in a sneer, but his crystal gaze sparkles with delight. I swear he pisses me off on purpose. It’s as if he gets some sick thrill out of seeing me burn and warp in the blistering heat of my ire.
Of all the things we do together, fighting is what we do best.
“I was busy today.”
“Let me guess,” I scoff rolling my eyes. “You woke up around noon and drove your Harley past the local middle school just in time to impress all the underage girls spilling out for recess?”
Lizard crosses his arms and squares his stance. “C’mon, babe, it’s just clothes. What’s the big deal?”
“The ‘big deal’ is that I’m doing all the grunt work while you’re living the rock ʼn’ roll lifestyle!”
He steps toward me, his nostrils flaring. “You don’t think staying out all night playing clubs for peanuts is grunt work? Coming up with fresh, new material, selling my soul on the fucking stage night after night?”
“Playing with your friends, sleeping late, and nailing groupies? No, Chett, I don’t. We’ve been out here for two years, and you and your little garage band have done zilch. Maybe it’s time to give it up and find a job.”
Lizard winces at my use of his real name. “This is my job. Meeting managers, record executives, club owners, practicing night and day, dealing with the rejection. It’s hard work. At least you get to sit on your ass in a nice classroom all day.”
Rage pops inside me like fireworks. I hurl the basket in his direction. A flash of colorful undergarments explodes in his face, my current weapon of choice bouncing off the bridge of his nose.
“What the fuck, Maribelle? I have to sing tonight.” Lizard cups his face and turns toward the mirror.
The audacity of his behavior pulls the Latina right out of me. I raise my hands in fists of frustration. “Qué carajo hago yo aquí en esta porquería con un hombre qué no sirve? . . . merezco más qué esto.” Loosely translated: What the hell am I doing here in this shit with a man who is useless? . . . I deserve more than this.
“What?” He pulls his brows together with a smug chuckle.
A low growl rumbles in my throat. “You’re such a loser. I should have known . . . you aren’t going to be famous. You’re nobody.”
“We both know that’s not true. I got the tools, the looks, and the talent,” he mumbles at his own reflection.
“And wear more makeup than I do.”
He turns, leaning against the dresser. “And your panties still get wet just from looking at me. What’s that say about you?”
“I want you out of my apartment!”
“No, you don’t.” He dismisses with a wave.
To be fair, I throw him out at least once a month. He goes for a bit but never stays away too long before coming back. This is our thing. We fight, we fuck, we fight some more, but I’m tired of the roller coaster. I’m exhausted from the constant spinning and want to get off.
“I do. I’ve had enough.” I cross my arms over my tightening chest and turn away. This arrangement started out casual. A hot lay, he’d live here until his career took off, then we’d see what happened from there. He was never my boyfriend, but I caught feelings all the same.
Lizard’s skin brushes my back, his hands sliding up my arms before sweeping through my hair. “You and I both know you can never get enough.”
The smoky scent of whiskey wafts off his breath, turning my knees to jelly. “It’s not gonna work this time, Lizard. You can’t just hate-fuck me into submission every time I’m angry at you and expect all this to magically go away. That’s not how real-life works.”
He unfurls my arms and sets each of my palms flat against the wall. “It’s how we work,” he drawls in his smooth, silken voice. “And I think we’re pretty great together.”
With a slow deliverance, he unties the scarf belt from around the waist of my skirt. Everything goes black as he brings it to my eyes and secures it behind my head. My other senses heighten. I’m cognizant of where he is. His heat, his scent, his roving hands. He’s all around me, toying with my every emotion. I hear him, feel him, need him to satisfy the starving ache I feel every time he gets this close.
This is when the self-loathing kicks in.
My words may come wrapped in wrath, but my body language can’t lie. It feeds off his touch like a dog begs for affection, my whimpers the same as he runs the pointed tip of his tongue up the length of my neck. He teases me with tentative little licks that send me spiraling.
“You know you want me.” His fingers glide under my chin to swirl over my needy lips, his guttural demand like gravel in his throat.
“Fuck you,” I spit, but my traitorous voice comes breathless and weak. He touches me, teases me, owns me entirely. Life with him will never be simple. He works me up until every nerve in my body is humming with fury, brimming with life, then breaks me down to my basic urges. He’ll never be satisfied until I’m liquid in his hands.
In an instant, his body heat leaves my back and slinks up each thigh. He curls his deft fingers into the elastic band of my underwear, and he glides it smoothly down, taking great care to get it past each slouch ankle boot.
“Spread your legs.”
Adrenaline ratchets my pulse to eleven. “You don’t own me.”
“I do inside this bedroom.” The veil of darkness shrouding his voice sends an immediate throbbing right to my core. I concede, the cool air in the room blasting against hot flesh.
Rustling near the floor calls my attention below. I chew my lips, anticipating his next action, but I don’t wait long. His scalding tongue sweeps across my opening. That fucking tongue is my undoing every time. He uses it as a weapon, destroying me with every languid lick.
The descent into madness is slow and steady, but he likes it this way, prefers to watch me teetering along the brink before giving in to what I want. Making me beg is what he does best.
“Just fucking doing it, asshole.”
My head falls back with a desperate mewl. When he finally dips inside my wet entrance, I’m already on the verge of shattering to pieces. He palms my ass, holding me against his mouth, sucking hard until I’m soaked and panting. My trembling legs threaten to give out, but I remain planted firmly in place.
A low, feral groan vibrates against me. Am I sliding? No, he’s lowering me down the wall. My knees hit the hardwood floor as his fingers bite the backs of my thighs to keep me from sitting on his face completely.
A ball of fire ignites in my core. It blazes in a slow burning circle and spreads through me like an inferno. At this angle, I’m half afraid I’m going to suffocate him, but it feels too damn good to stop. Resting my head between my hands, I grind my hips, riding his tongue as he laps up every last wasted crumb of my anger.
My shriek echoes against the cold sheetrock. I sag onto my ass as he skims out from under me. He grasps my hair and tips my head, his opposite ha
nd gliding around my throat as he drops his mouth to mine. The taste of me lingers on his lips. Sweet as sugar, sour as sin.
I wrench from his embrace, knocking him backward. He catches himself with his palms as I twist onto my knees and pull off my blindfold. “I hate you so fucking much,” I mumble, crawling forward on all fours.
If only that were true. Hating him would make everything easy. I could turn away and never look back, but his words sting with the bite of truth: I can’t get enough. I can’t let him go. No matter how my heart brawls with my brain, Chett “Lizard” Connelly is the man I want.
Muscles ripple like ocean waves as my fingers reach the band of his pants. His cock springs out, thick, hard, and pierced. I despise it as much as I worship it, and I curse the traitorous need simmering inside as I yank the little ring with my teeth.
A low-pitched groan escapes his lips. He threads his hands behind his head, biceps straining under his skin. Bit by bit, I trace the thick ridges and twirl around the velvet tip. A salty trickle beads around the slit. I lap it up before drawing him into my mouth.
The breath leaves his lungs. I grip his solid thighs with my palms, bracing myself as my lips slide down his shaft. He thrusts his pelvis, knocking my head back. I suck hard, swallowing him down the back of my throat. The sound of my name tumbling gruffly off his lips is a beautiful thing. Every visceral groan arouses me, obliterating my self-control.
He pulses in my mouth, and I slide all the way up, suckling the tip before letting go. The sight of his glorious cock, thick and purple against the cool silver steel lodged in the crown instills a sense of urgency I can’t control. A slick, swollen anguish only he could soothe.
Gliding up his body, I grab his length and position it at my entrance and ease down slowly, inch by thrilling inch, until I’m full, stretched to capacity with the tiniest bite of decadent pain.
With my hands planted on his chest, I move my hips in slow, methodical circles, building up a rhythm all my own and taking back control. Emotions run high -- lust, love, loathing -- all of it swirling together inside my heart, pumping my body, and radiating between my legs. I ride him hard, wringing every ounce of pleasure I can until I’m on the brink, gasping for breath, and crying out from the sheer ecstasy of it.