“Your name’s a prayer, but my mouth makes it blasphemy.”
Heat coils lower in my stomach.
My heartbeat hammers like it’s trying to match the drums. Every nerve ending I own stands to attention, straining toward the manic growl of his voice.
It’s insane.
He’s a walking cliché if there ever was one. I mean, seriously a tattooed rockstar with a man bun?
A silky, lustrous would-love-to-run-my-fingers-through-it-while-he-eats-me-out man bun.
How is he pushing buttons I didn’t even realize I had till right now?
One second I was a barista dodging my boss’s wandering hands. The next, I’m throbbing all over because some tattooed god with rage in his throat and lust in his lyrics decided to look at me.
This morning I woke up determined to scroll job listings and laugh about Clipboard Carl on Wattpad. Now my thighs are clenching like I’ve been caught red-handed with my vibrator in a spotlight I never asked for.
Which only proves what I already knew.
This is a terrible idea.
Carl barrels on, steering me through a side corridor, which I’m thankfully forced to navigate before I face-plant into a steel door, while he chatters nonstop.
“You’ll see, Freddie’s the mastermind. He’ll love you. We’ve been searching for months. The chemistry will be explosive. Looks like it already?—”
I barely hear him. My blood is still fizzing with that voice.
Finally, Carl shoves open a door and guides me inside an office lined with leather couches and posters of Riot Saints plastered across every wall.
At the desk sits Freddie Nova himself, I presume, sharp suited, sharp eyes, a smile like a shark who’s already eaten his fill but is looking for seconds.
“She’s here.”
“I can see that. Carl won’t shut up about you,” Freddie says, looking me over. “Now I see why. How much acting have you done?”
I open my mouth, still half-dizzy from the stage, and manage, “Acting? Zero. Well, besides high school drama one term.” I jerk my head at a despondent-looking Carl. “Told him this was a bad idea. He insisted.”
Before Freddie can respond, the music outside dies abruptly.
The silence slams like a door.
Carl and Freddie exchange an edgy look and my stomach dips.
“That’s not good,” I mutter, then edge toward the exit. “You know what? Thiswasa bad idea. Is this door a short cut to freedom?”
I tug the random door open…and back straight into a wall of heat and solid muscle. And sweat-slicked skin. And hints of an aftershave so deadly intoxicating I’m one hundred percent it contains traces of narcotics.
I spin around, heart ricocheting up my throat.
Sweet Virgin Mary’s Baby Hairs.
Up close, he’s devastating.
Those mesmerising silver eyes positivelyglowunder the dim hallway light. A cut jaw shadowed in stubble. Tattoos rippling over a chest still damp from the stage. His breath comes harsh, his mouth twisted into something between a snarl and a smirk.
The scent of leather, sweat, and thatsomething darker and dangerousrolls off him, hitting me harder than the wall of muscle I just collided with.
Every inch of me lights up, frantic, hungry, terrified.
