As far as I can tell, he’s the absolute stereotype of a rock star. Insanely talented, which is impressive, but the lifestyle confounds me. He’s got millions of dollars, but his messy, long hair looks like it’s never been trimmed or tidied up, and he apparently only wears jeans that are ready to fall apart. There are endless photos of him shirtless on the beach with supermodels, half-naked on a hotel balcony, drinking whiskey on the roof of a limousine at sunrise.
I married that man. Just thinking about it is enough to make me scream.
His words echo in my mind. I see his annoying smirk.Damn, you’re handsome. Real shame I can’t remember fucking last night.
I lean back against the wall, grip my thickening cock, and let out a hiss, my frustration bubbling over into something else.
I’ve been so damn horny all day.
Can’t believe I had sex with Gabriel, and it kills me that I don’t remember it. Did one of us top the other? Did I suck his cock?
Everything we might have done swirls through my imagination, tempting me and infuriating me. Long-buried fantasies come back to life in my mind. If I took his cock in my throat, how deep could I swallow it? Did he lick me, tease my hole? Or was I the one fucking his face, pushing him to the mattress, working him open?
Maybe I got bossy and demanded his cock, straddled him and took control?
I pump myself harder and stroke the hickeys across my chest. My fingers find my nipple, and I squeeze. I want to grab his ridiculously messy hair and pull while I thrust my tongue in his mouth. I want to know his pleasure, hold his body close to mine and feel his every muscle clench as he orgasms.
Remember the sounds he makes.
I’m married to a man.
My dick throbs, and before I know it, I climax and shoot jets of white semen into the shower. The relief is total and complete, but it only lasts a moment before reality creeps back in.
I lay my head against the tile, water dripping down my face. “Shit.”
CHAPTERTHREE
GABRIEL
I’m usedto the press reporting on my sex life. Speculation about who I’m dating has done more to keep my records selling than I’m willing to admit. I decided years ago to just go with the flow and try to have fun. It’s why I try to stick to flings and no-commitment hookups with other celebrities.
What’s the point of being a rock star if I can’t enjoy the perks?
This particular hookup disaster, though, couldn’t have come at a worse time. Or with a worse person.
Spencer isn’t just one of the top tennis players in the world. He’s beloved. His golden-boy image and remarkably consistent kindness have made him a darling to the adoring public. It seems like the only time he takes a break from tennis is when he’s donating to one charity or another, medicine for sick pets and toys for poor children.
The only relationship he seems to have been in lasted for six years, and it was with a powerful public relations exec, a woman with her own sterling public profile.
Yes, a woman. Because the golden boy of tennis is most definitely not out of the closet.
Spencer is basically a stranger. My drunken self must have found something more than his butt interesting to get married. As far as Hungover Me is concerned, though, there’s no reason I should feel this surprising twinge of emotions when I think about him dating a woman years ago.
Marriage makes me feel weird.
I toss my phone aside. I’m not in Vegas to lie around wallowing in a hangover. I signed to a new label a few months ago with the promise of producing a solo album, and I’m here to make nice with the label owner, Fox. After a quick call to my lawyers to confirm they have everything for an annulment, I throw on some sunglasses and head downstairs.
Hidden Cliff Records is only a year old, but they’re already dominating the charts. Fox has impeccable taste and hard rock cred, but he’s not sticking to any of the old scripts. He signs bands who are doing unique work and taking the rock genre in fresh directions.
It’s why we’re gathered in Vegas this weekend. Not for a standard stadium show, but because one of his biggest bands is headlining the Neon City Comic Con. I’ve never been to a con, but my new label mates are serious fucking artists, and I’m eager to catch Nico and Shadow in a live show together.
I sign some autographs in the lobby and politely turn down the fan who propositions me. When I walk out into the glitz of the strip, Fox and Everett are already there, waiting to load into the back of a black sedan. Fox is stylish and casual in a white button-up and slacks, but Everett is dressed down, sporting jeans and a Henley.
“Hope you weren’t waiting long,” I say as I approach.
Fox shakes his head. “Just got here,” he says, meeting me with a firm handshake.
Everett nods his head back, smiling. I only know him a little through Fox, and I’m not sure why he’s smiling. Then he asks, “You have fun with Spencer last night?”
