Page 1 of All Tied Down

PROLOGUE

EMERSON

VEGAS

“Ididn’t take you for all bark and no bite, Mr. North,” I purr as he downs a shot of whiskey and slams the glass to the bar.

“I’m woefully out of my element, Miss Andrews.” The words are a gravelly rasp, his dark eyes skating over me in what might as well be a physical caress.

It’s been like this all weekend, the two of us sneaking off in between wedding festivities for something a little heavier than champagne and sitting out by the pool. Garrett North is a rock god. As the lead singer of Descending North, he’s all grit and panty-melting perfection—a man both commanding on stage and in the bedroom.

Except when he lets me lead.

“Are you saying you’re not up for the challenge?” I mock pout, pretending to look around at other potential suitors for my little game. “I’m sure I can find someone…”

“Don’t even think about it,” he growls, his hand slipping under the hem of my short, black cocktail dress that’s just this side of indecent. It’s a statement piece.

A fuck you to the corporate world that says I need to be more demure in order to run a billion-dollar company.

I don’t.

I don’t need to settle down, and I sure as hell don’t need a husband to be more well-rounded. Those antiquated standards can fuck right the hell off.

“Then what are you suggesting, Rockstar?” I taunt, leaning forward so his fingertips brush against my silk panties, the material more expensive than our bar tab.

Sexy.

Sophisticated.

And well worth the price tag.

He grunts, gently brushing against my clit in a way that has my pulse fluttering in my neck as his eyes drop to my lips.

“Let’s up the ante.”

“Are you sure? You’re on a hell of a losing streak.”

We started the night with a ridiculous drinking game to liven things up on one of our last nights in Vegas. The rules were simple and completely made-up. If we argued about the exact lyrics in a song, which actor played in a movie, or something equally inconsequential, we’d call a challenge. Using the Internet as our fact-checker, the loser was required to take a shot.

As it stands, Garrett has had six shots to my three—not counting what we had by the pool today and at dinner with the group.

“Then you should have no problem winning.”

“What do I get if I win?”

“If you win, I have to call a band meeting and kick my fuckup of a lead guitarist out of the band,” he spits out, the alcohol making his lips looser about the real reason they’d had to cancel the last several stops on the tour. I would have fired his ass from the start, but Garrett isn’t like me.

Despite his rock star persona, he’s incredibly introverted—something that had taken me more than a couple of hours to pull him out of.

“And if you win?” I ask, casually picking up my drink and taking a sip, my lips puckering around the straw and drawing his gaze. Nostrils flaring, I watch as his pupils dilate and I grin. He let slip our first drunken night here that my affinity for red lipstick turns him on.

It’s honestly adorable, and I’ve taken great pleasure in exploiting that little piece of information.

“If I win,” Garrett draws the words out slowly, his breath hot on my neck as he cages me against the bar with his body. “If I win, you marry me.”

“Absolutely not.” I balk, annoyed he’d even suggest such a thing. In return for his vulnerability about the band, I offered my own regarding marriage.

And love.