BAD FOR ME: About This Book
I’m not supposed to crave the drummer of the hottest new rock act or notice his tortured green eyes. I shouldn’t care that he shies away from everyone. I’m a journalist and I have one job to do.
Get the story.
But selling his secrets for tomorrow’s headlines would not only ruin him, it would destroy me. Yesterday, I had a future. Today, I have a choice—career suicide or protect a drummer who hates me.
BAD FOR ME is a standalone in the Rock Me series and is available here.
The second she enters the hotel, I know I’m fucked.
With legs for days, a tight body, and curves in all the right places, she’s a goddamn wet dream. Her tits beg to be sucked, and her lips would look sensational wrapped around my cock.
Images of her naked and screaming my name have my dick twitching. I want to wrap her long hair around my fist and yank her head back, exposing her neck. I want to leave bite marks on her skin so every sorry fucker knows she’s mine.
I slam my hand against the elevator button, needing it to hurry the fuck up. I’ve got enough shit to deal with, I don’t need another woman messing with my head.
It takes its sweet-ass time.
When the doors eventually slide open, the chick’s next to me, and fuck if she doesn’t smell like cherries.
I march inside and find the furthest corner.
She follows, darting a small smile at me.
Crossing my arms, I sure as shit don’t return it.
Less than a minute later, we both exit on the same floor. When I pause, she does too. “I’m not a stalker, I promise.” She tucks some hair behind her ear. “The fact our hotel rooms are on the same floor was a total fluke.”
“Sure it fucking was.” Leaning against the wall, I cross my arms and give her a long look. “Are you after my autograph or some shit?”
Her smile slips. “I’m not a groupie, Tobias.”
My hands fist. What’s with people thinking they know me?
“I’m serious.” She takes a step forward.
Straightening, I growl, “Back the fuck up.”
Surprised, she stops. “Your band manager gave me the name of this hotel. He said it was close to your studio and the distance would make writing the article for Riff Online—”
The last time I trusted a chick was the last time I got screwed over. It won’t happen again.
I glare. “You’re the reporter who wormed her fucking way into writing a piece about my band.”
After a moment of silence, she licks her lips. “I’m Mae.”
I don’t say shit.
And she’d better get used to it, because that’s all she’s getting from me.