Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43681 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43681 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
“I’ve never banged a groupie before,” I pant like a cat in heat.
I’ve spent a lot of lonely nights on the road and never dreamed of sharing a minute off-stage with anyone—too much drama banging a band member and way too much publicity banging a fan. That was one reason I hired professionals. Money traded hands, and I purchased a service. It was clean with no lingering complications.
But Gunner Shaw makes me crave all the obstacles he could lay in my path.
“What a coincidence. I’ve never banged one of my mom’s groupies, either.” His large, tattooed hand moves up my body and curls behind my nape, pulling my head back. “Guess there’s a first time for everything. Now, why don’t you stop fighting and let me take care of you?”
“News flash, Tarzan… This Jane has been taking care of herself for a long time. Your services aren’t needed.” I want to kick myself as soon as the words pass my lips. Mostly because his grin deepens with every word, and spirals of desire twine through my stomach like a vine of rose thorns until I’m dizzy with the proximity of his vast form.
“You’re a real piece of work, Gunner Shaw.” I’m so frustrated that I want to scream. This guy has been teasing me all night, and my slut vagina is weeping from lack of attention.
“And still”—he lifts his arm in the air, tipping my phone back and forth in the moonlight and swiping to my information screen—“got your number.”
“You’re so arrogant,” I stammer, my eyes shifting between Gunner and my phone. “How did you get that?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” His grin deepens as he takes a quick picture with his phone before sliding mine back into the ass pocket he found it in. “I learned to pickpocket for shits and giggles as a teenager. Never actually stole something; I just played around to see if I could do it without getting caught. Cheap Thrills.” He smirks, highlighting the deep dimples on his perfect face. “First lesson: never trust a bartender.”
“You mean men,” I scoff. “Maybe you’re a psycho stalker, and I’m not interested in giving you my personal information.” He doesn’t have to know that I was thinking of giving him more than my phone number.
“That’s a lot of damn thinking, Sparrow.”
I clear my throat, choosing to ignore his stubborn-ass grin.
His tone lowers. “You forget I’m a bartender, darlin’, and my job requires me to read people like a book.”
I swallow. “What did you read about me? That I think you’re an insufferable ass?”
“Nah. What I think you need is someone to take control. To dirty up this princess facade you’ve got going on and make you beg for a little satisfaction.”
His words hit me like a blunt force trauma because every syllable is the truth. I’ve been trying to stay in control of my whole life. The truth is, I’m tired. I don’t want to think or do. I just want to mindlessly be. Sex allows me to do this, if only for a few hours. Sweet relief that lets me shut out the world and all my issues. With sex, I can be worthless. Somewhere along the way, the sex I crave has left my skin bruised and my muscles tired. I enjoy being chased, thrown around, and having my hair pulled so hard it’s almost ripped from its roots. I long for a man to use me, to push my limits, and take whatever he wants. The more aggressive the sex, the more undone I become. But most of all, I want to be called names— dirty, horrible names. Names that would make most of society clutch their pearls and think I was nothing more than trash.
The whole point of coming here is to escape the pressure and desires burning inside me. I love music. It’s embedded in the fabric of who I am, but my career is stripping me of my sense of self, causing me to lie and force my desires into the shadows. This trip is about re-discovering myself and learning to fuel my passions without worrying about anyone else’s needs. To get away from it all: the pressure, the leaches at my door waiting for their next story, and the endless work schedule. This trip is about finding my music again, not satiating my sexual cravings. But with Gunner standing in front of me, perhaps a little pleasure wouldn’t be the end of the world.
Why does he make me want impossible things? Gunner isn’t part of the deal. I didn’t come here expecting to find a handsome stranger to get lost in. Then again, I’ve never been able to get lost in anything. Even the prostitutes I hired lacked something. There was no passion, just a means to end.
How am I supposed to be a talented songwriter if I don’t live a little? Excellent songs are about animalistic sex, fueled with passion, love, heartache, loss, and the abundant beauty of life. My life so far is living in a studio or the back of a tour bus managed by men who care nothing for me, only what I can bring to their pocketbooks.