From New York Times and USA Today Bestseller Vi Keeland comes a steamy new story about a rockstar. Or two.
Dimpled smile of a boy
Hard body of a man
Sings like an angel
Fucks like the devil
I was stuck between a rock(star) and a hard place.
At fifteen, his poster hung on my bedroom wall. At twenty-five his body hovered over mine. Every girl’s fantasy became my reality. I was dating a rockstar. Yet I was slowly falling for another man. The problem was—the two men—they shared a tour bus.
Flynn Beckham was the opening act.
Dylan Ryder was the headliner.
What happens when the opening act begins to shine so bright, it seems to dim everything else in its wake?
I’ll tell you what happens. Things get ugly.
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About the Author:
Vi Keeland is a native New Yorker with three children that occupy most of her free time, which she complains about often, but wouldn't change for the world. She is a bookworm and has been known to read her kindle at stop lights, while styling her hair, cleaning, walking, during sporting events, and frequently while pretending to work. She is a boring attorney by day, and an exciting USA Today Best Selling smut author by night!
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Getting through Flynn singing is incredibly hard. The way his throat moves, the way his mouth caresses each syllable of the low, raspy sound that falls from his lips. I should be watching his posture, his breathing, the way his larynx forces out the words—but instead I’m focused on the beauty of his mouth and how the sound of his voice glides over my body, making it feel both warm and tingly at the same time. I’m lost when the song finishes, yet I haven’t really observed him yet.
“So. Give it to me straight. What am I doing wrong?”
Ummm…absolutely nothing from what I can see. Everything was perfect. Don’t change a thing. Shit. “Could you do it again? Maybe a different song, one you haven’t sung in a while. So the sounds are less familiar to your body. Sometimes that can give me a different view.” At least I make it sound like a real thing when the words come out.
He sings again, and this time I force myself to observe. “Hmm…your posture is great. Most people have a tendency to favor one side of their neck, which makes them tilt a bit when they speak, and it becomes magnified when they sing, which puts strain on the muscles around the vocal cords. Your alignment is perfect.”
“Thank you, it goes with the rest of my perfectness,” he says with a teasing arrogance that, from the little I know about him, I know isn’t real.
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“You can’t now tell me I’m not perfect. I was already basking in the glow.”
“Actually, it was perfect…but almost a little too perfect. Which makes me think you don’t usually stand this way when you sing.”
“It isn’t the way I normally sing. On stage, I usually have a guitar over my shoulder. Even if I’m not playing it, it’s there.”
“Well, I need to see you holding your instrument to assess you fully, then.”
Flynn’s eyebrows quirk up and the dirty grin on his face is unmistakable.
“The guitar. I’d need to see you holding the guitar.”
“That’s a shame.” He shrugs, the playful smile still on his face. “But okay. It’s your call. Whatever instrument you want to see me hold is fine with me.”
“How big of you.”
“So now we’re talking about the other instrument again?”
I roll my eyes, although this conversation is having more of an effect on me than I let on.
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