Leila Burke expected a lot of things when she joined her brothers on tour in Europe. He wasn't one of them.
Jase Masters had no idea what to expect when he agreed to support Dirty B. on tour. She definitely wasn't it.
It's been eighteen months.
He remembers that night a little too well.
She insists she has no idea who he is.
He's rugged and determined.
She's wild and free.
Together, they're a tornado.
Keeping it from touching down is the least of their worries.
By day, New York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies - usually wine - and writes books.
Emma is working on Top Secret projects she will share with her followers and fans at every available opportunity. Naturally, all Top Secret projects involve a dashingly hot guy who likes to forget to wear a shirt, a sprinkling (or several) of hold-onto-your-panties hot scenes, and a whole lotta love.
She likes to be busy - unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life.
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He's so close that my eyes shut, but I force them open again, only because I want to see how green his eyes really are when the sun glances over them.
“The British are idiots,” I mumble, unable to form any further words—or any that are more coherent than those.
“Truth. If only because I can taste your lips and I haven't touched them yet.”
“I think that makes you real—”
He cuts me off by doing exactly what he just mentioned—touching my lips with his. It's the exact same as this morning, just fresher, almost. Realer. They're heated from the sun, chilled from the wine we had at the bar around the corner not thirty minutes ago, and...softer.
Hesitant yet somehow forceful.
Unsure yet oddly certain.
I grasp his shirt in my hand, wrapping my fingers in the soft material, as he moves closer to me and his other arm snakes around my body. He pulls me against him, and I slide along the wooden seat, my heart thundering in my chest.
I've been here for twenty-four hours.
I don't want to stop.
I don't want to change this.
I don't know what's happening.
I can't feel my toes because they're curled so hard. I can't feel my fingers because they're gripping him so tight. I can't feel my lips because I'm kissing him so firmly.
I can't feel my heart's beats.
It's beating too solidly, too firmly, too quickly, too erratically, for me to get a handle on it. My stomach is flipping and my lungs tightening and I swear to god, I'm consumed.
A guy I've met once before last night.
And I'm consumed.
I pull back from him, just our mouths, for just a second, before he pulls me right back in. I'm compelled to continue kissing him, and I wish I weren't, but it's as though a year never passed and I'm right back in London with the boy from the coffee shop.
I feel the way I did then. Racing heart when he kisses me, tingling skin when he touches me, butterflying stomach when he looks at me...
Except this is no coffee shop.
This isn't London.
A year has passed.
And he's not just a guy trying to figure out lyrics.
He's a potential international superstar, loved by possibly millions, obsessed over by far more. His lyrics could be written for him. His music produced for him. His schedule organized for him.
And I'm just a girl living in the shadows of her famous brothers, happy for a quiet life by the beach, where the loudest scream is that of the ocean crashing against the rocks that dare break the perfection of the sand.