It’s pretty easy being a rock god. Party. Perform. P*ssy. Repeat. I’m 26 and it’s worked for me for years. Until I was caught ripping out the heart of America’s Sweetheart in a video gone viral. Now #HatePlayerAsh is trending on Twitter, she’s writing a song about how much I suck and I’m in desperate need image rehab, fast.

Good thing paparazzi chased me into that library. Had I not ducked under that desk I never would have found myself next to the long, sexy legs and disapproving gaze of Anika Ivanov. In my world of use and get used, she’s a unicorn. A kind, 24-year-old, hard-working, family-oriented children’s librarian. My agent agrees, she’s the one to set everything right. All she needs to do is fake a month-long public romance, let the world see me fall hard for her, then dump me in a brutal, public display. It’s genius.

Now I just have to convince her to agree. And convince myself that the only reason I want to spend the month with her is to improve my image. It’s not her full, luscious lips or her soft, seductive laugh or those fantasies I keep having of tying her down to my bed as I make her quiver and pant and call out my name.

Ana

Ash Black. In my library. Under my desk. It’s hard to believe it happened. I’ve listened to his voice so many times, my favorite soundtrack as I walk the streets of New York. My secret bad boy crush, the smoldering, shirtless star of the tabloids, all muscles and tattoos. Then one day he shows up and kisses me in my break room.

What’s even crazier is how he wants me to spend the next month. At his shows in L.A., San Francisco and Vegas, candlelight dinners in New York and Paris. He wants the world to believe he’s fallen in love. With me.

I’ve got to say no. He’s a walking disaster with a dirty mouth and wicked hands that melt my panties right off of me. This month would take everything in my well-ordered, neat little life and shake it up like a snowglobe.

Then why am I so tempted to say yes?

It’s image rehab, plain and simple. A month of fake romance to convince the press that bad boy rocker Ash Black has fallen for a good girl librarian. It should be easy. It’s anything but.

Ash

New York City. Vegas. Paris. A whirlwind tour for our whirlwind romance, every step, smile and kiss photographed from every angle. It’s all going according to plan, rehabbing my bad boy rock star image by falling hard for a sweet, wholesome librarian.

There are all kinds of reasons to keep my hands off her. The no-sex clause in our contract. Paparazzi around every corner. She doesn’t trust me because she thinks I’m a player, and she’s right.

But I’m done playing by the rules. I’m rock star Ash Black and I’ve never been good at doing what other people tell me. I’m done mugging for the cameras.

I want her alone, all to myself, where the only rules are the ones I dictate. When it’s just us, there’ll be nothing fake about her begging me to let her come. I’m a musician, baby, and believe me, I’m going to savor the sound of her every pant, gasp and moan.

Ana

It’s just a show, a month-long façade. I need to keep my head in the game, my heart under wraps and my body out of reach of his wickedly talented hands.

He’s not making it easy for me. Every time I watch him perform, I go weak in the knees. Every time he romances me over a candlelight dinner, I melt. And the few moments he’s caught me alone, he’s started a fire in me unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. It’s roaring, licking, burning me up.

I’m not good at pretending. And with the heat he’s building in me, I’m not sure how long I’m going to last. One month can feel like forever when you’re so close to exactly what you want but not allowed to touch it. Sooner or later, a girl has to reach out and touch.

NOTE: Undone is a three-volume hot adult romance. It’s the second story in the Beg for It series about the dominant, alpha males in Ash’s family and the strong, sexy women who make them finally meet their match.

“Please!” I couldn’t help but cry out. I needed more, needed his tongue lower, needed to be set free so I could at least touch myself if not him. He’d worked me up into such a frenzy. With a low, satisfied growl deep in his chest, he dipped his tongue in a lazy circle around my belly button. He insisted on having me his way, tormenting every inch of me until I begged for it.

“Ash!” I strained against my ties, spread-eagle on the king-size bed, but he’d fastened them well. All I succeeded in doing was arching up my back, further offering my naked breasts up for his pleasure.

He chuckled, deep and wicked, tracing my curves with his hand. “You like being tied up, don’t you, my Anika?” His fingers melted me as he stroked my limbs, up my side, along the swell of my breast. He paused and I held my breath, wondering what he might do next, feeling a throb deep in my pussy, drawing more slick sweetness from my core. The anticipation, the submission, it made me crazy.

But he kept on going, up past my breast, along my collarbone, up my arm to circle my restraints. He drew my attention to his control, how he had me tied up, exactly where he wanted me.

“I knew you’d like it,” he murmured. “You’re so beautiful, laid out here for me.”

I panted like an animal and swallowed hard. A sliver of my mind still reared up in shock at what I was doing, what I was letting him do to me. Willingly turning myself over to him in complete submission. I’d never done anything like it before, letting someone tie me up. I’d thought about it, even touched myself fantasizing about it late at night. But never in my bland, boring, good girl what-passed-for-a-sex-life had I ever done anything like it.

Turned out that getting snowed in at a cabin in the mountains with Ash Black, the sexiest, hottest rock god on the planet brought out the naughty side in me.

A month ago, I never would have believed any of this would happen. Sure, I’d fantasized about the lead singer of my favorite band. Plenty of times. But I wasn’t alone in that. Ash Black had been on the cover of People magazine as sexiest man alive the last two years in a row. I think he’d starred in more than a few late-night fantasies.

But even my fantasies hadn’t taken me this far. A month ago, I never could have imagined this scene. I wouldn’t have recognized the naked woman, bound and blindfolded on the bed, writhing and whimpering beneath Ash’s large, powerful body.

Suddenly, I felt wet heat on my aching, erect nipple. I cried out as he sucked me, licked me, pleasure rocketing directly to my sex.

“You need this, Ana. Don’t you?” he whispered, husky. I could feel his stubble, rough along my soft breast as he circled my nipple, slowly, teasing me again.

“Yes!” I cried out. “Please!” I begged for release, not from bondage, but from the intensity of the building, cresting orgasm I could feel quivering up inside of me. I needed to let it out, and I needed him to free it from me.

“You can scream when you come, Ana,” he whispered, trailing his tongue down my stomach. Slowly, so slowly. I moaned, wishing I could move, wishing I could bring my sex up to him and make things happen faster. I’d never felt so desperate, so crazed. Sex before Ash had always been blah, mostly forgettable, slightly regrettable. It had never felt anything like this rush of a roller coaster ride, this wild, heady plunge straight into the unknown.

NEWSLETTER