Excerpt taken from Chapter One:
And as he walks closer to me, stepping
on the panties and bras that have been tossed on the stage while saying
something into the microphone—something that I don’t hear because my heartbeat
seems so much louder than the screams of the crowd and Jude’s voice—I eat my
words to Camille.
Sort of.
With his chin-length, dirty blond hair and
a slight sheen of perspiration on his bare chest that only enunciates every
tight muscle and every absurd superhero tattoo—that automatically drags my gaze
over his abs and down to his V—Jude sure as hell looks dirty. But not in the
bad way, not in the way that I need him to be.
Now that he’s standing so close, his green
eyes full of hunger as he drags them over every inch of my body, I decide that
even under the harsh stage lights, Jude Logan is every bit as beautiful as he
is in the poster hanging lopsided over Camille’s bed. And, for a second, I can picture
his hair falling into my eyes; his sweaty body naked and hard up against mine;
those long fingers grasping at my hips, digging into my skin, instead of
wrapped around a microphone.
Get it together, Layla, I tell myself. Get it
together, get the hell off this stage, and for God’s sake, get laid so you can
stop thinking about guys like this.
Smirking wickedly, Jude cocks his head
to the side. He casts a look out at his audience, who erupts into cheers,
before turning his attention back to me. “What’s your name?” he drawls into the
microphone.
I don’t respond—can’t respond—so he
leans closer to me so that his green eyes are level with mine. One side of his
mouth lifts up, and even though I’ve always wanted to throat punch Camille when
she swooned over guys with “crooked smiles,” that’s the only description that
comes to mind when I look at Jude. A sexy, crooked smile. On a sexy, and most
likely crooked, rock star.
Jude presses his lips against the
middle of my ear, and I shiver as his mouth skims over the tiny metal hoop
there. Oh hell, he's touching me. The crowd goes crazier just as fire coils
around my stomach. I have never responded like this to a guy, and it knocks me
off balance.
“Come on, gorgeous.” This time he
doesn’t speak into the microphone but directly into my ear, his warm breath
sending electricity from the nape of my neck down to the small of my back. “Let’s
give ‘em a fucking show. You can do that, right?”
“Negative,” I say loud enough for him
to hear me. He pulls away, surprised, and I repeat myself once more for
clarification. “Ne-ga-tive.”
His gaze zeroes in on my mouth as I
speak, and then his full lips form into a sensual, dramatic pout. He takes a
few steps away from me before turning to grin at the crowd. “Tongue Ring is
shy, so we’ll need to help her.” He winks at me as the lead guitar and drums
start up. “Y’all know this one, right?”
Angrily, I curl my fingers into my
palms as my brain struggles to identify the song. Not a Sensible Overdrive song
but one by Adele—more specifically the one that my roommate last year played
repetitively when her boyfriend came out and then dumped her. Jude makes his
way back toward me, trying his best to be hesitant for the amusement of his
fans as he holds out the microphone to me. I fully intend to tell him to go
fuck off. And to be more original. Then, I’ll get off of this stage.
But then I hear the screams of someone
from the front row yelling his name, offering him whatever he wants of her, desire
to wipe the cockiness off of his face kicks in.
“Sure you don’t want to sing for me?”
he urges in a low voice, stretching his arm out so that the mic nearly brushes
my bottom lip.
I lower my eyes to the white rubber
toes of his Converse and draw in a deep breath through my nose. I can do this.
I can do this if only to prove a point to this infuriating, shirtless man.
“If you’re going to puke all over my—”
Jude says mockingly, but I reach up and press my fingertips over his mouth,
finally shutting him up.
“There’s a fire,” I begin.
When I finally lift my brown eyes back
up to his, the shit-eating grin has completely vanished from his face.
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