I never intended to pick up a naked hitchhiker wearing nothing but a guitar. A guitar. Really. I don’t collect guys like that (don’t ask what kind of guys I do collect), but when you spot a blond, tanned, sculpted man with a gorgeous smile and his thumb poking up and practically begging you to stop – you stop.
And I definitely never thought I’d be staring into the bright blue eyes of Trevor Connor, the lead singer for Random Acts of Crazy, an indie rock star I followed like the slobbering fileshare fangirl I am. How he came to be nude and lost six hundred miles from home is quite the tale, but how we fell in love is even more unreal.
Because someone like Trevor Connor, headed to Harvard Law next year, isn’t supposed to want someone like me, a rural Ohio chick majoring in Boredom at Convenience Store University who is all curves and frizzy blonde hair and manners so unpolished they have sharp edges that make you bleed.
But he did.
When his best friend, Joe Ross, the bass player for Random Acts of Crazy and a man who makes Calvin Klein models look like Shrek, drove eleven hours through the night to rescue him, though, it got real complicated. It’s one thing to like two different guys and be torn.
What do you do, though, when maybe – just maybe – you don’t have to choose?
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Whoa. If I had to pick a dream to come true, I’d have chosen the winning MegaMillions lottery ticket dream, but this would do as a distant second, Trevor’s mouth warm and inviting, tasting like orange tangy yumminess.
He kissed with his whole body, hands roaming through my hair, his tongue parting my lips and going on a search for something so deep in me I thought he’d never reach it and I would have to live in the ecstasy of being loved by his mouth forever.
I was surprisingly okay with that.
The fact that he was naked brushed through my mind and then my hand brushed against his thick, gleaming manhood, making his stomach tighten under my hands, splayed against the fine, taut skin of his abs.
Washboard. I’d heard that word applied to a man’s body before but had never understood it ’til then. His flesh was so different from my own full curves, as if I were exploring an alien body in a state of arousal so high I would reach nirvana soon.
“Oh—” he groaned breathlessly, then stopped. “What’s your real name?” he whispered.
“Darla.” It came out in a rushed gasp as his fingers found my right nipple and pinched just enough to make it—and my pink nub—pebble instantly, as if they were one long, connected nerve ending. His other hand explored my back, sliding up under my shirt, the heat of his flesh pouring into me.
The fact that he was fully naked and I was not was a kind of tragedy.
About the Author
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge. From billionaires to BBWs to new adult rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every contemporary romance she writes. Unlike Shannon from Shopping for a Billionaire, she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a men's room toilet (and he isn't a billionaire). She lives in New England with her husband and three sons in a household where the toilet seat is never, ever, down.
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