Meet bad boy rocker Wyatt in Fade Into You.
This new rock star romance by Tracy Wolff is NOW LIVE! #shakendirty
AVAILABLE ON ALL RETAILERS:
Amazon US: http://amzn.to/243LmsH
Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/1KPgHbZ
A sexy category romance from Entangled's Brazen imprint...
She’s one addiction he can’t resist.
Wyatt Jennings has been called a lot of things by the media. Bad-boy rocker. Intense drummer. Addict.
Finally out of rehab and desperate for a fresh start, Wyatt rejoins his mega-platinum rock band Shaken Dirty as they prepare for their world tour. But Wyatt’s demons are never far behind, always nipping at his heels for one. More. Fix.
Enter Poppy Germaine, the band’s new social media consultant. A beautiful bombshell who somehow manages to get underneath Wyatt’s skin, Poppy’s an addiction Wyatt can get behind. And even though she’s with the label—and therefore off-limits—he craves her. Needs her.
Except Poppy isn’t actually a social media consultant. She’s the daughter of the label’s CEO, sent undercover to babysit Wyatt and keep him from falling off the wagon again. Proving herself to her father is Poppy’s only goal—until she finds herself in Wyatt’s bed. But if Wyatt discovers the truth, it could send him spiraling all over again…
**PLEASE CHOOSE ONE EXCERPT**
He was on fire. There was no other way to describe it, no other words to do justice to what she was seeing. What she was hearing. Wyatt was in the back right corner of the stage, but it was like he was the only one out there. Like there was a giant spotlight focused right on him while everyone else was just standing around in the dark.
Obviously, that wasn’t true. The whole band sounded amazing. Ryder’s vocals were right on, Jared’s guitar playing was phenomenal as usual, and Quinn was as close to perfect on the keyboards as a human could get. It was crazy.
More, it was like it had been two days since they’d played together instead of two months. That’s how well they blended together, how well their styles meshed. Sure, Li was a little off, just as she’d known he would be—he was good, but his skills weren’t up to their level and his style was too removed to work with what the others were throwing out. Plus, he wasn’t coming close to keeping up with the drum line Wyatt was laying down, which was a problem considering bass and drums worked hand in hand in most Shaken Dirty songs.
But then again, it wasn’t like keeping up with Wyatt was easy at the best of times. And now, when he was mounting a full-on assault on those drums? Even Jared and Quinn were struggling to stay with him and this was their music. He was their drummer.
But hell, she didn’t think any musician in the world could be on that stage tonight and be anything but overshadowed by what Wyatt was doing. His stick work was so fast, so precise, so fucking brilliant, she wouldn’t be surprised if his whole kit burst into flames right in front of him. There was a part of her that wondered how it hadn’t already.
Music was her life, and rock was the genre she was most passionate about. She could name every member of every halfway decent rock group in the world, could list off the best singers, best guitarists, best drummers and bassists and keyboardists to ever live, along with their best performances. And she would swear that at this moment, no drummer she’d ever heard—not Keith Moon, not Dave Grohl, not Josh Freese, not even Charlie Watts—could hold a candle to Wyatt Jennings. He’d always been amazing, had always been brilliant at making the drums the creative backbone of every Shaken Dirty song, but right now, in this club after two and a half months of rehab, stone-cold sober and wailing away on the tom-toms, he was the best she’d ever seen. The best she’d ever heard.
And she wasn’t just thinking that because it had only been an hour since he’d given her the two most intense orgasms of her life…
Which she still couldn’t believe she’d let happen.
Not with Wyatt.
Not when she had a job to do that so specifically revolved around him.
Not when she’d worked so hard and for so long to prove her father wrong…one slipup, one moment of giving in to the fire she worked so hard to keep tamped down, and she might have fucked it all up.
She shouldn’t be doing this. She absolutely shouldn’t be doing this.
Every argument Poppy had given herself in the last three days—and especially the last thirty minutes, since Wyatt quit the band—went round and round in her head as she slid her hands around to cup Wyatt’s ass so that she could take him deeper.
She ignored them all—every argument, every worry, every consequence she knew would come from this—and concentrated instead on giving him as much pleasure as he’d given her. On making him feel as good as he made her feel.
Doing this was stupid; she knew it with every fiber of her being. Bad for her job, bad for her future, and—she was beginning to be more than a little afraid—bad for her heart. But how could she not give him this after seeing the vulnerability in his eyes?
How could she not take him inside of herself when that one glimpse had let her see just how lost he felt? How desperately he wanted, needed, to connect with someone?
She would be that someone.
Not because of her job, not because of her ambitions or the label or any of the reasons why she’d come here. But because of Wyatt. Because of the way he touched her, the way he held her, the way—three times now—he was so determined to give her pleasure when the other guys she’d known had always only been out for themselves.
She wanted to make him feel good so badly, to get him outside of his head for a little while and show him that he was worth it. That after the hell he’d been through he deserved all the pleasure he could take. All the pleasure she could give him.
And so she sucked him deeper still, and as she did, she scratched her nails over the flat, muscled plane of his abdomen. Down his perfectly defined V-cut. Along the light happy trail that led from his navel to his groin. He was beautiful, so fucking beautiful, his skin pale, his hair soft and silky, his muscles long and lean.
For a moment, just a moment, she thought about how he’d gotten this lean, this toned, this hard. Thought of the drugs and the horrors of withdrawal and the hours he must have spent exercising just to keep from going out of his mind. It didn’t turn her off, didn’t make her feel sorry for him, though it did make her feel for him. As did the still fading track marks she could see ghosting along the veins that ran on the outside of his hips.
She wanted to touch them, to lick her way along them in an effort to soothe away all the hurt and ugliness they represented. But something deep inside warned her it would ruin everything if she did, and so she settled on letting him slip out of her mouth so she could press hot, open-mouthed kisses on first one hip and then the other. And if her heart broke just a little at all the pain he had suffered, well then, nobody had to know that but her.
Wyatt groaned, his hands fisting in her hair as she pushed his T-shirt up and out of the way so that she could see, touch, taste more of him.
She skimmed her way across his stomach, kissing every inch of exposed skin she could get her lips on. But then the shirt fell down, covering him up again, and she made a sound of frustration deep in her throat. She hadn’t been able to see him in that alley the other night. She wasn’t about to let that happen here.
He must have recognized the source of her frustration—or maybe he just wanted the shirt gone as much as she did. Either way, it took only a second for Wyatt to rip the offending garment over his head and drop it on the ground next to her torn panties. As he did, the muscles of his chest and stomach flexed and bunched, and it was all she could do to keep her tongue in her mouth.
Because, dear God, the man was sporting the first ten pack she had ever seen up close and personal. Hell, it was the only ten pack she’d ever seen, period. She knew drummers were ripped, knew they used their core more than pretty much any other musicians out there, but still. Wyatt had been toned when he’d gone to rehab. Now…now he looked like a god.
The marketing expert in her couldn’t wait to see what Tumblr had to say about this new development, while the rest of her just wanted to get her hands—and mouth—on him.
For a man who’d spent years, decades, running from his emotions, it was a strange place to find himself. It scared him.
She scared him.
Eyes still closed, he laid down the first of the drum fills, adding a few extra flourishes because that’s how he was hearing it in his head. Played through the whole song from memory, then did it again and again, embellishing it a little more each time through.
It didn’t take long for his arms and pecs to start aching—it had been too long since he’d played the drums on a daily basis—but he played through it, pounding away at the skins with everything he had in him.
Fourth time through the song, he switched to “Closer,” then to “In the A.M.,” then to “Deified.” By the time he’d run through those a couple of times, his biceps were burning, his hands throbbing. And still he didn’t stop.
Instead, he switched on the recorder he always kept next to his drum kit and started wailing away, playing the beat that had been in his head since he’d seen Poppy waiting for him in her doorway last night, arms open and face welcoming. The melody had started then, in the back of his head, and by the time he’d had her up against the wall it had been a towering crescendo of drumbeats that he couldn’t ignore even if he’d wanted to.
Which he hadn’t. It had been too long since music had burned inside him like that.
He played the song through the way he heard it, keeping a fast thirty-two-beat rhythm on the hi-hat while he worked the snare, the bass, and the floor tom in alternating rhythms. It sounded good, really good, and as he banged out a long, elaborate fill on the toms and crash cymbals, he knew he was onto something.
Though all he was doing was laying down the beat, he could hear the song in his head so clearly. Jared coming in with a quiet but pure guitar presence while Quinn took front and center with his keyboards. Bass—whoever the fuck that turned out to be—would hang back with Wyatt, playing low to underscore. And Ryder…fuck, Ryder’s voice would own this song. He would destroy it. Just the thought sent excitement rioting through him.
Usually, Wyatt and Quinn were the music guys, while Ryder and Jared did most of the lyrics. Every once in a while, though, a song would come to him fully formed, like “Seventeen Again” had, an early version of the lyrics tearing through his head even as he pounded away at the drums.
This song was like that, the words running through his brain like a rain-swollen river, pouring out of him as fast and powerfully as the music had. Even knowing they weren’t perfect, he sang them aloud, let the recorder get every syllable.
When it was over, he ran through the song over and over again while everything was still fresh in his mind. Playing and singing, singing and playing, until his shirt was drenched in sweat and his arms felt like they were going to fall off.
And still he played. Still he wailed away at the drums like the demons of hell were after him. Or worse, like the sins of his past had finally caught up to him after all the years he’d run and all the drugs he’d used to keep them at bay.
And maybe they had. Maybe they had.
Since he couldn’t do anything about it, he played instead.
Long after sweat rolled into his eyes and poured down his face.
Long after his shoulders and biceps and pecs cramped up.
Long, long after blisters formed between his fingers.
He played and played and played, like these drums were the only thing standing between him and hell. And like getting this one song right was his only chance at salvation.
At one point, the blister on his right index finger cracked open and started to bleed. He grabbed one of the clean towels he always kept next to the kit, tore a strip off it, and kept playing. When his left index finger followed suit a couple of minutes later, he did the same thing. And then he played through that, too.
The pain was there, his nerve endings sending agonized alerts to his brain, but he ignored them. Compartmentalized them. Put them in a part of his brain he didn’t need to access to play, and then concentrated on the music. On the beat. Right now, it was the only thing that mattered.
About the Author
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author Tracy Wolff collects books, English degrees and lipsticks and has been known to forget where--and sometimes who--she is when immersed in a great novel. At six she wrote her first short story--something with a rainbow and a prince--and at seven she forayed into the wonderful world of girls lit with her first Judy Blume novel. By ten she'd read everything in the young adult and classics sections of her local bookstore, so in desperation her mom started her on romance novels. And from the first page of the first book, Tracy knew she'd found her life-long love. Now an English professor at her local community college, she writes contemporary romance and erotic romance as Tracy Wolff, paranormal romance and urban fantasy as Tessa Adams and young adult novels as Tracy Deebs.
View all of Tracy’s releases on Amazon here: http://amzn.to/1Th7GKj