(#4 of Sphere of Irony)
Author: Heather C. Leigh
Genre: Contemporary Romance, Rock star
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Hawke Evans is the drummer for the Grammy winning Sphere of Irony. The quiet, tattooed and pierced hottie behind a pair of geek chic glasses is hiding a seriously troubled adrenaline junkie with a death wish.
Abby Kessler is studying psychology at UCLA. Her desire to help those fighting mental illness stems from a life-changing incident in her past.
When Abby meets Hawke backstage at a local club, she’s instantly attracted to his bad boy good looks. But when she discovers the damaged man beneath the beautiful exterior, she’s compelled to make up for past mistakes.
How long will it take for Hawke to realize his reckless behavior isn’t only endangering him, but the hearts of those around him? How long will it take for Abby to see that she can’t help someone who has no desire to be fixed?
***This is book 4 in the Sphere of Irony Series. It can be read as a standalone. This is a spin-off of the Famous Series***
Excerpt . . .
Blinded by rage, I pull back my arm and drill my fist right into his smug face.
“Fuck!” Brad cries out. He touches his mouth to find his lip split open and bleeding.
“Oh my god, Hawke! What is your problem?” Abby shouts. I move to punch the bastard again, but Abby steps between us, grabbing my hand. “Stop!”
“Move,” I hiss, shooting a murderous glare over Abby’s shoulder at Brad, who is still holding his hand up to his mouth.
The rest of the room has gone silent, everyone stopping to stare at the disruption, eager to watch a good fight. Dax must have either left or is holed up in his room with Kate, otherwise he’d be right in the middle of things, using his enormous muscles and underground fighting skills to put an end to the confrontation.
“Don’t,” Abby begs, forcing me to look at her by stepping into my line of sight. When I meet her eyes, shimmering with tears and betrayal, all of the rage I felt for Brad turns into frustration with Abby for drinking and putting herself in the situation with Brad to begin with.
“Leave,” I bark at Brad, pointing at the front door. Before she can protest, I grab Abby’s wrist and haul her to my room. She stumbles behind me on her high heels. Using my foot, I slam the door shut with a bang.
“Ouch, Hawke!” Abby twists out of my hold, turning to glare at me. “What is your problem?”
“My problem?” I shout. “I’m not the one getting drunk and letting Brad piece-of-shit Vargas touch my ass!”
Her mouth drops open and her eyes bulge. “Are you kidding me right now?”
I step forward, crowding her in a corner of the tiny space I share with Gavin. “Oh, I’m far from fucking kidding, Abby. He’s a slimy douchebag who wants nothing more than to get you drunk and fuck you.”
“So what? It’s none of your business who I sleep with!” Abby puts her hands on her hips and scowls. It’s almost adorable, until she continues her rant, going straight for the jugular. “I don’t say anything about the whores you bang every night!”
Anger, shame, raging desire—they all battle inside my chest, clashing until they detonate in a huge fireball of uncontrollable emotions. “I don’t want them!” I shout, my hands going to my hair, fisting huge hunks.
I step closer, Abby’s back now pressed against the bathroom door. I lean forward, dropping my hands to cage her in on either side of her head. Her breathing picks up and I drop my gaze to drag up her sinful body, ending at her heart-stopping eyes. “Don’t you get it, Abby?” My voice lowers as I finally confess what I’ve held inside for too long. “I don’t want Brad touching you. I don’t want anyone touching you! I want you. You’re mine.”
Abby gasps, either in shock at my declaration, or with desire. I don’t wait to find out because at that moment, I lean closer, letting my hips press against hers so she can feel exactly how much I want her. Abby’s eyes fall to my mouth, her thick lashes fluttering against flushed skin. When her pink tongue darts out to lick her lips, any remaining willpower I possessed dissolves into nothingness.
I tilt my head to see if that mouth tastes as sweet as she smells, but Abby holds me back with a hand to my chest. A fist squeezes around my heart. Of course she doesn’t want me. Why would she? I’m a fucked up mess and she knows it.
Abby inhales a shaky breath, drawing my attention back to her eyes once more. “What’s your real name?” she asks.
“What?” I pull my brows together.
“Your real name. I… I don’t want my first time to be with someone whose name I don’t know,” she whispers, her cheeks blazing red with embarrassment.
I huff out a laugh. “Henry. It’s Henry Walker Evans.”
“Like Gavin Walker?”
I shake my head. “No relation.”
“Henry,” she says, smiling as she trails her trembling fingers up my chest, over my collarbone, to wrap around the back of my neck. “Kiss me, Henry.”
Without hesitation, I lift my hands from the door to cup her flushed cheeks, letting my full weight press against her body. Abby’s tongue darts out to wet her lips, sending a rush of blood straight to my groin. I groan in pleasure. “God, I’ve been wanting to do this forever.” Before she can answer, I lean in and our mouths connect.
Abby melts against the door, her muscles going limp, allowing me to control the kiss. When I slide my tongue against the seam of her lips, she lets out a throaty moan that vibrates all the way to my toes. Her mouth parts on a soft exhale, the sound sending little sparks of electricity dancing across my skin. I’m so turned on, so desperate to taste and feel every part of her, that my brain turns off and instinct takes over. Primal, animal instinct to possess, to claim, to make her mine.
I step forward, putting one foot between hers to kick her feet apart. Once there’s enough room to maneuver, I push my stiff dick against the junction of her thighs. Abby gasps and comes to life. The girl who was content to be passively carried along through our kiss, threads her fingers through my hair and grips tight. The streak of pain across my scalp shreds my last vestiges of rational thought.
Panting, I break away, dizzily gulping down oxygen. “Off. Now.” I grab the hem of her silky tank top and yank it over her head, revealing two perfect, round breasts supported by a lacy white bra. “Fuck.” I palm my hard-on through my way too tight jeans, the ache nearly unbearable.
Abby stares at me, her eyes wild, pupils dilated. Desire has put crimson streaks on her cheekbones and turned her throat and chest a deep shade of pink. “Your turn,” she says, clawing at the bottom of my own T-shirt. I reach over my head to pull it off, but hesitate when my fingers grip the material.
The scars. I’ve haven’t had sex with anyone without a shirt on since the accident, usually not even getting my pants all the way off. It’s always been quick backroom hook-ups or blow jobs. My pulse races, fear overtaking desire, pricking my skin uncomfortably.
“Henry.” Abby caresses my cheek, her thumb brushing across the silver stud in my bottom lip. “I don’t care. I want you, all of you. You’re perfect the way you are.”
Our eyes lock, and I know she’s telling the truth. This is Abby. I can trust her. She skims her hands down my ribcage, hooking her fingers into the waist of my jeans. In a bold move, Abby tugs me forward and arches her back off the door, grinding against my aching cock.
I nod, knowing right now, I’ll give her whatever she wants. I fist the collar of the shirt and pull it over my head, balling it up in my hands between us, using it as my final shield. Without breaking eye contact, Abby covers my hands with her own and slowly removes my fingers, taking the shirt from me. She tosses it to the ground, blue eyes still fixed on mine. Abby slides her hands around my waist and I flinch.
“Don’t be afraid,” she murmurs, skimming her hands up my torso, her fingers exploring every inch. They brush across my abs to my chest, where she gently flicks her thumbs across my nipples. “I’m not. I know you’ll take care of me.”
“Jesus, Abby.” My head lolls back from the pleasure of her touch.
Abby winds her hands behind my head and pulls my mouth back to hers. Our tongues slide together, wet and hot and so fucking perfect. She stops to catch her breath, fumbling with the button on her own jeans. As I stare, entranced, Abby shoves down her pants and underwear and reaches behind her to unsnap her bra, letting it slide down her arms to the floor. She’s so beautiful, I stop breathing to stare at her naked body, snapping out of it only when she speaks. “Make love to me, Henry.”
Giveaway . . .
About the Author . . .
Heather was born and raised in New England and currently lives outside Atlanta, GA with her husband, 2 kids, and French Bulldog, Shelby.
She loves the Red Sox, the Patriots, and anything chocolate (but not white chocolate, everyone knows it's not real chocolate so it doesn't count) and has left explicit instructions in her will to have her ashes snuck into Fenway Park and sneakily sprinkled all over while her family enjoys beer, hot dogs, and a wicked good time.
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