Rockstar Romance Boxed Set (12 Book Bundle New Adult BBW)

by Emme Rollins

  Gage didn’t waste a moment driving his steel rod into me again. I moaned and wailed as he violently fucked me, each thrust causing the ottoman to slide across the marble floor. Damn, I’d never been taken like this before. The raw passion and animal lust was overwhelming but Gage wasn’t satisfied with simple anal sex.

  “Spanky time,” he said and he slapped my soft mound. I screeched involuntarily. The pain, the split second of contact and just the sheer wickedness nearly sent me over the edge. Gage had finally managed to push the ottoman against the back of the matching sofa and with the added leverage he drove into me even harder. He spanked my pussy again and this time I did come. I screamed as I felt the fire for a moment but without sustained pressure, it died quickly.

  “Make me squirt again,” I pleaded. Gage smiled devilishly and spanked my swollen, wet pussy again.

  “You want to squirt, you do it,” he replied. Gladly! I reach down between my thighs and sank three fingers into my needy hole and rubbed my clit for all I was worth. Gage grabbed my face and my round cheeks before bending and shoving his tongue into my mouth. I fought the urge for a moment but with Gage taking care of my back door and my hands going nuts, that didn’t last long.

  I arched my back and wrapped my legs around Gage as a deep and powerful climax stole my breath along with my sanity. I massaged the special spot inside my pussy as I tormented my poor swollen nub and felt the need grow. I could barely will myself to continue the sensations were so intense but I needed the release. Then suddenly the dam broke and I covered Gage and myself in my sweet girl cum. My emotions were no longer under my control and after screaming and laughing hysterically, I began to cry.

  “Now, that’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Gage told me as I balled like a baby. He didn’t stop and I didn’t want him too. His hand found my nipples and as I mindlessly pleasured my pussy he squeezed, twisted and pulled. I shrieked in wondrous pain and cried in utter bliss. Holy fuck! I began shaking my head as I sobbed and moaned. This was too much. It felt too good. It just wasn’t supposed to be this wonderful, was it? Gage, however, wasn’t having any of it. He pulled from my ass and slammed his cock into my hot, wet pussy.

  “I’m coming inside you, love, whether you want me to or not,” Gage said roughly. I would have begged him to even if I wasn’t on the pill. I was way beyond rational thought.

  “You’d better!” was all I could say. Gage grinned and let go of my nipples, taking the time to slap my breasts before he dug his hands into my sumptuous hips. Gage growled and then roared. I felt him swell even as another wave of delight washed over me. I screamed and shuddered as Gage’s cock pulsed within me and then exploded. The room sparkled as my vision dimmed and Gage thrust into me with authority and need.

  I stopped screaming and simply broke. I cried openly as Gage finished inside of me. Raw emotion and desire overpowered me and I just couldn’t contain it. Gage bent and wrapped his arms around my neck and hugged me tight as I fought to regain control. He kissed my neck softly and whispered sweet nothings into my ear. My arms and legs held him tightly to me and I refused to let go.

  “Fucking awesome!” was all I could say as I trembled beneath Gage.

  “I am a rock star,” he told me. Tears turned to laughter.

  “Damn right you are,” I said. Gage lifted himself from me and then stood above me. He offered a hand. I wasn’t sure I could get up without passing out but I made the attempt. Thankfully, we didn’t go far. I sat down and Gage went to the tablet and turned the volume down before joining me. Gage gathered me into his arms on the sofa that belonged to the ottoman that was now parked behind it. He held me tight as I recovered. “Gage, that was...perfect,” I told him.

  “Well, even I’m amazed at what one can do when properly inspired,” he said. I blushed though it was probably hard to tell. I was hot, flushed and sweaty. Gage was too.

  “So, in case you hadn’t figured it out, you’re forgiven,” I said. Gage chuckled.

  “I guessed as much,” he replied playfully.

  “So what now?” I asked. Gage turned my head gently and stared into my eyes as his lips met mine. I sighed as we kissed.

  “I have it all, love. I’m rich, famous and I’ve got nowhere to go but up. But I don’t have you. I know we barely know each other but I believe in fate,” he said. I shifted to face him.

  “What are you saying?” I asked. We were in Vegas, the home of quickie weddings and quickie divorces.

  “I want you to come with me. Come on tour with me. Let’s see where this goes. Let’s see if you can tame me or if I can get you in trouble instead. I excel at trouble,” he said.

  “I bet you do. I thought you wanted to be good though,” I wondered.

  “What I want to do and what I actually do are not always the same things,” he said and winked. Just chuck it all and go on tour with Gage and Dark Fire Love? I just didn’t know. It sounded, well it sounded like a little piece of awesome but it was scary too. On the other hand, I loved rock and roll. I quit school to tend bar in a rock club. How could I pass this up? I couldn’t!

  “I’ll do it. I’m either stupid or crazy, maybe both, but I’ll do it,” I told Gage. He smiled, a half satisfied half mischievous little grin.

  “Good girl. I’ve already got plans for you, love. Big plans,” was all he said and then he kissed me.

  What the hell was I doing? How was I going to tell Tiff? It didn’t matter. I was going. I’d had rock and roll dreams since I was a little girl. There was no way I was going to pass this up. I just wondered what Gage meant when he told me he had big plans for me. I couldn’t wait to find out.

  >>O<<

  Follow Darcy and Gage in Rock & Roll Curves - Love Her 2 Times and Rock & Roll Curves - 3rd Times the Charm. Both are on sale now!

  Be sure to check out my other series as well:

  Rock Hard Series

  Softail Curves Series

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  About the Author

  D. H. Cameron enjoys writing stories with a heart and a little, or a lot, of erotic sizzle. Ms. Cameron also writes fantasy under another pen name. Besides writing, Ms. Cameron enjoys music, specifically hard rock and heavy metal, cooking, clothes and photography. Ms. Cameron is happily married with two wonderful children. Home, where Ms. Cameron writes full time, is in Nevada.

  Copyright © 2013 D.H. Cameron. All Rights Reserved worldwide.

  MAROONED WITH THE ROCK STAR

  By Dawn Steele

  KURT

  Fuck!

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, and double fuck!

  She’s coming towards me, dressed in a crisp white blouse and a blue skirt. She has a clipboard in her arm and she’s talking to this doddering old lady who looks as though she’s a hundred years old and smells of mothballs. She is talking very animatedly, waving her clipboard around as though it is a weapon, describing something in that extremely excitable way of hers that I remember.

  Rebecca Hall. That’s who she is. I have been trying to get away from her since high school, and I thought I succeeded, but here she is again – like a cold sore that wouldn’t quite go away.

  Fuck!

  And to see me like this?

  I’m not exactly in my best presentation. I usually come gift-wrapped in a package, with my tight leather pants that leave nothing to the imagination and my ripped shirt. Oh yeah. I do a lot of clothes ripping on stage to bare my torso with the magnificent faux phoenix tattoo on my back, marvelously etched with hidden meanings and secret symbolisms by the great Mephisto, tattoo artist extraordinaire, himself.

  But I’m not in my stage clothes right now. In fact, I’m in a janitor’s overalls. I’m pushing a mop with my hands and a bucket of dirty and soapy water threatens to slosh a little more over the edge each time the ship lists to one side – which is fairly often in these b
reakers. My usually glorious auburn hair, left to flow free and wild and untamed, is tied back into a subdued ponytail.

  Fuck!

  Let me count how many times I’ve said the word ‘fuck’ in the last five minutes.

  How I got to be in my present condition is a long story. And I do mean long – not to mention unjustifiable.

  I’ve got to get away from here.

  I can hear Rebecca’s voice as she comes closer.

  “And we have breakfast from six to ten thirty in Café Palais on the second deck. That’s right. You can choose your breakfast from a menu of American, Continental and Japanese.”

  The old biddy’s voice is considerably lower in decibels. In fact, she’s so old that I kind of expect her to slip through the cracks of the ship’s deck and fall into some boiler room. Do they still have boiler rooms here? I notice that she has some hearing aid attached to her ear that is probably malfunctioning, which may be the reason why Rebecca is practically shouting at the top of her voice to make herself heard.

  “A Japanese breakfast consists of rice, some seaweed and miso soup. Miso . . . it’s spelled M-I-S-O.” Rebecca enunciates each letter carefully. “I’m not sure what’s in it. Maybe you can ask the chef?”

  Shit.

  She’ll see me. I quickly turn my back on her and pretend to be extremely engaged with the mop. I make furious circles upon the deck. She can’t come too close because I have put up two ‘CAUTION: CLEANING IN PROGRESS’ signs at the periphery of the area I am supposed to clean. The wooden boards squeak with my vigorous cleansing. That part of the floor is going to be spotlessly shiny, I’ll bet.

  “No, I don’t think Japanese food will give you the runs, Mrs. Caldwell. Their food is known to be quite clean.” Pause. “Yes, it’s known to have quite a lot of MSG, but I don’t think MSG will give you the runs. If anything, it will make you thirsty.”

  Their footsteps come closer – the clickety-clack, clickety-clack of heels on hard flooring.

  Then:

  “Say, are you Kurt Taylor?” says an unfamiliar voice to my right.

  Oh no.

  I swivel around, mop trailing a splash on the deck. A boy of around fourteen is standing inside – not outside, mind you, but inside – my circumference of cleaning safety, and he’s tracking his shoes all over my clean floor. I don’t know whether or not to be more outraged about this or the fact he has blurted my name out to all and sundry.

  In particular, Rebecca Hall.

  The two women stop to stare at me.

  “Kurt Taylor?” says Rebecca in a funny voice.

  “No, I’m not Kurt Taylor,” I mumble.

  “You are Kurt Taylor,” the boy insists. “You were in that music video with Scarlett Johannson. She was kinda cool. You’re kinda cool too . . . but today, not so much. What are you doing mopping the floor on this cruise ship? Your latest album sunk or something?”

  Not good.

  Rebecca Hall approaches me with a funny look on her face. She is all fiery green eyes and red hair, just the way I remembered her. When was the last time I saw her? Four years back? During high school graduation? She probably went to college, unlike me.

  Gawd. She’s as pretty as ever. Pity I never liked her, and she never liked me either.

  “You are Kurt Taylor,” she says in a high-pitched, extremely angry voice. She has seen my face now. “I’d remember you anywhere.”

  I’d remember her anywhere too, though not for the usual reasons. I suppose everyone will know sooner or later why I am on this cruise ship doing menial duty. Mrs. Caldwell and the rest of them old biddies will see to that.

  I say to no one in particular, “OK, I’m Kurt Taylor. Big deal. So you’ve seen me.”

  The boy’s eyes go round. “Wow, this is so cool! Can you wait right here and I’ll run to my mother to get a magazine or somethin’ for you to autograph?”

  He dashes off. Thank God. I don’t need a gaggle of admirers surrounding me. Although Rebecca Hall wouldn’t exactly be considered one of my admirers by a long shot. Quite the opposite.

  Rebecca stomps right up to me without preamble.

  “Hey,” I say, “watch the floor. This is a no go zone.”

  “This is what I think of you.”

  Her eyes are flashing oh-so-prettily and her nostrils are flaring. There are two pink splotches on her cheeks, and she looks as healthy as a horse. She is a big girl too. Tall and large-boned and well-padded. I know I made her sound like a horse, but she isn’t really. I always found her rather attractive, even though she’s a little on the plump side.

  Before I can say or do anything, she picks up my half-filled pail up and flings the dirty, soapy water all over my head.

  SPLASH!

  *

  Zzzzzzip.

  Rewind.

  How did I get into this mess in the first place?

  KURT

  I don’t want to talk about how I met Rebecca Hall right now. You would have to go back to high school to know our history together, and it isn’t what you think. We have never dated. We have never even made eyes at each other, except to roll them.

  No, my history with Rebecca Hall is far too complex and painful. It was back when I was another person – someone I didn’t want to be. I’m not that person anymore, and I’m not so sure I’m proud of myself for what I did back then. But I figured it was the right thing to do for me, you know.

  Rebecca obviously didn’t think so.

  I’d rather talk about how I got to become a rock star. Yup, that’s me. Kurt Taylor. Lead singer of the double platinum rock band, Red Velvet. They were already an established rock band on the scene for ten years, when their lead singer suddenly died of an OD.

  It was front page news. Atticus Ford, 29, was found in his bathtub, dead from an overdose.

  This was extremely sad and speculative news for everyone in the newspaper and tabloid reading world, of course, including their online permutations of TMZ and Deadline Hollywood. But for me, it was life-changing. Not because Red Velvet asked me to be their lead singer overnight.

  No way.

  I actually had to go through fifteen rounds of auditions to be in a reality TV show so that America’s rock audience can vote me in to be the next lead singer of Red Velvet – which is named after the cake, so I’ve been told.

  I didn’t even win the reality TV show, called American Rock Star, outright. Nope, I got second place. But karma would have it that the winner actually broke his spine right after the final show due to a tumble off a brand new Harley that he had bought immediately, and Red Velvet needed someone to cut a record and go on tour right away.

  So I was called in.

  I am lucky that way. At least, I was lucky then.

  All this happened during the year I was supposed to go to college. Now, I’m no valedictorian. I didn’t graduate with any honors, and my GPA was a measly 2.5. A college would be hard pressed to offer me anything but an athletic scholarship . . . for basketball, which I was fairly good at. But when this gig came up, I passed over the measly one offer I had for college, and headed to New York to become part of the velvety ensemble.

  I was famous overnight, and I didn’t do anything much except to strut onstage and win the audience over with my sex appeal.

  Believe me, I had – have – plenty of sex appeal.

  I have a good voice with a slight hoarseness to it, but the American audience apparently lapped it up, attributing sexiness to my mild throaty defect. I look really great in tight leather pants, especially when you see me onscreen or on YouTube, where my final song was downloaded over two hundred million times – thirty million more than the actual winner, who has a marvelous voice but lacks my body and considerable charm.

  So the next two years were filled with promotions and cutting records in studios (only no one really cuts vinyl records these days, it’s all gone digital now) and whirlwind tours and hiring a PA to tweet for us every day. I was the front man for the band. The sex idol. The face they put in front
of Letterman and Conan O’ Brien and the scary quartet in ‘The View’.

  I was exhausted during those first two years, you can imagine.

  If you think a rock star is all sex and drugs and groupies, think again. In the first two years, I was trying to make my mark, and so I had very little energy left for sex. I didn’t want to warp my head in drugs, and neither did the band members. They very soberly and wisely remembered what happened to Atticus Ford, whom the fans were already deeming irreplaceable.

  And so I had to prove myself to the band and the diehard fans at large who were intent on hating me for the simple reason that I was not Atticus Ford.

  OK, they cited a whole lot of other reasons for hating me:

  I was not even as talented as Atticus Ford’s little finger

  1. The slight hoarseness in my vocals were better suited to a country ballad singer than a rock star

  2. If I thought I could make up for my lack of talent with a whole lot of gyrations onstage and sex moves, think again. I was not Atticus Ford and I didn’t even have a modicum of the man’s charisma.

  (OK. I geddit. I’m not Atticus Ford.)

  (You should see the amount of hate comments I got on my official video channel on YouTube.)

  So I had to work doubly hard just to make the grade. I could honestly say no one worked as hard as I did in the band. I learned new dance moves, and practiced them until they were perfect. I took singing lessons from an ex-opera singer who now suffered from morbid obesity.

  I hired the most expensive choreographer in the business to make sure I looked good on stage and on our music videos. It was easier for the other band members. They played drums and acoustic guitars respectively, while an orchestra supported us in the background. I had no instrument to croon with and fondle.