ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Taking the plunge into writing romance was almost as natural as breathing. That being said, I never could have done it without many, many people.

First, to the readers and bloggers and lovers of books—I owe you all big hugs and baked goods. You are the best people to have in my corner.

Suzie Townsend. Agent. Czar of Reading. General Badass. I’m more than indebted. You’re the biggest reason I get to keep living this crazy writing life.

My editor, Christina Brower, and everyone at InterMix. Finding people who loved Cyn and Smith the way I do was more than just gratifying, it was humbling.

My writing community, including but not limited to The Lucky 13s, the Binder of YA Writers, and the Pub Hub blog. To Dahlia Adler—man, you’re a rock star and a wonderful friend. Thank you for your support—you really help keep me sane.

My family, especially my parents—thank you for understanding why I get quiet and why I leave the room so much. Sometimes the characters are just too loud to ignore.

My girls—Katie and Carly—who were almost as excited about my writing in this genre as I was. I love them for their support and even more for their everlasting acceptance. They stand behind me in an unfailing way and they’ve taught me what true friendship really is.

My son, Max, whose life is best thing I’ve ever been a part of. Getting to say I’m your mommy is far, far cooler than getting to say anything else.

And, in all ways, this book is for Josh. Our love story makes it possible for me to write about the love stories of others. All of me loves all of you.

Read on for a sneak peek at the next book in Annie Kelly’s scorching hot Flirting with Trouble series.

UNTIL TOMORROW

Available from InterMix March 2016

Six months ago

The music is louder. The lights are brighter. My whole world is spinning and that’s exactly how I like it. I’ve been waiting for Friday night all week, but it feels like it’s been a month. Maybe longer. I’ve had graduate school exams for the last three days straight and I’m basically tutoring full-time now. I’m beyond exhausted, but the bump of coke I did in the car has made everything seem a little more possible. And all I want to do is dance.

The faces around me are a bit blurry, but I can tell that my dance partner is at least somewhat hot. Hot enough to take home for a night, anyway. Not quite hot enough to tell my real name to.

I grind up against his thigh and he puts a hand on each of my hips, flexing his fingers in a way that pinches deliciously. God, I’ve missed this. All I want is this—a night of complete and utter intoxication, where I can feel the rush of the night and the slight bite of pain. I can forget about school, about tests, about student teaching. I can forget my every-present anxiety and the panic in favor of feeling anything but anxious. I think they call this feeling “free.”

“God, you’re fucking sexy,” the guy I don’t know murmurs into my ear.

The music is loud but his face is so close to mine that I can hear him clearly—as clearly as I can smell the liquor on his breath mingling with a dose of Axe body spray. At any other time, it would be noxious and overbearing. Right now, it’s just right.

Everything here is just right. And I don’t have to think about tomorrow.

Over my dance partner’s shoulder, I glance up at the band. I don’t know if I’ve seen them here before, but they’re good. The lead singer, a muscular black guy with a shaved head and quarter-sized plugs in each ear, is clearly closer to professional than amateur. He’s got a wailing voice that’s both raspy and melodic, so much so that he practically drowns out the other instruments.

Well, all except the drums—or, at least, the drummer.

I blink rapidly, trying to focus on the drummer’s face. He’s beautiful—his brown eyes are wide and flash with energy as he holds the backbeat, then breaks into a cymbal-heavy solo. I lock my gaze on him and flip around, tucking my ass up against my new friend and grinding back against his already hard cock. His grip on my hips tightens and I relish that bruise-worthy pressure. All I can see is the drummer. All I can feel is my arousal.

And we dance. Or, at the very least, move against each other like there’s no such thing as clothes or propriety. The first song fades into the next and the next. I don’t know if the drummer sees me—in fact, I’m sure he doesn’t, not with the bright spotlights blinding his vision. But fuck if I care. In my mind, he’s behind me, pressing against me and sliding his hands over my skin. I feel fingertips scale my arm from wrist to shoulder, then tuck inside the strap of my tank top and bra. The fingers move down over the slope of my breast until they meet my nipple and I gasp when he pinches.

The pain always makes it ten times hotter.

The drummer is going wild now, his body bent practically parallel to the kit. His arms and torso are cut and tan, glistening with sweat from his exertion.

I’ve never wanted to fuck anyone so bad in my life.

“I gotta get you home, baby,” the guy behind me whispers. “I can’t wait to peel you outta these fucking clothes and get my hands all over your body.”

I swallow, still watching the drummer play his set. God, there are more tattoos on his arms than unmarked skin. I lick my lips, then glance back at the man behind me. My vision is starting to clear. He’s not unattractive or unappealing—he just isn’t the drummer. And that’s the only person I can imagine screwing tonight.

“Let me run to the ladies room first,” I say into his ear, then give him a winning smile before sashaying off the dance floor.

I know what I need to get me back in the mood—or at least, to allow me to find enough of it to transfer my desire to the man I’ve been humping on the dance floor rather than the one I’ve been watching all night. I teeter a bit on my lace-up boots and run a hand over the back of my neck. I’m sweating and I’m not exactly sure why. I need something to balance out the lust in my system, not to mention the martinis from earlier. Just one more bump—maybe a line? I’ll be good to go. I’ll be ready for anything. And, if I’m lucky, I’ll wake up tomorrow with a clean slate and an empty memory—just like last time. And the time before that. And the time before that.

I turn the corner and slam right into two people who clearly couldn’t wait for home or a bed or even the backseat of a car. The girl is straddling the guy and he’s hoisting her up around his waist, both hands grasping her ass beneath a tight black skirt. I blink and start to mutter an apology when I realize who exactly I just ran into.

“Dude, Lennon. What the fuck?” I narrow my eyes at my brother, who pulls his mouth away from the woman’s neck long enough to smirk at me.

“Sup, sis. How goes it?”