Emerging from the crowd first is a tall, shirtless man, twirling a pair of drumsticks between long, thin fingers. Striker Voss, Ransom’s drummer. He’s lean, almost lanky, yet hard ripples of muscle lie just under his taut, tanned skin. His hair is cut short, leaving just dark peach fuzz over his scalp. But what he lacks in hair, he more than makes up for in tattoos and piercings. His eyebrow, nose, septum, lip, ears, and even nipples are all adorned with silver rings or barbells, and every inch of his chest and arms is covered in ink. And that’s just the parts of him that I can see as he stalks past me to the stage.

Right behind him is Cash Colby, lead guitarist and bona fide manwhore. The only thing more infamous than Ransom Reed’s bad boy persona is Cash’s penchant for young, hot bimbos with low self-esteem and daddy issues. And looking at him, I can see why. Think a taller, edgier, hotfuck version of Justin Bieber, minus the douchiness. He’s got the sandy blond hair that’s long enough to fall in his eyes, just begging to be flipped back while he fingers the strings of his Fender with the sensuality of a skilled lover. Rumor has it, those fingers have expertly played with a few of America’s sweethearts, soiling their (manufactured) good girl images.

Following Cash is Gunner Davies, rhythm guitarist and the more mysterious of the bunch. He isn’t adorned with dozens of tattoos or piercings. His clothing is black and nondescript, as well as his hair. He’s not in the press every week, if at all. Come to think of it, I can’t think of a single woman he’s dated or even a story that’s remotely touched on his private life. However, the second he passes me, I feel the temperature drop in the atmosphere, and a sense of danger snakes through me, causing me to physically shrink back a foot and divert my eyes to the tips of my Jimmy Choos. That kid’s got menace in his veins. I can smell it.

The very second I force myself to look up, badassery renewed, I know that he’s emerged. Every cell in my body tingles with expectation and the very breath in my lungs catches on a gasp. No music video, no magazine spread—shit—not even the dozens of pics I’ve Googled could have done Ransom Reed justice. He’s taller than I expected, and he has the lean body of a rock star who can command a stage. And he struts with all the confidence and swagger of a man who knows he’s a big fucking deal—in and out of the bedroom. Dressed in ripped, worn jeans that look as if they were made for him, a V-neck white tee and black leather jacket adorned with silver zippers, he’s the epitome of rock godliness. He runs a hand through his dark brown hair that he wears haphazardly slicked back. Still, a rogue lock of hair falls over his forehead, just short enough to stay out of his eyes, yet long enough to allure the fuck out of me. I swear, that move must’ve been rehearsed. Caleb is beside him, walking double time to keep up with Ransom’s long, leisurely strides. The closer he gets, the less I breathe. And now that he’s so close—close enough that I could reach out and touch this beautiful urban legend of a man—I don’t think I’ll ever take another breath.

I find the courage to look up into his face as he approaches, and I completely lose the ability to process intelligent thought. His features are severe and angular, from the intensity of his dark, slanted eyes to the gold hoop threaded through his slender nose. The only word to describe his lips is sensual. And his tanned, golden skin speaks of foreign roots—maybe South American.

He’s exotic and enticing and terrifying as hell. And everything that my husband isn’t.

Just as the thought seizes me with a jolt of guilt, Ransom Reed is right in front of me, making his way to the stage where nearly twenty thousand fans are screaming his name. He turns to look directly at me, a smirk on those lips that were designed for kissing a woman’s most intimate parts, and he winks. Then all I can do is watch him disappear from sight as I try to remember how to inhale oxygen again.

“Taller than he looks on TV, huh?”

The sound of Tucker’s voice nearly makes me choke on the electrified air. Seeing me flounder for words, he offers me an ice-cold bottle of water, which I gladly accept and drain in thirty seconds flat.

“Yeah, he is,” I shout over the raucous screams and cheers of adoring fans. The band is hyping up the crowd, thanking them for coming to the last stop on the Hostage tour, which incidentally is being filmed for HBO.

“Your face is red. You all right, Bunny?” he shouts back.

I turn in the direction of the stage, my eyes trained on the lithe movements of Ransom Reed. The band goes into their opening number, a fast paced, sexy song about a man’s yearning for a woman that he shouldn’t have. Although Ransom sings to the crowd, I can hear him as if he were right beside me, whispering those lyrics in my ear. Singing in that raspy tone for an audience of one.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just fine,” I finally remember to answer.

I know that after tonight, I’ll never be just fine again.

Chapter Three

Somewhere between me losing my composure and Caleb escorting us to Ransom Reed’s dressing room, there was a concert. I know it was amazing—evidently Ransom brought the house down with their best show yet—but I couldn’t tell you what songs they performed or how many bras were thrown at their feet. Honestly, I can’t even remember my own name.

What happened out on that stage was no concert. It was no simple, rehearsed performance. Every note was a raspy moan on the back of his throat. Every lyric was a threat of pain, violence, and pleasure so deep and fulfilling, it should be illegal. And every movement of his hips was a jolt of adrenaline straight into my core.

Yet, even with concentrated sex racing through his veins, his songs were about so much more than the physical. I felt pain in his words. Loneliness, heartbreak, joy, fear. I listened to his life story and lived within the sultry timbre of his voice.

Ransom Reed is no singer. He’s a magician. And his greatest trick of all is hypnotizing the masses with the tip of his golden tongue.

I anxiously pace the floor, awaiting his arrival. I can feel Tucker’s eyes on me—he’s never seen me this nervous to meet a potential client before. Even Caleb couldn’t stop giving me the side eye at my jittery behavior.

“Just relax, babe. He’d be a fool not to hire you,” Tuck assures me, using that soothing shrink voice reserved for his patients.

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” I confess. He raises an inquisitive brow but doesn’t press for more. He doesn’t want to hear that I’m worried that Ransom will hire me.

“You know you don’t need to do this,” he says, leaving his spot on the leather couch and coming to stand before me. He gently grasps my shoulders to halt my incessant pacing and levels his eyes with mine. “You don’t need him. Hell, with the client list you already have, you’re already too busy. Taking on another client, especially a musician, will only ensure that we never see each other.”

I know he’s right, but I don’t have the nerve to tell him so. Tucker is always right—he’s always the voice of reason. And being married to someone who is always right makes you realize just how wrong you always are.

The dressing room door opens, unleashing a barrage of voices battling to be heard. Although Tucker’s body is blocking my view, I can clearly hear what sounds to be an entertainment reporter, asking for Ransom’s thoughts on the end of the Hostage tour.

“The whole experience has been absolutely incredible,” he answers, the smoothness of his speech completely contrasting the almost rugged rawness of his singing voice. “And to end it here in New York City is the icing on the cake.”