by: Naima Simone
Series: Love on the Radio
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: September 26, 2023
Publisher: Oliver Heber Books
I’m no one’s knight in shining armor. My weapons of choice are my drumsticks and my di—Yeah, you get what I’m saying.
Yet, here I am, riding to the rescue to save Lena Graves from an ugly confrontation with her a-hole ex. It’s not like I’ve given the little secretary, who happens to be the friend of my best friend’s girl, much thought. But I’m not going to stand by and let her be disrespected either. And when she thanks me by sinking to her knees in the club bathroom? Well, I don’t stop her.
I did mention I’m no one’s hero, right?
Now, my mother is demanding I return home for my parents’ anniversary party, and I might be the drummer of the world’s hottest rock band, but I can’t say no to her. But damn if I’m showing up alone—especially when my brother will be there with the woman I was supposed to marry once upon a time.
It’s Lena’s turn to do me a solid, and when she grudgingly agrees to come with me, problem is solved. Though we shared a nuclear hot encounter that is permanently branded on my mind, she’s the perfect woman to be my fake girlfriend. Lena knows this is pretend and won’t expect anything more at the end of this.
But being in such close proximity to her…sharing her space…breathing in her sweet scent…touching her thick, curvy body… This ruse requires me to act as if I’m gone over this woman. But this pretense is stirring something all too real inside me. And at the end, we’re going our separate ways. Or maybe it’ll be me begging her to please, don’t go…
This isn’t happening.
This isn’t fucking happening.
It’s not possible that I’m hours away from home and I run into my asshole of an ex-boyfriend.
All of the tension I’d just released rushes back in like a flood, dousing me in the insecurity, hurt and anger I’ve hoarded like a jealous dragon. It’s been months since Ben dumped me, and yet the powerlessness and confusion still linger and clings to me like mold.
A hand squeezes mine, and I glance down at Lennon’s fingers still clasped tightly around mine as if it’s my first time noticing it. Lifting my gaze to hers, I focus on the fierce frown darkening her beautiful face, and I study it, desperately clinging to it. In this moment, it’s my lifeline, the only thing saving me from drowning in the toxic emotions threatening to tug me under.
Lennon jerks her chin up, silently asking me if I was okay. I force my head to dip in in a nod, and she jerks around to face Ben, not bothering to disguise her disgust with him.
“Lena?” His gaze scans over me, and his lip curves at the corner as if my gold, strapless bandage dress and stiletto heels are obscene and personally offends his sensibilities. Sadly, this expression is nothing new to me—the expression or the derision. “What’re you doing here?” he sneers.
“Don’t talk to her.” Lennon steps forward, partially blocking his view of me. “Better yet, if you have anything to say why not write it in a letter. I’ve heard you’re really good at that,” she snaps, referring to the Dear John letter he left on my dining room table, informing me that he was through with me and our relationship.
Fucking coward.
Ben’s glare shifts from Lennon to me, his anger like a physical touch, and I shudder at the touch of it. Hating it. Part of me can’t believe I ever let this mu’fucka put his hands on me, much less allow him inside my body.
But then there’s the other part that peruses my boyfriend choices in the past, and well, yeah. That part of me totally accepts that I added Ben to my toxic list. It’s like if there’s an asshole, cheap douche or condescending prick within a five mile radius, I go hunt him down and jump on his cock with destructive and reckless abandon.
I’m truly my father’s daughter.
Only he was indiscriminate about pussy, not dick.
Speaking of dicks…
“I see you’re still running to your little friend with our business,” Ben says to me, ignoring Lennon. “Nothing’s changed, I see.”
I stiffen and my own eyes narrow as anger surges inside me, incinerating the other emotions to ash. Hold the fuck up. Denigrating me is one thing. But my girl? Fuck that.
“Little friend?” I snort and roll my eyes. “Yeah, nothing’s changed, Ben. You’re still the pretentious, patronizing asshole you’ve always been.”
His nostrils flare, and his lips tighten into a flat, forbidding line. But before he can come back at me—and this is Ben, he will definitely snap back—a pretty woman slides in closer to him, pressing her impressive breasts to his arm.
“Babe,” she practically coos, her long, dark, bone straight hair, falling over her slim shoulder as she tips her head back and gazes up at him through impossibly long lashes. “Are you going to introduce me?”
A pang of hurt stabs me in the chest, and goddamn, I want to tear my heart out and fling it across the club. It’s a foolish thing that has brought me nothing but pain, and it can’t fucking read. A. Room.
This man has discarded and disrespected me. I shouldn’t give a fuck if he’s with Pennywise the Clown much less another woman. But…I do. I care. Because once again, it proves how expendable and unloved I was—I am.
Tears prick my eyes, and it shouldn’t have been possible to loathe myself more in this moment, but apparently, I’m plumbing new depths.
“Corrine, this is Lena.” He pauses, and though he’s talking to her, his voice easily carries to me. Because it’s meant for me to hear. “She’s the one I was telling you about.”
A fist of pure humiliation slams into my chest, and when a smile comprised of both pity and disgust curves Corrine’s mouth, I can barely expel air from my lungs. I knew Ben was a douche, but what did I ever do to him to deserve his…cruelty? Right now, I begrudge my vivid imagination because it immediately provides crystal clear images of just what he’s said about me, how he’s portrayed me as some unstable, obsessed ex.
Fuck him.
No, fuck. Him.
Speak, dammit. Rip him a new hole to shit out of. Do something other than stand here, mute with tears burning your eyes.
I try to obey that vicious voice in my head that’s demanding Ben’s figurative blood, but I can’t move. Can’t speak. And when I part my lips, it’s only to drag in a trembling breath.
“The hell you mean the one you told her about?” Lennon snarls, fury quivering in her voice. She takes a step toward Ben and his new girlfriend. “You know what? You can fu—”
“What’s up, baby? You left the VIP area without me.” The question rumbles in my ear only seconds before a muscled pair of tattooed arms close around me and a hard chest presses to my back.
I should know that chest and those arms—I’ve stared at them enough over the years and up close and personal in the last few months. But no, it’s the gravel roughened, low voice that sounds as if it’s travelled over miles and miles of pitted road that clues me in to wrap me in a strong, strangely comforting embrace.
Without my permission, my muscles loosen, and I sink against Kade Gibson, allowing his big body to brace me. But then…hold the fuck up.
Baby?
He called me “baby.”
I frown, shock rippling through me in dissonant waves. Bloody Sunday’s drummer who I haven’t even held a full conversation with suddenly holding me and calling me by an endearment? Nope. The math ain’t mathing.
“What is—mmph.”
Oh my God.
Kade Gibson is kissing me.
That beautiful, carnal mouth that I’m slightly obsessed with possessed mine like he owned the title to it. And holy hell, I would sign everything over to him.
The shock ricocheting through me ebbed, and pure pleasure blazed a path through me. I locked down the moan that rappelled up my throat and tried to break free. I can’t lie and say I hadn’t imagined this man’s mouth on me. What it would feel like to have his cover mine, shape it to fit his. And now, as his tongue laps at my lips before slipping between and sweeping inside with a possessive stroke, demanding I meet him, engage with him, I can say with crystal clarity that imagination doesn’t compare to reality. It’s sooo much better.
That groan escapes me, and a big, calloused hand curves around my jaw, holding me still for a deeper claiming. And I’m helpless under the sensual onslaught… No, that’s not correct. Helpless implies I have no choice, no power. And this kiss, this tender but greedy fucking of my mouth is the hill I’m willing to die on.
With one last lick, he lifts his head, and damn, I chase his mouth. All shame and modesty crumbled to dust in the pursuit of one last taste of him. Those bright green eyes gleam from under hooded lids, and he obliges me, pecking my lips one last time before lowering his hand.
“Don’t you dare give this motherfucker your tears. He doesn’t deserve them, and he sure as fuck doesn’t get to see them,” Kade growls, low enough that his admonishment, as blistering as the kiss he just delivered, only reaches my ears.
This isn’t fucking happening.
It’s not possible that I’m hours away from home and I run into my asshole of an ex-boyfriend.
All of the tension I’d just released rushes back in like a flood, dousing me in the insecurity, hurt and anger I’ve hoarded like a jealous dragon. It’s been months since Ben dumped me, and yet the powerlessness and confusion still linger and clings to me like mold.
A hand squeezes mine, and I glance down at Lennon’s fingers still clasped tightly around mine as if it’s my first time noticing it. Lifting my gaze to hers, I focus on the fierce frown darkening her beautiful face, and I study it, desperately clinging to it. In this moment, it’s my lifeline, the only thing saving me from drowning in the toxic emotions threatening to tug me under.
Lennon jerks her chin up, silently asking me if I was okay. I force my head to dip in in a nod, and she jerks around to face Ben, not bothering to disguise her disgust with him.
“Lena?” His gaze scans over me, and his lip curves at the corner as if my gold, strapless bandage dress and stiletto heels are obscene and personally offends his sensibilities. Sadly, this expression is nothing new to me—the expression or the derision. “What’re you doing here?” he sneers.
“Don’t talk to her.” Lennon steps forward, partially blocking his view of me. “Better yet, if you have anything to say why not write it in a letter. I’ve heard you’re really good at that,” she snaps, referring to the Dear John letter he left on my dining room table, informing me that he was through with me and our relationship.
Fucking coward.
Ben’s glare shifts from Lennon to me, his anger like a physical touch, and I shudder at the touch of it. Hating it. Part of me can’t believe I ever let this mu’fucka put his hands on me, much less allow him inside my body.
But then there’s the other part that peruses my boyfriend choices in the past, and well, yeah. That part of me totally accepts that I added Ben to my toxic list. It’s like if there’s an asshole, cheap douche or condescending prick within a five mile radius, I go hunt him down and jump on his cock with destructive and reckless abandon.
I’m truly my father’s daughter.
Only he was indiscriminate about pussy, not dick.
Speaking of dicks…
“I see you’re still running to your little friend with our business,” Ben says to me, ignoring Lennon. “Nothing’s changed, I see.”
I stiffen and my own eyes narrow as anger surges inside me, incinerating the other emotions to ash. Hold the fuck up. Denigrating me is one thing. But my girl? Fuck that.
“Little friend?” I snort and roll my eyes. “Yeah, nothing’s changed, Ben. You’re still the pretentious, patronizing asshole you’ve always been.”
His nostrils flare, and his lips tighten into a flat, forbidding line. But before he can come back at me—and this is Ben, he will definitely snap back—a pretty woman slides in closer to him, pressing her impressive breasts to his arm.
“Babe,” she practically coos, her long, dark, bone straight hair, falling over her slim shoulder as she tips her head back and gazes up at him through impossibly long lashes. “Are you going to introduce me?”
A pang of hurt stabs me in the chest, and goddamn, I want to tear my heart out and fling it across the club. It’s a foolish thing that has brought me nothing but pain, and it can’t fucking read. A. Room.
This man has discarded and disrespected me. I shouldn’t give a fuck if he’s with Pennywise the Clown much less another woman. But…I do. I care. Because once again, it proves how expendable and unloved I was—I am.
Tears prick my eyes, and it shouldn’t have been possible to loathe myself more in this moment, but apparently, I’m plumbing new depths.
“Corrine, this is Lena.” He pauses, and though he’s talking to her, his voice easily carries to me. Because it’s meant for me to hear. “She’s the one I was telling you about.”
A fist of pure humiliation slams into my chest, and when a smile comprised of both pity and disgust curves Corrine’s mouth, I can barely expel air from my lungs. I knew Ben was a douche, but what did I ever do to him to deserve his…cruelty? Right now, I begrudge my vivid imagination because it immediately provides crystal clear images of just what he’s said about me, how he’s portrayed me as some unstable, obsessed ex.
Fuck him.
No, fuck. Him.
Speak, dammit. Rip him a new hole to shit out of. Do something other than stand here, mute with tears burning your eyes.
I try to obey that vicious voice in my head that’s demanding Ben’s figurative blood, but I can’t move. Can’t speak. And when I part my lips, it’s only to drag in a trembling breath.
“The hell you mean the one you told her about?” Lennon snarls, fury quivering in her voice. She takes a step toward Ben and his new girlfriend. “You know what? You can fu—”
“What’s up, baby? You left the VIP area without me.” The question rumbles in my ear only seconds before a muscled pair of tattooed arms close around me and a hard chest presses to my back.
I should know that chest and those arms—I’ve stared at them enough over the years and up close and personal in the last few months. But no, it’s the gravel roughened, low voice that sounds as if it’s travelled over miles and miles of pitted road that clues me in to wrap me in a strong, strangely comforting embrace.
Without my permission, my muscles loosen, and I sink against Kade Gibson, allowing his big body to brace me. But then…hold the fuck up.
Baby?
He called me “baby.”
I frown, shock rippling through me in dissonant waves. Bloody Sunday’s drummer who I haven’t even held a full conversation with suddenly holding me and calling me by an endearment? Nope. The math ain’t mathing.
“What is—mmph.”
Oh my God.
Kade Gibson is kissing me.
That beautiful, carnal mouth that I’m slightly obsessed with possessed mine like he owned the title to it. And holy hell, I would sign everything over to him.
The shock ricocheting through me ebbed, and pure pleasure blazed a path through me. I locked down the moan that rappelled up my throat and tried to break free. I can’t lie and say I hadn’t imagined this man’s mouth on me. What it would feel like to have his cover mine, shape it to fit his. And now, as his tongue laps at my lips before slipping between and sweeping inside with a possessive stroke, demanding I meet him, engage with him, I can say with crystal clarity that imagination doesn’t compare to reality. It’s sooo much better.
That groan escapes me, and a big, calloused hand curves around my jaw, holding me still for a deeper claiming. And I’m helpless under the sensual onslaught… No, that’s not correct. Helpless implies I have no choice, no power. And this kiss, this tender but greedy fucking of my mouth is the hill I’m willing to die on.
With one last lick, he lifts his head, and damn, I chase his mouth. All shame and modesty crumbled to dust in the pursuit of one last taste of him. Those bright green eyes gleam from under hooded lids, and he obliges me, pecking my lips one last time before lowering his hand.
“Don’t you dare give this motherfucker your tears. He doesn’t deserve them, and he sure as fuck doesn’t get to see them,” Kade growls, low enough that his admonishment, as blistering as the kiss he just delivered, only reaches my ears.
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Published since 2009, USA Today Bestselling author Naima Simone loves writing sizzling romances with heart, a touch of humor and snark. Her books have been featured in The Washington Post and Entertainment Weekly, and described as balancing “crackling, electric love scenes with exquisitely rendered characters caught in emotional turmoil.”
She is wife to Superman, or his non-Kryptonian, less bullet proof equivalent, and mother to the most awesome kids ever. They all live in perfect, sometimes domestically-challenged bliss in the southern United States.
Places to find Naima Simone:
Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Instagram | Amazon Author Page | Newsletter | Naima's Saints and Sinners
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