The Complete Rockstar Series

Was it fair to take my frustration out on him? No. But he was a damn convenient target.

I’m almost done with an article about the third and final installment of Ryker Bancroft’s Quantum Stranger trilogy, when the front door slams shut. I ignore it, assuming it’s one of the security staff. Heavy footsteps pound down the hall, stopping at the edge of the kitchen.

My fork is halfway to my mouth when I spot Mitch. Then, several things happen.

First, my cock instantly grows hard in my loose athletic pants.

Second, my eyes greedily devour every inch of his rugged, sexy body—from the top of his disheveled dark hair, to the ridiculous black T-shirt that says “Serial Killers Will Love You To Pieces” stretched sinfully tight over the broad muscles in his shoulders, down to the snug pair of dark-wash jeans that hug a mouthwatering bulge straining at his crotch.

Third, every bit of the anger and betrayal I’ve felt since Mitch turned tail and ran comes roaring back with a vengeance. My lip curls up and I drop the fork, ignoring the loud clatter it makes when it hits my plate. I shove back from the table and stalk over to stand inches away from a man I’d love to both hit and fuck, in no particular order.

Before can I give Mitch a piece of my mind, I glimpse the rage simmering behind those steely grey eyes. His jaw is clenched and his annoyingly mouthwatering body is strung as tight as a bow, rigid and unmovable.

We’ll see how unmovable he is.

Choking down the urge to punch Mitch in his smug face, I shoulder by, deliberately knocking him back a few steps. If I don’t get away from him, I’m going to explode with frustration, sexual or otherwise. I’m halfway up the stairs when I hear a low, rumbling growl behind me.

Fuck. He’s followin

g. Is it sick that I both wanted him to follow and prayed that he wouldn’t?

When I reach the threshold to my bedroom, I whip around, prepared to take a well-deserved fist to my jaw. Only Mitch isn’t expecting my abrupt turn and crashes into me. The collision sends us both stumbling into the room, me going down ass first with Mitch’s full weight knocking the wind out of my lungs in a loud huff.

“Motherfucker!” I wheeze, gasping for air. “Get the hell off of me, Hale!”

Mitch shifts and something happens. As he tries to right himself, his hips align with mine and twin hard-ons slide against each other through layers of clothing.

We both freeze. Mitch hovers over me, his hands on either side of my head. The angry expression isn’t completely gone, as proven by the tight line of his jaw. But those eyes, they tell another story altogether. Mitch is turned on.

And I can’t move.

Not because he’s heavy, which he is. I love the feel of a solid, muscular man on top of me. No, I can’t move because the way Mitch is looking at me, with a mixture of loathing and lust, I don’t know what to expect next.

“I hate you,” he snarls. Then he fists my shirt in one hand and crushes his mouth over mine.

That was not what I was expecting.

Mitch lets go of my shirt and drops his weight onto his elbows, allowing more of his body to slide against mine. Those wide, glorious pecs drag across my shirt, rubbing my sensitive nipples. A groan is pulled from deep inside my chest.

Unable to stop myself, I bring my arms up around Mitch’s waist and slide them down to grip two handfuls of round, rock hard ass. My hips instinctually lift to get better friction across our erections.

Mitch grunts into my mouth and grinds his own hips down against mine. He begins a slow, rhythmic rocking that quickly drives me out of my mind, pressure building in my groin. The entire time, our tongues slip and slide and duel for dominance.

With a gasp, Mitch breaks the best damn kiss of my life. Huge, black pupils surrounded by a sliver of grey stare down at me.

“I still fucking hate you,” Mitch growls.

I’m mesmerized by those swollen, red lips. Now that I know how they taste, and I mean really know, I want more. So much more.

“Then why are you kissing me?” I pant.

“I don’t know.”

Mitch attacks my mouth again. We come together in a messy clash of sharp teeth and velvet tongues. The hard length that grinds against mine has me moaning and writhing in minutes.

I want this so much. In fact, I’m this close to coming, but there’s no way I’m dealing with a shame-filled, closeted asshole that blames me afterwards. Been there, done that. No thanks.

I try to speak, but Mitch’s mouth never stops it’s sinful assault, so my voice comes out mumbled. “Shhttop.”