Danny O’Donaghue.
Indie rock god.
Lady killer.
The devil with midnight hair and blue-flame eyes.
After six years I thought the pain of what he’d done to me had faded.
Guess not.
Because I’m standing in this crowded lecture hall of the most prestigious music school in Ireland, staring at the person who healed me when I was broken. Right before he shattered me beyond repair.
And I still feel everything.
My ex-best friend.
My first love.
My tormentor.
…is now my professor.
Indie rock god.
Lady killer.
The devil with midnight hair and blue-flame eyes.
After six years I thought the pain of what he’d done to me had faded.
Guess not.
Because I’m standing in this crowded lecture hall of the most prestigious music school in Ireland, staring at the person who healed me when I was broken. Right before he shattered me beyond repair.
And I still feel everything.
My ex-best friend.
My first love.
My tormentor.
…is now my professor.
“Why do you hate me so much?” I demanded. “We used to be…friends. Best friends.”
More than friends.
I swallowed as the tender memories rose up in my mind, pricking the backs of my eyelids. “Why pick on me?”
I thought I saw a flash of pain in his eyes before it was smothered by a smirk. “I like to watch you squirm. You go all red in the face like a tomato when you get mad.”
That’s why he called me Dearg. Because of the way I blushed with my body. The way my pale skin was like a mood ring, broadcasting my anger, my embarrassment, my arousal.
“Why start that rumor?”
“Hypothetically,” he continued, “even if I was the one who started that rumor, you should be thanking me.”
“Thanking you?” My eyes almost bulged out of my head. I shoved at his chest. The asshole barely moved. I barely made a dent in his rock-hard muscles.
I was going to punch him, right there in his precious rock star junk. He better not want kids one day.
“You are fucking delusional.” I shoved him again.
This time he caught my wrist and spun me around, slamming me up against one of the lockers. The air whooshed out of me and not just because he was crushing me between the lockers and his hard body.
“Yeah, Dearg, you should be on your fucking knees thanking me with that pretty little mouth of yours around my dick.”
God. The sheer crudeness of his words. It should make me cringe. To slap him across the face. Instead, everything in my lower belly ached, my lips parted and all I could do was blink up at him.
“The pool for your v-card has been cancelled,” he continued. “That cunt will leave you alone now instead of trying like a fucking chump to pretend to be a good boyfriend while just wanting to get in your panties for money and bragging rights. So, yeah, you should be fucking thanking me.”
“You’re trying to tell me that you told everyone I was a god damn lesbian to help me?”
His lip lifted up. “Yeah. Say thank you.”
He shifted back, just an inch of space, just enough to allow him to drop his towel. He dropped it. Right in front of me. No shame.
I glanced down before I could stop myself, half mortified, half curiosity raging like a storm.
His dick was hard. Long and thick and…perfect.
“Go on, Dearg. What are you going to do with it?” he taunted in a low voice.
“I…”
Grab it.
Lick it.
Suck it.
Pull it inside me.
His arms came up beside my head and he leaned in, trapping me, his hard cock hot and hard against my belly. Dear God. I was going to combust. Or pass out from lack of oxygen.
“Or,” his lips traced my cheekbone, sending hot and cold shivers throughout my body, “maybe you really are a lesbian.”
Rage flooded over me, temporarily overriding lust. I shoved him back with both hands and he stepped back laughing.
Bastard. He didn’t want me. He was taunting me. Teasing me. Pushing me to breaking point.
He almost won.
And I almost gave in.
Stupid me, I almost gave in.
Sienna Blake is a storyteller & inkslnger, wordspinner of love stories with grit, and alter ego of a USA Today Bestselling Author.
She loves all things that make her heart race — rollercoasters, thrillers and rowdy unrestrained sex. She likes to explore the darker side of human nature in her writing.
If she told you who she really was, she’d have to kill you. Because of her passion for crime and forensics, she’d totally get away with your murder.
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