Meet bad boy rocker Wyatt in Fade Into You!
This new rock star romance by Tracy Wolff is NOW LIVE!
Fade into You (Shaken Dirty #3)
by Tracy Wolff
Published February 15th 2016
She’s one addiction he can’t resist.
Wyatt Jennings has been called a lot of things by the media. Bad-boy rocker. Intense drummer. Addict.
Finally out of rehab and desperate for a fresh start, Wyatt rejoins his mega-platinum rock band Shaken Dirty as they prepare for their world tour. But Wyatt’s demons are never far behind, always nipping at his heels for one. More. Fix.
Enter Poppy Germaine, the band’s new social media consultant. A beautiful bombshell who somehow manages to get underneath Wyatt’s skin, Poppy’s an addiction Wyatt can get behind. And even though she’s with the label—and therefore off-limits—he craves her. Needs her.
Except Poppy isn’t actually a social media consultant. She’s the daughter of the label’s CEO, sent undercover to babysit Wyatt and keep him from falling off the wagon again. Proving herself to her father is Poppy’s only goal—until she finds herself in Wyatt’s bed. But if Wyatt discovers the truth, it could send him spiraling all over again…
She shouldn’t be doing this. She absolutely shouldn’t be doing this.
Every argument Poppy had given herself in the last three days—and especially the last thirty minutes, since Wyatt quit the band—went round and round in her head as she slid her hands around to cup Wyatt’s ass so that she could take him deeper.
She ignored them all—every argument, every worry, every consequence she knew would come from this—and concentrated instead on giving him as much pleasure as he’d given her. On making him feel as good as he made her feel.
Doing this was stupid; she knew it with every fiber of her being. Bad for her job, bad for her future, and—she was beginning to be more than a little afraid—bad for her heart. But how could she not give him this after seeing the vulnerability in his eyes?
How could she not take him inside of herself when that one glimpse had let her see just how lost he felt? How desperately he wanted, needed, to connect with someone?
She would be that someone.
Not because of her job, not because of her ambitions or the label or any of the reasons why she’d come here. But because of Wyatt. Because of the way he touched her, the way he held her, the way—three times now—he was so determined to give her pleasure when the other guys she’d known had always only been out for themselves.
She wanted to make him feel good so badly, to get him outside of his head for a little while and show him that he was worth it. That after the hell he’d been through he deserved all the pleasure he could take. All the pleasure she could give him.
And so she sucked him deeper still, and as she did, she scratched her nails over the flat, muscled plane of his abdomen. Down his perfectly defined V-cut. Along the light happy trail that led from his navel to his groin. He was beautiful, so fucking beautiful, his skin pale, his hair soft and silky, his muscles long and lean.
For a moment, just a moment, she thought about how he’d gotten this lean, this toned, this hard. Thought of the drugs and the horrors of withdrawal and the hours he must have spent exercising just to keep from going out of his mind. It didn’t turn her off, didn’t make her feel sorry for him, though it did make her feel for him. As did the still fading track marks she could see ghosting along the veins that ran on the outside of his hips.
She wanted to touch them, to lick her way along them in an effort to soothe away all the hurt and ugliness they represented. But something deep inside warned her it would ruin everything if she did, and so she settled on letting him slip out of her mouth so she could press hot, open-mouthed kisses on first one hip and then the other. And if her heart broke just a little at all the pain he had suffered, well then, nobody had to know that but her.
Wyatt groaned, his hands fisting in her hair as she pushed his T-shirt up and out of the way so that she could see, touch, taste more of him.
She skimmed her way across his stomach, kissing every inch of exposed skin she could get her lips on. But then the shirt fell down, covering him up again, and she made a sound of frustration deep in her throat. She hadn’t been able to see him in that alley the other night. She wasn’t about to let that happen here.
He must have recognized the source of her frustration—or maybe he just wanted the shirt gone as much as she did. Either way, it took only a second for Wyatt to rip the offending garment over his head and drop it on the ground next to her torn panties. As he did, the muscles of his chest and stomach flexed and bunched, and it was all she could do to keep her tongue in her mouth.
Because, dear God, the man was sporting the first ten pack she had ever seen up close and personal. Hell, it was the only ten pack she’d ever seen, period. She knew drummers were ripped, knew they used their core more than pretty much any other musicians out there, but still. Wyatt had been toned when he’d gone to rehab. Now…now he looked like a god.
The marketing expert in her couldn’t wait to see what Tumblr had to say about this new development, while the rest of her just wanted to get her hands—and mouth—on him.
Every argument Poppy had given herself in the last three days—and especially the last thirty minutes, since Wyatt quit the band—went round and round in her head as she slid her hands around to cup Wyatt’s ass so that she could take him deeper.
She ignored them all—every argument, every worry, every consequence she knew would come from this—and concentrated instead on giving him as much pleasure as he’d given her. On making him feel as good as he made her feel.
Doing this was stupid; she knew it with every fiber of her being. Bad for her job, bad for her future, and—she was beginning to be more than a little afraid—bad for her heart. But how could she not give him this after seeing the vulnerability in his eyes?
How could she not take him inside of herself when that one glimpse had let her see just how lost he felt? How desperately he wanted, needed, to connect with someone?
She would be that someone.
Not because of her job, not because of her ambitions or the label or any of the reasons why she’d come here. But because of Wyatt. Because of the way he touched her, the way he held her, the way—three times now—he was so determined to give her pleasure when the other guys she’d known had always only been out for themselves.
She wanted to make him feel good so badly, to get him outside of his head for a little while and show him that he was worth it. That after the hell he’d been through he deserved all the pleasure he could take. All the pleasure she could give him.
And so she sucked him deeper still, and as she did, she scratched her nails over the flat, muscled plane of his abdomen. Down his perfectly defined V-cut. Along the light happy trail that led from his navel to his groin. He was beautiful, so fucking beautiful, his skin pale, his hair soft and silky, his muscles long and lean.
For a moment, just a moment, she thought about how he’d gotten this lean, this toned, this hard. Thought of the drugs and the horrors of withdrawal and the hours he must have spent exercising just to keep from going out of his mind. It didn’t turn her off, didn’t make her feel sorry for him, though it did make her feel for him. As did the still fading track marks she could see ghosting along the veins that ran on the outside of his hips.
She wanted to touch them, to lick her way along them in an effort to soothe away all the hurt and ugliness they represented. But something deep inside warned her it would ruin everything if she did, and so she settled on letting him slip out of her mouth so she could press hot, open-mouthed kisses on first one hip and then the other. And if her heart broke just a little at all the pain he had suffered, well then, nobody had to know that but her.
Wyatt groaned, his hands fisting in her hair as she pushed his T-shirt up and out of the way so that she could see, touch, taste more of him.
She skimmed her way across his stomach, kissing every inch of exposed skin she could get her lips on. But then the shirt fell down, covering him up again, and she made a sound of frustration deep in her throat. She hadn’t been able to see him in that alley the other night. She wasn’t about to let that happen here.
He must have recognized the source of her frustration—or maybe he just wanted the shirt gone as much as she did. Either way, it took only a second for Wyatt to rip the offending garment over his head and drop it on the ground next to her torn panties. As he did, the muscles of his chest and stomach flexed and bunched, and it was all she could do to keep her tongue in her mouth.
Because, dear God, the man was sporting the first ten pack she had ever seen up close and personal. Hell, it was the only ten pack she’d ever seen, period. She knew drummers were ripped, knew they used their core more than pretty much any other musicians out there, but still. Wyatt had been toned when he’d gone to rehab. Now…now he looked like a god.
The marketing expert in her couldn’t wait to see what Tumblr had to say about this new development, while the rest of her just wanted to get her hands—and mouth—on him.
Don't miss a page of the Shaken Dirty series!
About the Author
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author Tracy Wolff collects books, English degrees and lipsticks and has been known to forget where--and sometimes who--she is when immersed in a great novel. At six she wrote her first short story--something with a rainbow and a prince--and at seven she forayed into the wonderful world of girls lit with her first Judy Blume novel. By ten she'd read everything in the young adult and classics sections of her local bookstore, so in desperation her mom started her on romance novels. And from the first page of the first book, Tracy knew she'd found her life-long love. Now an English professor at her local community college, she writes contemporary romance and erotic romance as Tracy Wolff, paranormal romance and urban fantasy as Tessa Adams and young adult novels as Tracy Deebs.
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