Free Bad Beats: A Rock-Star Step-Brother Romance by C.L. Riley Page A

in particular, there is no doubt Cadie O’Shea would be appalled by my behavior last night, not to mention, by my history of chemical excess.
    Following my rude dismissal, I’d acted recklessly and behaved foolishly―no surprise there. Normally it wouldn’t matter; but now, because of her, it does. It matters a lot.
    A vision of my debauchery reminds me why I am every kind of wrong for the woman staring expectantly at me. 
    With guilt tugging at my gut, and the image of Cadie O’Shea’s wounded expression harassing my heart, I enter my cabin and flip on the light, prepared to put all my new feelings of angst and frustration into a song for our next album. Guilt and remorse are not emotions I’m used to. I can’t remember the last time I felt either. Miss O’Shea is creating an avalanche of unfamiliar emotions and an abundance of musical inspiration.
    She’s also making me horny as fuck.
    Picturing her in that clingy dress with her luscious legs begging to be spread has my cock straining, ready to punch through my pants.  I can’t forget her breasts either. She’s a fucking bombshell…all those curves and that curly crimson hair. I’d give my right arm to see her ‘other’ curls, and I wonder if she waxes. I hope like hell she’s not bare down there. I need at least a landing strip to tease with my tongue.
    Cadie is, without argument, a sexy, sensuous woman. She might not be thin enough for Vogue’s cover, but she’s fucking perfect for me. I’ve seen what some of those models look like, and they’re too damn skinny. When I spank an ass, I want it to jiggle and shake.
    The thought of my palm print on Cadie’s round bottom forces me to adjust my cock.
    For some unfathomable reason, my mind makes a hasty and highly unanticipated detour, conjuring up Misty and her earlier comments. I can’t believe she called my Irish goddess fat.
    “Need some help with that?”
    Speaking of the curve-shaming she-devil. My PA is in my room and she wants to play.
    “Misty, I thought we talked about this. You can’t just let yourself in without…”
    I forget my rebuke as she glides toward me, dressed in some sexy-as-fuck lingerie that reveals her toned abs and pushes up her fake tits.
    So far, I’ve managed to keep my dick out of her pussy, convincing myself that oral sex with my employee isn’t as bad as fucking her would be. One former Commander and Chief seemed to agree, setting public precedence with his ‘sex free’ blowjobs, courtesy of a willing intern.
    At least I’m not the only man to take flack for my bad behavior, besides; I’m not a world leader, just a lead singer who loves to shag women. It comes with the territory. Rock-Stars are expected to behave badly. I wouldn’t want to let down my fans. 
    “You disappeared. Where were you?” Misty has the nerve to demand, like I owe her an explanation and reminding me that I sure as hell don’t love her.
    As it stands right now, I’m questioning if I even like her.
    I don’t bother with an answer, instead watching as she leans over the well-polished desk and dumps a pile of white powder on its shiny surface.
    This is not what I wanted.
    What I wanted was to smoke a little weed, drink a beer, and write a song about my woes, without any female interference. Thinking about Lila’s betrayal and feeling like an asshole over how I’d left Cadie stranded isn’t the best prelude to partying with a woman I am trying to keep my distance from.
    But… since the blow and the babe are already here, it would be a shame for them to go to waste. I’m only human, right? And who says I have to like her to party with her?
    An hour later, with Misty preparing to ride me like a cowgirl reversed, my cell buzzes, and buzzes…and buzzes.
    Huffing, she stops with the head of my cock teasing her entrance and grabs the phone, which happens to be by my feet. She glances at the screen. “It’s your mom.”
    My mom never calls this late, early, whatever you want to call the