Ménage à Music

By Lily Harlem

Most women would think themselves eternally lucky to have a hot, sinfully sexy rock star coming on to them—so imagine how I felt to find not one but two giving me the eye! I was turning somersaults.

But of course this led to a massive and, quite honestly, unenviable dilemma. How the heck do you choose between two rock gods who want nothing more than to give you pleasure of the extremely intense variety?

Lucky for me these global superstars were brothers who knew just how to share the same toy—sorry, I mean woman—and that left me free to take a break from managing the band and let their experienced, talented hands manage me.

This is a previously published work. It has been revised and edited for Evernight Publishing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Publishing
• Release date: Sep 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781773390147

Lily Harlem

Lily Harlem is an award winning, multi-published author of erotic romance and erotica. She lives in the UK and since giving up a career in nursing has been widely published on both sides of the Atlantic. Her stories are made up of colourful characters travelling on everyone's favourite journey, falling in love, and with the bedroom door left well and truly open readers are warned to hang on for the ride, or rides as the case might be.

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Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2016 Lily Harlem

ISBN: 978-1-77339-014-7

Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Editor: JS Cook

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

MÉNAGE À MUSIC

Rock Starz, 3

Lily Harlem

Copyright © 2016

Chapter One

Six months was long enough to nurse a broken heart. Long enough to fold inward and mope about what had been lost between Nick and me. And now, as the Christmas season approached, I’d taken a firm grip of myself and finally emerged from my black, fogged gloom.

It had started with a trip to a ludicrously priced hairdresser who’d cut my hair into a sharp, jaw-length bob and given me golden highlights. It suited me, my face was small, my pale blue eyes big, and exposing my neck made my petite frame more balanced. Next I’d gone on an Oxford Street shopping spree, flexed that plastic without worrying about the cost on a range of snazzy new clothes, luxurious toiletries and decadent makeup. I hadn’t shopped since I’d taken on the job of artist relations manager back in the summer, so my bank account coped admirably.

Robbie and Ian’s girls, Jenny and Nina, had hardly recognized me; neither did the guys from Manic Machines, when I walked into the studio after my days off.

Sylvia! Nina exclaimed, clasping her hands beneath her chin. You look amazing.

Yeah, Robbie agreed, eyeing me up and down. You been on holiday?

"No, just enjoying a bit of me time."

Well it looks like it’s done you a world of good, Jenny said, handing me a coffee. I love your hair.

I touched the ends of my bob and glanced at Tim and Dean Coltrane, the brothers in the band. They lolled side by side on a squidgy navy sofa and wore jeans and worn t-shirts. Their smoldering gazes lingered on me from beneath their matching heavy fringes. Tim seemed fascinated by my legs, which were covered in sheer black stockings, and Dean had his head cocked looking up into my face. I watched him shift in his seat and rub at the half-sleeve tattoo covering his right upper arm.

Thanks, Jenny, I said, taking the coffee. I took a sip and beat down a wave of intense pleasure at the way my new look had been received.

We’ve just started blending the last track on the album, Ian told me, leaning over a huge console crammed with sliding buttons and flashing lights.

Great, I said. And guess what… I paused and they all stared at me expectantly. "We got the Christmas Eve slot on The Claudia Tate Show."

Brilliant, Tim said with a grin. Well done.

Yeah, let’s hope Slip Knot is number one for Christmas then, Nina said, rubbing her hands together.

It will be, I said confidently, plonking down my briefcase. Sales are reaching record levels and it was only released three weeks ago.

****

Two weeks later, beneath the red and gold tinsel sprawling around the ceiling of the BBC’s green room, I sat with the band, Jenny and Nina, waiting for Manic Machines’ slot on The Claudia Tate Show. We’d all had a glass or two of rich mulled wine, even though I was officially working, and the atmosphere held just the right amount of the anticipation of prime time TV and the relaxed hum that Christmas Eve brought.

I sat on a straight-backed couch next to Tim. He was bulkier than his brother—I guessed it was from all that hammering he did on the drums—and each time he lifted his drink to his mouth the round ball of his shoulder brushed my thin red sweater. His wide thigh, encased in black jeans, the predominant color the band wore, was