Page 39 of Craving Oblivion

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This is not the end of Nash and Aya’s story. Keep reading in SULTRY OBLIVION.

The boy I fell for was my superstar. Now, he's a rock legend.

Their love turned into a media circus.

When the paparazzi hounds Aya Aldringham’s and Nash Porter’s every move, their reconnection brings out the claws—not just from bloggers and fans but within Nash’s band. As Nash and Aya fight for the time to reconnect, they also must contend with jealous rivals and Aya’s debilitating fear of the limelight.

Aya’s legacy may prove too much for Nash’s tentative ability to trust.Can their passionate love affair, one that’s playing out in the public eye, last?

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19

Sneak Peek of Sultry Oblivion

“I’m exhausted,” Aya said, rising to her feet. “I’ll head to a hotel and—”

“No, don’t.” Letting her out of my sight meant losing her. I clung to her hand. “Stay.”

She blinked at me.

“In the house, Ay. I have four bedrooms. Or you can have my room, and I’ll go to one of the others…”

She shook her head. “No way am I staying in your room.”

I frowned. “What’s wrong with my room? You’ve never even seen it.”

She fidgeted and turned away, her cheeks flaming. “This was a mistake.”

Anger washed over me.“What are you talking about? You’d throw what we could have away because of—”

She whirled to face me, her eyes wide, wild, and wet. My anger dissipated as I realized just how close she was to losing control. Whatever went through her mind when I mentioned my room hit her hard.

“I’ve had sex with one man in my life,” she snapped. “So you’ll have to forgive my disinterest in being one of your...thousands.” The last word dripped venom.

“What about Alistair?” Vicious jealousy clawed at me. Before I registered the action, my fist plowed through the painting and wall next to me. Probably a good thing I split the canvas first because the drywall still cut into my skin.

I heard Aya’s strangled gasp. But I stood with my back to her, chest heaving. I was losing her. “I’ve never had a woman in my bed. Here or anywhere else.”

“N-never?”

I yanked my hand from the wall, gritting my teeth against the throbbing in my knuckles. “Never. If it couldn’t be you…”

I dropped my gaze to my feet. Bits of plaster dotted my feet. I frowned. I’d thought I’d bared my soul to her already. I knew other men had held her, kissed and caressed her.

Fuck. I hated them. My hands clenched, but the ache radiating up my arm kept me from punching the wall again.

“But our last time together…” She trailed off. “That was years ago.”

“And as much as I hate that memory, I love it, too. Because I was with you.”

I worried, belatedly, that I’d broken my hand. I ran my other hand down my face as I forced my feet to shuffle around. I faced her. “I freaked out after you told me you loved me,” I said. “Each time, I had these panic attacks even as I waited, desperate to hear you say it.”

She kept her gaze trained on me. I moved toward the kitchen. Regardless of the extent of my hand’s injury, ice would help. I tugged a dishcloth from the drawer and threw it over my shoulder as I continued to the huge, glass-fronted freezer unit. I opened the door with my good hand and pulled out a bag of peas. After some finagling, I managed to wrap the peas in the towel and set it over my swollen hand.

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