Prologue When I woke it was dark outside, and I was snuggled in Sculpt’s arms, sitting between his legs, his lean, hard body draped around me. His fingers slowly stroked my outer thigh while his other hand rested on my abdomen, one finger circling my belly button. I turned to look up at him over my shoulder. He was staring out across the moonlit field, observing the horses in the distance. “Eme.” He leaned into me further and kissed the side of my neck. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep. It must have been your sexy, raspy voice.” I cuddled closer, and his arm tightened. “Did you finish the song?” His guitar lay in its case next to us. “Yeah, Mouse. It’s good.” I sat up, excited for him. He’d told me last week that he hadn’t written anything for the band in a year. I had yet to see them play, and I was excited to hear them, but nervous too. I mean, Sculpt was six foot three and all muscle. He has what I call sexy bedroom hair, always a little messy with the odd lazy curl that falls over his face. And he had ink running down his left arm to his elbow, which made the hot a scary, badass hot. Then put in that fact that he was in a band and did some illegal underground fighting ...