Page 1 of The Rebel with Broken Strings
Prologue
The hotel room, bathed in amber light, revealed rumpled sheets and discarded clothing. Gunner Woods sat on the edge of the unmade bed, his shirt hanging open. His fingers clutched the edge of the mattress, knuckles white against the dark blue sheets, while warmth spread through his chest—a feeling so intense it blurred the line between pleasure and pain.
Aubrey Hale, a woman he’d only met five days ago, knelt before him on the carpeted floor, her blond hair catching the light from the bedside lamp. Her hands gently ran up his thighs—a strange moment of tenderness in the midst of what they were doing. The contradiction of it made his throat tighten. Her mouth, meanwhile, moved with deliberate purpose over his throbbing cock, drawing a low groan from deep within him.
“Just like that,” he murmured, his drawl thickened by desire. “Darlin’, just like that.”
His hand found its way to her hair, fingers threading through the silky strands. He didn’t guide her, didn’t need to. Aubrey knew exactly what she was doing.
“Christ,” he whispered, watching the gentle rise and fall of her head, the occasional flash of blue when she looked up to gauge his reaction. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
She hummed against him, the vibration making his toes curl inside his boots—the only article of clothing he still wore besides his unbuttoned shirt.
The hotel room had been Aubrey’s idea. “Neutral territory,” she’d called it, texting him the room number after his show tonight. He’d been surprised—their previous encounters had always happened on his turf, like they were following some unspoken rule. First in his tour bus in Atlanta, then in the temporary apartment he’d rented because he couldn’t get enough of her. But tonight, something had shifted between them.
Maybe something had changed in him.
Her hands slid up his thighs, pressing into the muscle as she took him deeper. His head fell back, eyes closing as the sensation overwhelmed him. Behind his eyelids, he saw flashes of their first night together in Atlanta—her eyes meeting his while she stood in the crowd, singing to his song. He’d had security bring her backstage after that. Those eyes… They haunted him. He needed to know the soul behind them.
He remembered how she’d lingered that first night, how conversation had flowed like good whiskey, smooth with just enough burn. He’d invited her onto his tour bus, half expecting rejection.
But she’d surprised him. Just as she surprised him now, pulling back slightly to look up at him.
“You’re thinking too much,” she said, her voice husky. Her lips shined in the low light, slightly swollen. “I can tell.”
He managed a strained laugh. “Hard to think at all with what you’re doing.”
“Liar.” She pressed a kiss to his inner thigh, the gesture surprisingly tender. “You’re always composing something in that head of yours. I can see it in your eyes.”
She was right. Even now, lyrics were forming—fragments about hotel rooms and whiskey glasses, about a woman whose touch felt like coming home even when home is the last place he deserved to be.
“Just thinking about how this wasn’t exactly what I expected when you texted,” he admitted.
A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Disappointed?”
“Christ, no.” His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing her lower lip.
Aubrey sat back on her heels, considering him. In the gap between them, the air felt charged, weighted with unspoken complications. She rose slightly, bringing her face level with his. Her eyes—those expressive blue eyes that give away more than she thought—searched his. “I came here tonight because I wanted to stop pretending.”
“Pretending what?” he dared to ask.
“That this is just physical between us. That I don’t think about you when you’re not around.” She pressed her forehead against his, her breath warm against his lips. “That I’m not scared of what you make me feel, even though we have known each other less than a week.”
The confession hit him like a shot of pure oxygen—dizzying and essential. His hands cupped her face, and he kissed her with all the desperation he normally poured into his music. She tasted like the whiskey they’d shared at the bar and something uniquely Aubrey—something that reminded him of possibility. And none of it made any sense. How could they be this connected after such a short time?
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Aubrey slid back down to her knees. But there was a difference now—a shift in the atmosphere. This wasn’t just about physical release anymore. It was about connection. About surrendering.
Gunner watched her, committing every detail to memory—the way her hair fell forward over her shoulder, the determined set of her jaw, the gentle strength in her hands. She was beautiful in a way that made his chest ache, in a way he knew he didn’t deserve after all the mistakes he’d made.
But Aubrey didn’t see him as the famous country star struggling with sobriety. When she looked at him, he felt like the man he wished he could be—someone worthy of a woman like her. Because Aubrey didn’t know the shake of his hand wasn’t from control, but from his need for another fix.
Her mouth engulfed him again, and he lost himself in the sensation. His fingers tangled in her hair, not guiding but connecting, needing the anchor of her as pleasure built at the base of his spine. She pressed against his stomach, steadying him as she increased her pace. Her other hand worked in rhythm with her mouth, creating a force that drove him to the edge faster than he’d like.
“Aubrey,” he warned, his voice strained. “Darlin’, I’m close.”
She made no move to pull away. Instead, her eyes locked with his, and the raw intimacy in that gaze—the acceptance, the want—threatened his control. His body tensed, and he pulled away before she could finish him.
“Come here,” he said, voice rough.
