Rock god Noah Hart needs inspiration. And he's choosing me as his muse.
In my darkest days, I found solace in the words of rock star god Noah Hart. He saw into my heart. And I saw into his. Even though we'd never met, I felt as if I knew the man behind the music.
Then I met him.
Noah isn't a wounded poet.
He's a jerk.
He's abrasive, cutting, and guarded as hell. He says people are selfish. He says we're only out for ourselves. He refuses to trust. He refuses to let anyone in.
I'm supposed to be helping him write a song. I'm supposed to be his confidant.
But the only time we connect is when we take to his bed. Noah plays my body as skillfully as he plays the piano. He makes me feel things I've never dreamed of.
And that includes heartache.
The man behind the music is nothing like I imagined.
Who exactly is this Noah Hart I've met, and what the hell happened to my soulful, romantic poet?
Contains mature themes.
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