Billions of fans. One forbidden woman. And a voice I’d sell my soul to keep.
Lani Rhaye is the one line I swore I’d never cross.
She was supposed to be just another background singer—safe. Forgettable.
Then she stormed my stage, flashing that superstar smile that hides a lifetime of scars, and unleashed a voice so raw it hit me like a guitar riff to the chest.
Every curve, every look, screams take me.
Backstage, sparks explode. One kiss and stopping isn’t an option.
Now she’s in my studio. Sassy. Addictive. Almost half my age.
I’m wrecked for her.
