The first three books in The New York Artists Series:
Summer of Irreverence: The Rock Star - https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01G46YMDO/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_ep_dp_0Zr5ybWVV7D1N
To Be or Not To Be: The Actors – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07919TXPP/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_ep_dp_.W7DAb49G5JBJ
The Risk of Happiness: The Punk Rocker - https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07LCXM2MP/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_ep_dp_tx-fCbBWFKS7F
Excerpt:
He starts. “I’m not angry at you. I just—”
“What, Cray. What?” I can’t contain my frustration anymore. I move toward him.
He throws his hands up and paces in a circle ahead of me. “I don’t know what to do to stay away from you.”
“Then don’t.”
He charges at me, backing me against the wall again, nearly knocking the wind out of me on impact. He rests one hand against the building and places the other on my cheek.
“Cray.” I’m hyperventilating as I nuzzle against his palm. It’s rough and callused and smells like turpentine and paint. “You feel so good.”
With a grunt, he pushes his body against mine, pinning me tight to the wall. He takes both of my hands and holds them high above my head, trapping me. He leans down over me.
“God, you are so fucking beautiful.”
He drops his head and kisses my neck. It tickles, but I’m focused on the ache in my already hard nipples. I lift a leg, wrapping it around his waist, dying for a release. He takes both of my arms in one hand and cradles my leg with the other, lifting it higher. He presses harder against me.
“No.” He drops my leg and releases my pinned hands. He steps back, jamming his hands into his slacks. “I—I can’t.”
My body aches, and I shudder. “Why not?”
“Because you’re a teenager, and I’m practically a forty-year-old man. I’m the adult here.” He walks a few feet farther away.
“So am I. And I’m giving you permission. Cray, I have wanted this—you—my entire life.”
“Oh God, don’t say that.” He looks at me, eyes blazing.
“Why not? Why can’t I tell you you’re the only man I’ve ever wanted?”
“Because you shouldn’t want any man. And no man should want you. You—You’re a child.”
“I’m not a child.” I walk toward him. “I’m old enough to vote, to go to jail, to…”
“Drink?”
I shrug.
“Be an age that doesn’t end in the word ‘teen’?” He shakes his head. “We have to go back.”
“Cray.” I place a hand on his forearm.
He looks at it and then at me, directly. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
I drop my hand, turn on my heels, and walk back to dinner.
I am a fan of Luna Bars, decaf coffee, yoga, Hemingway, and Bukowski—and the loves of my life are my husband and my two young girls.
For more about me and my books, and to find out what’s coming soon, please visit: www.CathrineGoldstein.com
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