Quentin Carmody didn’t do early mornings, heights or bossy women.

As an ex-footballer, sometimes surfer and wannabe rock star, Quentin had been fucked by cheerleaders, surfer girls and groupies, but he had never, ever been fucked like that.

Quentin flicked a quick glance back at her again. Poppy. This girl had the wrong name. She should have been Rose. Great face, lots of prickles.

Ten looked confounded that anyone would consider the world’s most slavishly adored hot beverage in such a way. Julia felt momentarily sorry for him. He seemed like a guy who’d had it all figured out – join a band and get himself laid every night of the week. Living the dream.
He had no fucking clue what was ahead of him.

Quentin had told Spike that inking ‘percussion’ across your
knuckles was kind of lame. It takes more than ten letters to make
a badass knuckle tattoo. That was the problem with drummers.
They didn’t listen. But they always seemed to get laid anyway.

He shook his head at her question. Did women really think men cared about that stuff? Did he care if she did this all the time? Definitely, definitely not. He could honestly say he did not give a flying fuck whether this girl dragged guys home every other day to have her way with them for seven hours. He was just glad as hell she’d decided to do it with him. Today. And hopefully maybe again. Sometime.