DANDY SASS AND A SEX GOD

“Olivia Natalie Whitely.”

Her grandfather’s tone said it all. The same one he’d used when he found her crayons at the bottom of that poor budgie’s cage.

Oh, this was bad.

That voice only ever showed up in moments of sheer catastrophe.

“Please go back to my subconscious and let me sleep this off,” Olly groaned as the room tilted. “It won’t happen again—ugh.”

Except it absolutely would happen again—because somewhere along her timeline, she always got the urge to be “normal” instead of “authentic and eccentric.”

Olly was a creature of habit—and proud of it.

6 a.m. runs. Quick showers. No-sugar muesli.

All while listening to the local radio station’s 80s hits hour, where she complained every single morning that they never played Templar Tantrum.

Not… this.

Surely the potted plant on the way to the ladies' room had taken the brunt of her drinks—and would’ve revealed any hidden extras?

Right?

Olly wasn’t like the rest of her book club peers and was often teased for watching the news at ten with a hot chocolate and a word search. That was the thing about the ridiculously titled Bookworm Bitches—they loved their nights out, and wrote it in the membership rules that no member could refuse a fifth time.

It was supposed to be a civilized night.

A theatre trip.

Something classy, as per clause 3a in the rule book.

Then the damn show got cancelled.

Half an hour before it was meant to start.

Somehow—through the questionable logic of prosecco-fueled peer pressure—this meant going to The Rusted Halo instead.

Not just any rock bar.

The infamous rock bar, where independent record labels hunted for the next big sound.

Sticky floors. Purple neon haze. Blood red steps.

And him.

Piercing blue eyes behind Clark Kent glasses.

Olly could recall the small stage sitting empty, waiting for the band that was currently stuck on the M1. The twitchy guy in a business suit, pacing near the bar, swearing down his phone at a roadie or mechanic, demanding to know how much longer it would take as a London label sniffed around, ready to take some lucky unknowns back to the capital.

Her head throbbed. Her mouth felt like it had been lined with sandpaper.

Worst of all?

The sheets beneath her were too soft.

The air smelled too unfamiliar—a mix of faded cologne, old leather, and something vaguely sinful.

Olly’s pulse skittered.

She forced her eyes open—just a crack—praying she was still in her own bed.

She wasn’t.

A tattooed arm was draped across her stomach.

Her breath caught.

Warmth. Solid warmth. Male warmth.

Slowly—so, so slowly—Olly turned her head.

And there he was.

Rhett Fucking Black.

The lead singer of Templar Tantrum.

The man who had single-handedly triggered her puberty at twelve and haunted her horniest dreams well into college.

The same man who was currently in bed beside her, half-naked, and smirking like he owned the damn world.

Olly.exe stopped working.

She made a sound—part gasp, part shriek, part dying fax machine—and then she fell.

Right off the bed.

Hitting the floor in a crumpled heap.

“You are falling for me already, sweetheart?” Rhett’s laugh was unfairly attractive.

Olly lay there, staring at the ceiling.

Dignity in tatters.

“I deeply regret any distress my drunken state may have caused,” she croaked, trying to remain level-headed.

“You mean to tell me you don’t remember anything about what you did last night?”

Slowly, very slowly, Olly dragged her eyes back to him.

“The things I did?”

Rhett stretched, looking like a man who planned to lounge and enjoy every second of her suffering.

“Oh, Olivia,” he murmured, grinning wickedly. “You weren’t this shy last night.”

Olly dared to glance down.

She wasn’t naked, but she wasn’t wearing her own clothes either.

She never wore dresses.

Olly upcycled everything—steampunk dandy was her vibe: high-waisted trousers, ruffled shirts, waistcoats, pocket watches, and cravats.

Yet here she was.

Drowning in an oversized, very male, very lived-in T-shirt.

Her breath caught.

Had Rhett Black—a literal sex god in human form—undressed her?

Had his hands been on her? Had he touched her body, slid this shirt over her head, felt her skin—

Heat licked up her spine. A mix of panic and something far more dangerous.

Olly had to ask. Had to know. But before she could get a word out—

“You had a run-in with Duke. My Great Dane.”

Rhett tilted his head toward the corner of the room.

Olly followed his gaze—and nearly screamed.

Sprawled across the floor, fast asleep, was a dog the size of a small horse.

Jowls. Massive paws. A tail that could knock over furniture and small children alike.

The Great Dane gave a deep, rumbling snore.

“That’s not a dog,” Olly gasped. “It’s freaking Jurassic Park. Does it eat lawyers off toilets?”

Rhett laughed—loud and real. “Only when they don’t bring him snacks first.”

“He liked you, by the way. A lot. Slobbered all over you. Full-face situation. You called it a ‘kiss from an angel.’”

Olly’s soul left her body. Her mouth, unfortunately, stayed.

“Oh my God.”

“Oh yeah.” Rhett grinned. “Then you tried to feed him your chips. From the paper they were wrapped in.”

Olly covered her face. “Tell me I didn’t do the Scooby voice.”

Rhett’s smirk widened.

“Raggy?”

Olly died. Right there on the spot.

“Please let the ground swallow me whole.”

She yanked the T-shirt away from her neck and sniffed it.

Faintly dog-scented. Duke-scented.

Her eyes snapped to Rhett. “Where are my clothes?”

He stretched—obscenely—before lazily gesturing to the corner of the room.

There they were.

A neat pile of regret.

Dried stains. Cravat stiff as cardboard.

She closed her eyes. Breathed deeply through her nose. Tried to channel inner peace.

It didn’t work.

“I loved that outfit.”

Rhett shrugged. “Duke loved it more.”

Olly glared. “Not helpful.”

“Not wrong, though.”

She grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at his stupid, smirking face.

Rhett had fast reflexes.

Unfortunately, Olly did not.

Because the next thing she knew—she was back on the floor, having tangled her foot in the duvet like a Victorian heroine meeting her tragic end.

Silence.

“You can’t stop falling for me, can you, sweetheart?”

Olly lay there, dignity in ruins—again.

Her soul was halfway to the afterlife.

“Oh sure,” she muttered, “but does it explain why you're posing like a Magic Mike tribute act? No. No, it does not.”

“You really need better friends,” Rhett said, lounging like a king. “Thank goodness I was there to save your ass. Golden rule to upgrading the drinking experience? Don’t. That was overlooked. Then they got wasted with no designated driver.”

Olly sat up, composed herself, and smoothed down the borrowed T-shirt like it was a ballgown.

“As I was saying, I deeply regret any distress my actions—drunk or drug-enhanced—may have caused.”

She met his gaze with the dignity of a woman who had absolutely not face-planted twice in five minutes.

Rhett was still propped up against the headboard, looking far too pleased with himself.

And—oh no.

No shirt.

Just boxers.

Boxers that sat low on his hips, revealing entirely too much tattooed skin—biceps, shoulders, a scar near his ribs, ink trailing down, down, disappearing beneath the waistband—

Rhett swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up.

This wasn’t fair.

How could this man possibly be seventy?

He looked better than most of the 40-somethings at her local gym straining to lift the lightest of weights.

Suddenly, Olly stopped thinking. Stopped breathing.

Rhett Black was a man in the morning.

A very… physically affected… morning.

Her eyes flicked down. Then snapped back up.

Too late. Rhett saw it.

His smirk returned with a vengeance.

“Something wrong, sweetheart?”

Olly opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

She tried again. “Put. Some. Pants. On.”

Rhett raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself.

“You see, I have this real problem with authority. I was such a bad boy at school.”

He moved closer. “So when someone tells me to put some pants on… I can’t help but do the exact opposite.”

He toyed with the waistband of his boxers.

A cool breeze brushed over her skin.

All of a sudden, she was far too aware of how thin this shirt was.

Rhett’s gaze dropped.

Not subtle.

Not apologetic.

His smirk was pure sin.

“Didn’t realize I had that effect on you.”

Olly arched an eyebrow, doing her best to play it cool.

“Your feedback really… stands out.”

Rhett’s smirk deepened.

“Then I couldn’t possibly—”

He paused, dragging it out on purpose, before ever so slowly slipping his boxers even lower.

And then, with zero shame, he let them drop completely.

Oh. Oh no.

Olly made an inhuman noise. A panicked, unholy noise. But she refused—absolutely refused—to lose this round.

Two can play that game, sweetheart.

With one last breath of sanity, she yanked the T-shirt over her head.

Silence.

Rhett’s smirk slipped.

Just for a second.

Just long enough for Olly to see it. Feel it.

But it was too late to stop now.

They were both naked.

And worse?

They were both aroused.

Rhett wasn’t laughing anymore.

Wasn’t teasing.

He was just… looking at her.

Heat settled thick between them.

This had been a power play. A game.

Except—it wasn’t anymore.

Rhett took a step forward.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God—

Run? Stay? Kiss him? Slap him? Do something, you coward!

Then—he said it.

“For goodness’ sake, I have loved you since you walked into the bar with your damn dandy sass.”

Olly blinked.

Her heart thudded against her ribs.

Without hesitation, she scoffed.

“Oh, hark at you with your declaration of love.”

Her eyes flashed with something wicked. Something defiant.

“Well, Sire, I have loved you since you burst onto that stage on TV. You matched my hyperness, and my God—your clothes. You obviously loved to dress up as much as I did.”

A beat.

A very long beat.

Rhett stared at her.

And then—

Her brain finally caught up with her mouth.

Olly’s eyes went wide.

Oh God. What did I just say?

I can’t say that! Why did I say that?!

She gasped, hands clapping over her mouth like she could somehow shove the words back in.

Rhett’s smirk returned—slow, deliberate, devastating.

He stepped closer, voice like gravel and sin.

“Oh, sweetheart. You really think I’m letting that go?”

Olly let out a very undignified squeak.

Rhett took that last step.

Too close. Too warm. Too much.

He was looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

Her stomach flipped.

Her breath hitched.

Her skin felt too hot, too tight, too alive.

Rhett’s fingers brushed a slow, deliberate pattern along her jaw. A sexy Morse code. A promise. A warning.

As his thumb teased her bottom lip open, everything short-circuited.

Olly stopped thinking.

And then—finally—he kissed her.

Slow.

Deep.

Like he’d been waiting forever.

Wanting her for longer.

Heat burned low in her stomach. Her fingers clenched at nothing.

His lips were warm, but the way he kissed her?

That was devastating.

He was savouring it.

Memorizing the shape of her mouth.

And Olly melted.