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Share Me
One Night with Sole Regret 0.5
a prequel
by
Olivia Cunning
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author at
olivia@oliviacunning.com.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products
of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intentional.
For more information on the author and her works, please visit
www.oliviacunning.com.
Copyright 2012 Olivia Cunning
Published by Vulpine Press
Cover Design by Olivia Cunning
Cover Photo by Kostudio | Otto Kalman copyright 2010 from
www.depositphotos.com
Chapter One
The heavy bass guitar line that rumbled from the auditorium’s loud speakers caused Lindsey’s
entire body to throb. She’d been to several Sole Regret concerts at stadiums, so was painfully aware
that their local auditorium didn’t do Owen Mitchell’s skill with four-strings any justice. The intimacy
of the small venue made up for the inferior sound system, however. She’d never managed to get this
close to the stage before. The anticipation of seeing the five members of Sole Regret from the second
row had her rocketing out of her worn velveteen theater seat and leaning against the curved wooden
chair back in front of her. She didn’t even care that the move earned her several annoyed looks and a
loudly hissed, “Sit down!” from someone behind her.
Sit down?
At a Sole Regret concert? Was it even possible to remain seated when they were on
stage?
Lindsey’s best friend, Vanessa, grabbed her wrist and forced her to sit in her seat again. “Your
boss is here,” she whispered harshly. “Try to control yourself.”
That was easier said than done. Lindsey squirmed on the edge of her seat. Hearing Owen play,
but not yet being able to see him was hell on her girly bits.
When Lindsey caught her first glimpse of the bassist as he strolled casually across the creaky
wooden stage, fingering thick strings with a steady cadence, she almost swallowed her tongue. The
man was devastatingly gorgeous. His light brown hair was styled into a playful sweep that brushed
his forehead. She couldn’t see the color of his eyes from this distance, but knew from staring at his
pictures for hours on end that they were a hypnotic, brilliant blue. Her gaze moved from his perfect
profile, down his neck to his body. Her hands clenched as she fought her need to launch herself on
stage, tackle him to the ground, and explore every inch of his hard physique. Tonight Owen wore a
tight navy blue T-shirt that clung to his nicely muscled chest and shoulders. A set of silver dog tags
swayed between his cut pectoral muscles. As he continued his intro, she became fascinated with the
masterful movement of his fingers over the thick strings of his bass guitar. Why were guitarists so
fucking hot? It simply wasn’t fair.
Lindsey groaned aloud as she imagined all the things that those strong, skillful fingers could do to
her body. What she wouldn’t give to be that man’s fret board.
“Girl,” Vanessa said, “you’re seriously crackin’ a moisty right now, aren’t you?”
Lindsey’s panties were decidedly wet. She couldn’t deny it. “He’s just so…” Her entire body
shuddered as she couldn’t find words sensual enough to describe the man.
Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Puh-lease. He’s cute and all, but I don’t think the mere sight of a man
can inspire a big O.”
Lindsey released a breathless chuckle. “You’d be wrong, Nessi. I’m halfway there already.”
Vanessa turned her head in the opposite direction. “T. M. I,” she said under her breath.
When the drummer, Gabe Banner, entered the song with a heavy, building progression of bass
drum thuds, Lindsey’s heart thumped to match his rhythm. She could just make out the red tips of
Gabe’s mohawk behind the drum kit and the occasional flailing drumstick as he pounded out a wicked
progression of beats on the skins. As the tempo built, Owen turned at center stage and rushed forward,
halting at the front edge as the rest of the band came into view and joined the song. Adrenaline surged
through Lindsey’s body. She was such a groupie for these guys. If her prudish boss, who was seated
several seats to Lindsey’s left, hadn’t been sending her disapproving looks from behind her thick
rimmed glasses, Lindsey would have already shed her bra and tossed it on stage. Fortunately, Lindsey
still had enough self-control to keep herself from flashing her bare breasts at the band. Maybe.
Owen held a special appeal for Lindsey, but there was something about the band’s vocalist,
Shade Silverton, that demanded attention. He knew how to work a crowd. Shade encouraged the
audience to its feet by holding one hand at waist level and lifting it up and down. Lindsey knew they
wouldn’t be able to keep to their seats long. Even the stodgiest of attendees—who normally wouldn’t
conceive of attending a metal concert—obediently rose from their chairs. It was easier for Lindsey to
enjoy herself when the two rather large men beside her blocked her from Mrs. Weston’s ever critical
glare of death. She was grateful to Mrs. Weston for hiring her to work at her investment firm, but the
woman seemed to think she was in charge of every aspect of Lindsey’s life—both inside and outside
the confines of the office. It was a good thing Mrs. Weston wasn’t a mind reader. She’d have been
utterly scandalized by the X-rated thoughts racing through Lindsey’s mind as she watched Shade sing
the chorus of Sole Regret’s hit song, “Darker”. Tall, dark and mysterious behind his pair of aviator
sunglasses, Shade Silverton gave off an energy of raw, sexual power. What was it about the man that
made her want to drop to her knees and suck his cock down her throat?
“Now that man makes my pussy quake,” Vanessa said, her eyes glued to Shade, who completed
dominated the stage in his unquestionable self-confidence. “I just want to…”
“Suck him off?”
Vanessa laughed. “Oh yeah. I’m on my knees already.”
The rhythm guitarist, Kellen Jamison, was whispering into Owen’s ear. They were both laughing
at their lead singer and lead guitarist who seemed to be competing for crowd adulation. Lindsey
worshipped the entire band. They didn’t need to fight for her attention. But those two—Owen and
Kellen—made her entire body hum with pent up desire.
Where Owen had light eyes and hair, Kellen was a bronze god with shoulder length black hair
and almost black eyes that could stare a person into a coma. She praised all deities that the man never
wore a shirt on stage. His long, lean body was filled out perfectly with tight muscles beneath taut,
tanned skin. Tattoos decorated both arms in colorful sleeves. There was an intensity about Kellen
Jamison that she couldn’t ignore. She doubted any woman could ignore it. And when he and Owen
stood side-by-side, there was nothing more inspiring on the planet. That’s why the pair of them were
at the top of her fuck-it list. She and Vanessa had constructed their fuck-it lists a few months before
when complaining about their concurrent lack of boyfriends.
The list was comprised of the three men on the planet she most wanted to fuck and if given the
opportunity she was given a free pass to slut it up. It didn’t matter if she was currently involved in a
relationship, married, eight months pregnant, or had become a cloistered nun. If the man in question
was on her fuck-it list, it didn’t count against her. Vanessa said so and her friend had never steered
her wrong.
Much.
Number one on Lindsey’s list was Owen Mitchell, and number two was standing right beside
him vying for the top position, Kellen Jamison. Luckily, Lindsey wasn’t in a relationship or pregnant.
And her current sexual dry spell might make her feel like a nun some days, but she hadn’t taken vows
of chastity. If only she could get close to them. Gain their attention. Offer her body willingly. Then
maybe she could have at least one of the three men who made her drool like a recent root-canal-
recipient.
In the middle of the song, the lead guitarist of the band, Adam Taylor, moved to the front of the
stage to play the solo. His dark hair was thick and cut in a shaggy style that drew attention to his face.
He had the most sensual lips Lindsey had ever seen on a man. And a collection of chains around his
neck and at his hip that she wouldn’t mind getting tangled up in. Adam’s lightning-fast fingers flew

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