My 3 Rockstar Bosses_An MFMM Menage Romance Read online

  My 3 Rockstar Bosses

  ~An MFMM Ménage Romance~

  © 2018

  By Katie Ford and Sarah May

  Want to hear about our newest illicit romance? Addicted to virgins and alpha males? Join our mailing lists at www.subscribepage.com/alphamalesontop and get a FREE book just for joining!

  © 2018

  All Rights Reserved.

  Kindle Edition

  Follow Katie on Facebook

  Follow Sarah on Facebook

  Join our Facebook group Alpha Males on Top

  ALSO BY THE AUTHORS

  The#BABYCRAZY Series

  #BABYMACHINE

  #BABYMAKER

  #BABYFEVER

  The Filthy Wrestling Club

  Claiming His Virgin In the Ring

  Claiming His Virgin In the Pool

  Standalones

  My Friend’s Dirty Uncle

  Hate Love

  The President, My Lover

  Client No. 6

  His Captive

  Buck Me Cowboy

  Beg Me: Sold To My Dad’s Boss

  Daddy’s Pretty Baby

  Loving the Babysitter

  Reverse Harem

  Seven Brothers of Sin

  Six Ways to Sin

  The Billionaires Club

  Sold at the Auction

  Virgin for Sale

  Serving Him

  Buy Me

  Anonymous Encounters

  MFMM Ménage Romance

  All the Best Men

  MMF Bisexual Romance

  Double Dare

  Double Exposure

  Their Secret

  The Falling Series

  Falling for My Dad’s Best Friend

  Falling for My Boyfriend’s Dad

  Falling for My Son’s Best Friend

  The Virgin Series

  Delivering the Virgin

  The Princes Series

  Double Princes

  Triple Princes

  Box Sets

  Taking the CEO Home

  Love Unbound

  DEDICATION

  To all the girls pursuing wild dreams.

  This one’s for you!

  NOTE FROM KATIE AND SARAH

  Hi! Thanks so much for reading My 3 Rockstar Bosses: An MFMM Ménage Romance. I hope you enjoy the steam between Katy and her men.

  Plus, be sure to join our Facebook group Alpha Males on Top to hear about new releases, discounts, and freebies.

  Love,

  Katie and Sarah

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  My 3 Rockstar Bosses: An MFMM Ménage Romance

  We only come in one size: KING SIZE.

  Ladies love us.

  Guys want to be us.

  Because we’re rockstars strummin’ our way to the top of the charts.

  But it’s not our music that get us into the tabloids.

  Not our fame.

  Not our money.

  Not even our bad boy ways.

  It’s something else that makes the tabloids go crazy.

  A certain secret that makes women shiver with anticipation and delight.

  In fact, make that THREE secrets: All of them KING SIZE.

  And fortunately, we’re not afraid to use the magic on sweet Katy.

  Oh yeah, our beautiful assistant needs to know her clients inside out.

  The only question is …

  Which one will she like best?

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  My 3 Rockstar Bosses

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Mason

  Another pair of lacey lingerie sailed through across the stage and smacked Trent on the leg.

  Ten points!

  Trent, the front-man of our band, Alpha Prime, snarled over his shoulder at me. I laughed and kept banging the hell out of the drums because it served him right. After all, my buddy was playing to the crowd. Just minutes earlier, he’d drenched his white T-shirt with a bottle of water and then ripped off the fabric, displaying a rock hard chest and abs.

  The asshole was good-looking, even I had to admit.

  Bronze skin. Sculpted. Hard muscle everywhere.

  And of course, the ladies ate it up, screaming like banshees. They were practically losing it right before us because Alpha Prime is bona fide rock star catnip. If you think the females went wild for the Beatles or New Kids on the Block back in the day, then you’re almost in the ballpark.

  We’re ten times that. Fifty times more magnetic.

  And the ladies are insane. They go hog wild, ready to sell their firstborns to get their hands on a pair of our concert tickets. Mothers and daughters, hell, even grannies in the crowd were losing their minds, not to mention their panties.

  Because our female fans never have any self-control when it comes to their favorite rock stars. Lingerie? Oh, please. That’s just the beginning. Last week, we got back to find two nude girls swimming in our pool, slick and wet like slippery, hairless otters. Plus, Trent threw gasoline on a raging fire, cannonballing into the pool with a roar.

  Yeah, this is the life. The rockstar rage that makes us unstoppable. Throwing my head back, I let out a howl to the delighted squeals of the all-female crowd. Sweat poured down my face and the beat pounded through my hard, muscled body. Everyone wanted a career like ours. We owed it to the fans to give it our all.

  So yeah, life is good. Better than good. The best. After all, for the past few years, I’ve been the drummer for the hottest band on the scene, with money, girls, and cars galore. Everything at my fingertips.

  The guys and I have been on magazine covers. We have billions of dollars in the bank. Plus, all three of us have been on every hot bachelor list in the past five years. We were on top of the world and rockin’ it like kings.

  Mostly.

  “Alpha Prime!” a group of girls screamed from the front row while flashing their tits.

  “Choose me! Eeeee!” hollered another chick, eyes wide and hair wild.

  I should have been on top of the world. Yet incredibly, inklings of boredom were beginning to make me dizzy. Right there on stage under the hot spotlights, things were starting to get dull. It seemed impossible, but never say never. Because after five years of dodging dirty panties and every filthy proposition in the book, easy sex was getting old. Maybe you don’t know what you have until it’s gone, but right now, I wasn’t jumping on the carousel.

  If I was attracted to skinny, anorexic-looking groupies, then the rock star life would be perfect. That wasn’t my scene, though, because scarecrows did nothing for me. I like them plump and curvy, with a sweet smile and innocent ways.

  Nonetheless, there was money to be made. Winking at the ladies like a Lothario, I hooked the panties out of the air with my right hand, all the while hitting the cymbals with my left.

  Oh yeah. I got this whole thing down.

  The girls in the audience screamed louder as more lingerie flew at us. It was a blizzard of lace and leather.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah!” I growled into the mic along with Nick, our bass player.

  We were on fire tonight and the packed amphitheater shivered and shook. I banged on the drums even harder,
creating a storm of beats. The music was thunderous and passionate, but I wasn’t really into it.

  It’s sad, really.

  Creating and performing is one of my only gifts. Ever since I was a little boy in the basement banging out sloppy beats, it was clear to me that I was meant to be a drummer. The music is my muse, my destiny, and my lover all rolled into one.

  It’s the audience that gives me the blues. Screaming, noisy, emaciated chicks don’t give me the rush I need. Not anymore.

  But again, there’s money to be made. In the music business, giving the fans what they want is half the battle.

  “Tighter, baby!” was my shout, the chorus to our latest hit. “Harder, baby! Yeah!”

  I waved a drumstick in the air and twirled the bright purple panties around them. They were practically child-sized. The chick who'd tossed them had to be a double zero—possibly smaller.

  Are there negative sizes?

  Regardless, it was a show and these women had paid to be entertained. So I flashed my signature smile and killer sapphire eyes, all the while tattoos rippled up my back and arms.

  Of course, the females screamed like crazy. That was always the reaction. A balled up piece of paper landed near my foot—probably some girl’s phone number.

  Meanwhile, Nick ripped into his bass guitar, scowling. His naked chest rippled with muscle under the lights, blue ink snaking up his arms in two full sleeves.

  Shit, that fucker is scary.

  The asshole was a beast, like he was ready to start a fight with anyone who dared cross him. The tattoos and the scowl were all part of the look, though, ladies eating it up like the sweetest cream.

  Plus, he was an animal on bass.

  The girls couldn’t get enough of him or that ink of his. They loved the bad boy persona and the take-no-prisoners frown that decorated every magazine cover. Females screamed even harder, ear-splitting shrieks buzzing in my skull.

  But Nick isn’t like me and Trent. He refused to cater to the ladies. Instead, the dude scowled at the audience, declining to touch a single pair of panties that sailed his way.

  Of course, the reverse psychology tactic worked like a charm. The girls adored him even more for it, screaming his name hoarsely, waving their arms and jumping up and down. They acted like teenage groupies seeing their favorite band.

  Funnily enough, we were their favorite band. I don’t know if it was for the music or our look, but they loved us. The women certainly weren’t young, though. All of our shows were only for people eighteen and older—for obvious reasons.

  “Knock it off, dude!” Nick snarled at me once he turned his mouth away from the mic.

  “Grow a set and give the girls what they paid for,” I growled right back, drumming away with a pair of panties slung around my wrist. “They don’t come here to watch you glare at them!”

  Some of them did, though. Without Nick’s signature scowl, we weren’t Alpha Prime.

  Suddenly, a flash in the audience caught my eye— somebody's diamond ring maybe. There was just enough light for me to see a woman in the front row drag off her underwear, struggling in the crowded space. Elbows must have hit her head and torso. There wasn’t much room in the darkened pit below.

  Even after that, the blonde was unstoppable. She held the crotch up to her nose and breathed deep like a junkie before winding up and pitching the thong straight at Trent in a whirling fastball.

  Growling about sex into the microphone, my buddy stepped back, ducking like a pro.

  Smooth, real smooth.

  The audience couldn’t tell, but Trent was obviously grossed out, but not because the girl wasn't pretty. Hell, any stroke mag would have made her a cover model. The blonde had it all: big hair, big tits, and puffy lips in a perpetual “O”.

  That’s just not our type. We like ‘em real all around, curvy and luscious, and this chick needed to pack on another fifty pounds—minimum.

  I grunted as another thong came flying Nick’s way. It was seriously getting out of control, like a hail of missiles from World War II. We were taking fire down in the bunker—except the fire was in the form of tiny, little panties.

  My bro was losing patience fast. Not even bothering to hide his revulsion, he scowled and stepped back, his expression one of murderous rage.

  That poor motherfucker.

  I swallowed laughter, looking at the stage floor to hide my reaction. Our fans didn’t want to see me react in such a way. Rock stars living the dream weren’t supposed to duck and cover, but it was all that we wanted to do.

  Go figure.

  But it is what it is. Doing this shit keeps the dollars rolling in. There are miles of money and rivers of cash pouring into our bank accounts each and every second, especially during a tour. So of course, we feed the beast, playing every show with our shirts off, glistening with sweat. Playing shirtless was our agent's idea back in the day, but it had become a trademark. Hell, it’s practical too, considering how damn hot it is on stage.

  The rest of the show was fiery and high-energy, with Trent tearing it up on the mic as usual.

  After it was over, we stumbled off the stage, high from the music, the energy from the crowd sparkling like electricity across our skin. Performing is addictive. The vibe is more potent than cocaine, or what I imagined cocaine was like, anyway.

  The only problem was: my brain was dead.

  We’re performers, though. The brain-dead feeling afterwards was always worth it. You gotta give ‘em what they came to see.

  “Hell yeah!” I growled, my swagger turned all the way up as we strode towards the dressing room.

  An answering mewl sounded.

  “Oooh Mason!” came the whimpering cry. My head jerked back to take a look around.

  It was impossible to see who’d spoken the words because girls lined both sides of the wide hallway. Their hands were reaching out to touch us, their backs arched to show off their assets. Fortunately, our security guys have always been good at keeping them away. Growling and grimacing, they were giant slabs of muscle acting as a barrier between us and the females.

  We don’t want them near us. Keep them away.

  The girls were a blur before my eyes. Every single one of them was nearly naked with those fake tits of theirs pushed up and out. Eyelashes were like wild caterpillars and stick legs poked out from under miniskirts. Once upon a time, I could appreciate a good pair of booty shorts, but the ones that my fans wore had ruined that. I didn’t want to see their flat asses and neither did the Nick or Trent.

  I thought America was known for big girls. Why are all of these females the same?

  Where were the curvy chicks? The ones with racks so big that my hands could barely grab them? The ones with big, soft bottoms?

  All of the females were the size of mice. I often refer to them as “microscopic women”, because they’re so small that you can’t see them from far away. One ninety-pounder wiggled her tongue my way, flashing a silver piercing. Disgust filled my veins.

  Get some meat on your bones, girl, and then maybe we can talk. While you’re at it, stop doing the whole skank thing. It’s not working for you.

  Soon, we were in the privacy of our dressing room. Nick slammed the door shut with a thud. The crowd could still be heard, small thumps and wild giggles piercing the thick slab of wood, but that was okay. For now, we were safe.

  “Fuck that was good!” Trent grunted.

  “Yeah,” Nick growled like a badass. “I can feel the money, but not much else.”

  He was right. Touring was getting to be a pain in the ass with the endless travel and the screaming crowds. We loved the music, though. The three of us knew how to make catchy beats. We were damn good at it. What else would we do? Get desk jobs?

  I decided to focus on lighter subjects.

  “Did you see that last chick, Trent?” was my amused rumble. “She was ready to give you a fucking blowjob right there onstage.”

  As if that’s anything new.

  In the beginning, we sa
w and did much worse. Orgies. Sex shows. You name it. The three of us indulged and overindulged. We were a trio on fire. Hell, Trent, Nick, and myself were practically triplets! We all had black hair and blue eyes, making us look enough alike that we were often mistaken for brothers.

  The shit is getting old, though.

  Too much of anything goes sour, eventually. It’s like gorging on prime rib night after night. After a while, a salad starts sounding good—real nutritious and fresh. Unfortunately, we wanted that salad already. Just a few years of touring was starting to do us in.

  Maybe a desk job wouldn’t be so bad.

  I never thought I’d crave salad in my life, but sometimes that’s how things work out.

  We wanted someone real.

  Genuine.

  Innocent and sweet, who didn’t smell like cheap perfume and used lube.

  Too bad she doesn’t exist.

  “You didn't feel like giving up your dick tonight, huh?” Nick grunted at Trent. “Keeping it on a leash, are you?”

  Trent shot him a nasty look. “You know I'm done with that shit,” was his terse reply. “Shut the fuck up.”