First Verse: An MM Romance (Get Your Rocks Off Book 1), page 1
First Verse
An MM Romance
G. Eilsel
Copyright © 2024 G. Eilsel
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, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various brands, products, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction. The publication or use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
This book is dedicated to the ones who hide behind a mask. Who are afraid of what the world might say if they know the real you that's buried deep inside.
To you I say this:
Fuck them.
Fuck the entire world and let your freak flag fly.
Love who you want.
Be weird. Be wacky.
Be you.
You're perfect just as you are.
And in keeping to tradition, if you're following the count, the word "cock" is used 171 times, this time over 450 pages.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Trigger warnings
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
Epilogue
Author's Note
Detail triggers
One Handed Holidays
First Come, First Served
Trigger warnings
First Verse is an 18+ novel that contains adult content. Themes include MM rock star romance, enemies to lovers, second chance, forced proximity, gay for you, and lots of heat.
Let me repeat myself—lots of heat.
Some of the triggers are intended to be discovered organically, and as such I have posted a more extensive list at the back of the book. If you have concerns about any triggering matter, please check it out before diving in.
Prologue
Six Years Ago
Until this exact moment, this very second of your life, I bet you didn’t realize that dicks could sprout two legs and walk around.
Who knew, right?
Certainly not me, and not until this guy.
Color me fucking shocked to find out that a giant phallus could pop out a bunch of long, olive-skinned limbs and strut about like it owns the goddamned world. Toned muscles and devil-may-care attitude, with a perfect Colgate smile and thick, messy hair that somehow still looks put together.
Fucking Dmitri Belikov.
“What the actual fuck are you doing here?” The anger that surges through my body finds its own voice as I narrow my eyes at the man standing in the doorway of my dorm room. Just leaning there like he owns the place… like he fucking belongs. The light behind him frames his silhouette, his enormous form casting a shadow over me while I sit and glare from my bed.
He’s an emo dream, all dark hair and black eyes, ripped jeans and old band shirts. Tall—too tall, almost, as my six-foot frame has to tilt my neck to meet his eyes. Broad but lean, and I’ve seen what hides underneath those clothes. Bulging muscles and corded tendons that would even make Zeus pop an envy boner, and he doesn’t even have to work to maintain them.
It’s yet another thing that comes naturally to him, while guys like me spent five days a week in the gym and still hold too much around the middle.
To sum it up, life’s not fucking fair.
“Eric, hey man!” It’s so smooth and laid-back, the way he greets me. The intensity of my glare deepens as his face lights up in a giant smile. Never have the stark contrasts between us been so glaringly obvious.
Light and dark.
Day and night.
He might look like darkness personified, whereas I’m blonde-haired and golden-skinned, but don’t be confused over which of us is which.
His smile is dazzling, shining like the sun itself stands before me, scorching me under its flaring heat. His appearance may scream hot, troubled rocker boy, but his personality has never aligned with his looks.
Oh, no.
Dmitri is nice, syrupy fucking sweet, always smiling and laughing with a group of his mindless cronies. They flock to him, following him around and hanging on to his every word.
Not me.
Not anymore.
Not after what he did.
“I asked you a question,” I growl, not bothering to hide my irritation and ignoring the way his smile falters. “What are you doing here?”
He clears his throat, the sound raspy and strained, and shifts his weight awkwardly between his feet as he adjusts the duffle bag digging into his shoulders. “Housing sent me here for my new room assignment.”
My cheeks scorch in an instant as I stand, fists curled into tense balls of fury at my sides. “No.”
“No?” he asks, tilting his head to one side in a very cat-like expression.
Last year, I hit the jackpot. A brand new, towering dorm building had been constructed on campus, leaving an excess of unoccupied rooms. It was a stroke of luck that I ended up alone in a double room for the past two semesters.
It’s been a full year of indulging in the luxury of a private apartment, and one could say I’ve become spoiled by the solitude.
Freedom to be naked whenever I want and showers that don’t work around anyone else’s schedule. If the mood strikes to fluff my nutters, there’s no stopping me.
Bliss, pure and simple.
Now at the start of my final semester, it came to a screeching halt. A notice from housing was pinned on my door a few days ago, notifying me I’d be getting a roommate for the next six months.
The news was more of a nuisance than anything. As much as I wanted to hold on to the serenity I enjoyed for the past year, what could I do?
Complain?
My luck had run out, and I was okay with that.
At least, I had been okay with it until ninety fucking seconds ago, when Dmitri showed up, waving his housing assignment slip around like a white flag of surrender.
Or maybe it’s a sign.
Take me to your leader—I come in peace.
He could be an alien, I think with a snort, eyes narrowed as I glare at his otherworldly good looks, highlighted by the billowing light waves that cast a glow around his frame, like the universe has given him his own goddamned spotlight.
Yeah, well, motherfucker, guess who won’t be coming in peace anymore? Back to the old college tradition of rubbing one out in the shower instead of the comfort of my bed.
It dawns on me that he’s still staring at me, his head tilted to the side and eyebrow raised. A loud sigh heaves from my lungs as I scrub my hands down my face, a fresh argument brewing on my tongue.
Before I can form a sentence, he breaks the silence with his rich, smooth voice. “Eric, man, what happened? We used to be inseparable, so close that people thought of us as one person. Invited us everywhere together. It was always the two of us, and now you act like I have the plague every time you see me.”
My widened eyes meet his in astonished disbelief, and I cross my arms over my chest. Protective instincts, engaged. “Seriously?” I sputter, struggling to form the word as my throat tightens.
“Yeah, seriously.” He steps closer, and my heart leaps into my neck, slamming itself between the muscles that refuse to let me breathe. “You stopped answering my texts, never called me back. For months I tried to get ahold of you, and you ghosted me. Months! When I finally saw you in the commons, you ran away like something was chasing you.”
I bristle at him, hugging my arms tighter across my body. “I didn’t fucking run from you. Believe it or not, Dmitri, other people exist in the world with their own lives and concerns. You are not the center of the universe. Not everything is about you.”
Frustration etches deep lines into his face as he emphatically shakes his head. “That wasn’t what I—”
I throw a hand out to interrupt him, and he blinks hard a few times as his mouth clamps shut. “Just because I don’t flock to the feet of the campus music god doesn’t mean I have a problem with you. Don’t read so much into things that don’t concern you.”
“Campus music god?” He snorts and rolls his e
Ev-er-y-thing.
Throw the man in a kindergarten class with a dozen Dollar Store recorders and he’ll have them playing Beethoven.
It’s like a Midas touch, but instead of gold, he transforms everything into genius-level melodies.
Infuriating doesn’t even begin to cover it.
He plays so many instruments I can’t even name some of them, where I have to practice hours on end to be decent with my guitar. Singing is my one God-given natural talent, and the one thing he can’t do.
The single advantage I have over him.
“Is that what this is about? The scholarship?”
Oh, right.
He also won the music scholarship that I was competing for.
Salt on the fucking wounds.
“If that’s what helps you sleep at night, then sure.” My tone turns downright nasty, and his shoulders go slack as his lips pull back in a frustrated frown. My eyes dart to the dimple that pulls on one side, because of course—of course—he’d look just as good irritated as he does when he smiles.
He sighs and lets his bag drop into his hand until it’s hanging inches off the ground, his well-defined forearms flexing under the weight.
I kick myself for noticing that, too.
“Look, man, I didn’t ask for this assignment. I’m sorry for whatever I’ve done to cause this…” He gestures back and forth between us, his face defeated. “Whatever this is. It’s only for a semester. Can we be civil until we get through it?”
Angry at the thump of my heart in my chest, I chew on the inside of my cheek, trying to calm myself. How am I supposed to handle six months of solitude with him after what happened?
And why can’t I find the fucking balls to confront him about it?
Seven paltry words are all it would take.
Why did you do this to me?
“Besides,” he says in my silence, toeing his way in the door as I reluctantly step aside and let him enter. “Senior year? We’ll both be so busy that this place will only serve as a sleeping spot, right?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” I mutter under my breath, darting over to the bed to gather the few items I had scattered across it. My stuff is strewn over almost every surface of the room, and I realize having a roommate again will take a serious adjustment.
He places a gentle hand on my arm, and a nauseating wave of… something… washes over me. My skin tingles and my muscles go rigid, acutely aware of his touch on me. Every inch of my body feels the heat of his hand, penetrating into the very marrow of my bones. Hyper-awareness of his proximity floods my senses, and I hate myself for the curling reaction deep in my gut.
Stop it, I tell myself, but do I listen?
No.
No, I most certainly do not.
“And anyway,” he continues, blind to the fact that I’m on the verge of a fucking existential breakdown. “Good-looking guy like you? You’ve probably got all the ladies hitting you up for sleepovers. Shit, I bet you never sleep here as it is.” His tone is light, joking, but his words only add to the whirlwind of thoughts swirling in my head.
Good-looking guy like you?
Not to be conceited, but I know what I’ve got. Sandy blonde hair that curls more as the humidity rises and hazel eyes. My nose is broader than I’d like, with a noticeable bump on the ridge from where I had a surprise encounter with a rogue football a few years back. There’s no mistaking my Southern, corn-fed heritage when you see my build—tall and broad, with a touch of a genetic predisposition towards carrying a few extra pounds in my middle.
Sturdy.
Football was a natural choice for me, given my size. I had a decent run in high school but couldn’t quite measure up to the competition in college. Now I’m thick with no excuse for it.
But those words about my appearance aren’t the ones that catch my attention. It’s the others.
Got all the ladies hitting you up.
Keyword: ladies.
Because I am—and always have been—straight.
Straight like a ruler, or a framing level.
Straight as a nail pinned in a hydraulic press, smoothing out the tiny bumps that might’ve formed somewhere along the way.
Straight as an arrow, flying with its razor-sharp point destined for its hetero little future, filled with a wife and kids and a white picket fence.
Straight, straight.
I am.
Or, at least, I always thought I was.
Until Dmitri.
Until the night that changed everything.
Eleven months and three weeks ago, just a few days shy of a year, he turned my entire life upside down. Rocked me to my fucking core, made me question everything I ever knew about myself.
Right there, in the bed he just dropped his duffle on.
The very bed he’s claimed as his own.
And then…
Then he pretended it never happened.
1
Current time
“You’re late, motherfucker!” Theo’s voice comes bouncing around the corner as I barrel into the studio, slamming the door behind me as I jog into practice.
The rest of the band glares at me, eyes narrowed, but they lack any genuine heat. It’s become a running joke within our group that it’s the sole reason I’m the singer. If I can’t even manage a simple watch, how could I possibly be trusted with an instrument?
Jokes on them, though, because they can’t perform without me.
“Sorry, sorry,” I pant out as I collapse onto the couch next to Tai, our keyboardist and backup vocalist. I throw my hand up in a quick fist bump, which he returns with a grin. He’s the only one with a voice decent enough to even consider replacing me, so I keep him on good terms.
The rest can fuck off.
Theo grins and shakes his head at me, like he’s figured out my strategy. I toss a cheeky wink at him as he chuckles quietly, his bass guitar hanging loosely around his narrow shoulders. He’s so small, it looks like a kid ran off with his dad’s guitar. Don’t let the size fool you, though. Fucker can play.
“Can we get a move on now?” Dante shoots daggers at me.
“Sure thing, Cocoa,” I say with a cocky smirk.
“Cocoa? Do I even want to know?”
My grin spreads wider. “It’s twofold, really. You’ve got that delicious chocolate skin…” Oh, his eyes roll hard at that, but I’m not done just yet. “And, y’know… Cocoa butter.” I gesture at his shiny, smooth head, and Tai tries unsuccessfully to cover his laugh with a cough.
“Don’t ever call me that again, asswipe.” Dante’s annoyance is clear, but that’s just who he is. An integral part of his personality. Our lead guitarist and self-appointed manager, he’s a bit of a tight ass.
And by that, I mean he schedules everything we do with a level of anal precision, from our shows, our tour bus rentals, and our equipment. Hell, he’s so uptight that he even created a strict shower schedule for everyone on the bus last time we were on the road.
Never thought I’d be told it wasn’t my turn for the bathroom as a fucking adult, but I was tempted to piss on his ankle in a really mature act of defiance.
Lift my leg and fire hydrant the shit out of him.
I didn’t, so don’t judge me.
None of us had any grand expectations when we first formed the band four years ago. We were nothing more than a bunch of friends pursuing a hobby and having a good time. Eighteen months ago, everything changed when a major influencer stumbled upon one of our concerts.
Overnight, our popularity exploded, and what used to be a few shows a month has transformed into a whirlwind of requests for gigs and multi-state tours.
Hence the single bathroom on the tour bus. We’re caught in that awkward middle ground where our dreams of making it big are taking shape, but our income isn’t high enough to be careless. Limited spending means we’re forced to make the best of it by cramming five guys onto a bus that’s meant to house three.
Speaking of five guys…
“Where’s Anthony?” I ask, scanning the room and noticing the absence of our drummer.
Dante glances at me, chewing on his lip like he does when he’s nervous or on edge. Which is like, all the time.
