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Summary
Anthony J. Crowley isn’t up to much these days.
In fact, you could almost say his days as a rockstar are pretty much behind him. Rotting in bed all day, with half-written songs plaguing him and no lyrics to speak of, everything points to his career being over for good.
That is until Maggie, his manager, claims to have found him the perfect lyricist to get him out of his slump. And what better way to get the creative juices flowing than spending a whole month together in a secluded cottage on the Isle of Skye?
Provided Crowley’s attempts at making the man run for the hills aren’t successful…*
“You wrote these lyrics,” Crowley repeated just to make sure he’d understood correctly. “The lyrics about sucking dick. You wrote them.”
The stranger wrinkled his nose, a blush appearing on his rounded cheeks. “Well, it’s actually meant to be an exploration of taste and touch as a way to connect with another person, as well as a metaphor for–”
“Sucking dick,” Crowley completed for him.
“Mmh,” the man hummed noncommittally, lips pursed in both annoyance and embarrassment.