Marry Me Now: An Arranged Marriage Collection

by Wylder, Penny

  “Well, thanks for the painkillers, clearly needed, but I’ll—” I stop talking, realizing John has wandered off. Oh well. Probably for the best. I glance past the bed at the bathroom door, and the one look reminds me all over again how fancy this room is. What does this guy do? Maybe he’s got a trust fund or something. He’s older than me, that much is clear, but not by a lot. It’s hard to imagine a guy his age having enough money to throw around that he can afford a swanky penthouse in one of the most expensive hotels on the strip. Then again, I’m not about to complain. This will probably be the only time I’ll ever see the inside of a suite like this.

  I slip out of bed and pad toward the bathroom. Inside, I rub sleep from my eyes and squint blearily at my surroundings. I have to check twice, just to make sure I’m not imagining it. Nope. Full bathtub with jacuzzi jets, an enormous rain shower that could accommodate a small family… complete with a one-way mirror looking out over Vegas. We’re at the top of one of the tallest buildings in the city. The view is breathtaking.

  I turn on the shower and rinse myself off, all while gaping at that view. It’s almost enough to distract me from my memories of last night.

  Almost, but not quite.

  But there’s one memory in particular bugging me. The red room with Lea in tow…

  I’m still thinking about that when my hand catches in my hair. I curse under my breath and struggle to disentangle it. Then I frown at my fingers. There’s a big diamond—gotta be fake—on my left hand. It sparkles when I move it, catching the light, almost like a real one… Impressive.

  But why am I wearing it?

  Shaking my head, I finish toweling off and check my phone. Several dozen missed texts from Lea.

  Photos, I realize. I open them and click through. And with every successive photo, my stomach sinks lower, my jaw dropping, my knees going weak.

  No. Oh, fuck no. We didn’t.

  But there it is, right in photographic evidence. A series of pictures of me and John, in a red-painted chapel with Elvis serving as the officiant and… marrying us! There are processional pictures, too. Lea giving me away, some selfies of Lea and the guy she took out last night. And then a series of shots of me and John. Holding hands, kissing… then me leaping up to wrap my legs around his waist and seriously make out.

  At that point it goes back to selfies of Lea giving me a thumbs-up. She labeled that one “YOU GO GIRL.”

  I cannot fucking believe this.

  I stumble back into the bedroom, forgetting I’m only wearing a towel.

  “There you are.” John catches my eye with a grin. He’s carrying a tray in his arms. Breakfast, I realize. He must have ordered room service for us. I can smell bacon and eggs from here, and my stomach growls with desire.

  But…

  “Did we get married last night?” I blurt, unable to stop myself.

  He goes quiet, his expression suddenly serious.

  I hold up my hand accusingly, diamond facing out. “I woke up and found this on my finger. And… and… I’ve got all these pictures that Lea just sent me, of us in a chapel with an Elvis impersonator. I mean… fuck! Is this real?”

  “What do you think?” he asks softly.

  “I fucking hope it’s not!” I yell, flinging my arms wide. “I can’t get married, least of all to some rando I met in a club in Las Vegas for God’s sake.”

  His expression shifts into a scowl. “Is there something wrong with me?” He arches one eyebrow. “You didn’t seem to think so last night when you were begging for my cock.”

  My cheeks flare red hot. “I didn’t—I mean…” I groan. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Last night was fun.” I pause. Blush again. “Really fucking fun.”

  His smirk widens, and he glances down at my towel, setting the breakfast tray aside. “Then why don’t you drop the towel and we can continue the fun. I seem to remember something about you wanting me to fuck you in the shower, although it seems you beat me there this morning…”

  My breath hitches. Tempting. Oh, how fucking tempting. But my head is still throbbing, and this conversation is hardly helping. “That’s not important right now,” I mutter. “What’s important is fixing this. How do we…” I can’t even believe I’m about to say these words. “How do we annul our marriage? Get it invalidated or whatever.”

  His expression darkens. “Oh trust me, that part is easy.”

  Something about the look makes my curiosity flicker. Has he done this before? But he steps toward me, distracting me from any thoughts about his past.

  “Why are you in such a rush, Mara? I didn’t think you’d be upset about this.” His expression turns mischievous. “Pretty sure you weren’t upset last night. How many times did you come? I lost count at ten.”

  My face could light this whole suite on fire right now. But I ball up my fists, trying to ignore it. The feeling of my nails digging into my palms helps distract me. “I don’t understand how you aren’t upset, John. You don’t think this is a complete disaster?”

  “Far from it. That was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life. And I don’t think I’m being egotistical when I say it was yours, too.”

  I hate that I can’t disagree. Even with blank spots in my memory, blocking out some of what we did, the parts I can remember? Well, let’s just say that last night alone could keep me fueled with enough dirty memories to power my fantasies for months.

  But still. Hot sex with a stranger in Vegas is one thing. Marrying said hot stranger is quite another. “Look, I’m not saying I didn’t have fun.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” He arches an eyebrow, and it’s so infuriating it makes me want to shake him. Or kiss him. Or let him kiss me, the way he did last night, his tongue tracing a line down my jawline, along the curve of my neck, over my collarbone, until he wound up taking my bra off with his teeth alone.

  A feat in and of itself, I can tell you.

  My breath hitches. “The problem is that we can’t stay married, obviously.”

  That infuriating eyebrow remains arched, as if he disagrees. Yet all he says is, “You want to get this annulled.”

  “I want my life go to back to normal.”

  “Normal and lacking in mind-blowing orgasms that make you scream my name so loud we get noise complaints from neighboring rooms?” He’s grinning again, and goddamn it, I hate the way he can get to me so easily. We’ve only known each other for a day. It’s not fair that he already knows exactly which buttons to push.

  He takes a step toward me, then another. I’m painfully, heatedly aware that I’m still only wearing a towel. My face feels so hot I’m surprised he can’t feel the heat radiating off me—and that’s nothing compared to the rest of me. My pussy pulses between my thighs, my clit feels swollen with desire. Even if there are parts of last night that I don’t recall, I have a feeling my body remembers every single second.

  And it wants more.

  “What’s the hurry, Mara?” John murmurs, and that voice is like silk between my thighs, caressing all the right spots. “We’ve got all the time in the world. Just take off that towel, come back to bed…”

  I set my jaw hard, not sure whether I’m angrier with myself or him right now. “Stop it. I need to think, and I can’t with you distracting me. Get out!”

  His smirk widens. “You realize you’re in my room, right?”

  With a groan, I grab for my clothes, strewn across the floor in a way that sends a flash of memories rushing through my mind. My shirt flying in one direction. My panties very carefully being peeled off in another…

  “Breakfast,” he says, and for a second, I pause in the middle of collecting my things, positive he’s about to hit on me again. But he’s smiling, looking actually innocent for once. “I know a great little spot on the corner. Marcelle’s. They have a great fire-roasted tomato omelet, good coffee. Let’s meet there in an hour, okay? And then we can talk about all of this.”

  “No, that’s not okay,” I snap. “Can’t we just annul this
remotely or something? I have things to do.” A job to start tomorrow. The very thought of it almost starts a fresh wave of panic in my body, but I push it away, repress it for now. First things first: get out of this guy’s room.

  This guy with the alluring eyes and the devilish smile, who’s currently looking at me like he wants to devour me whole. This guy who blew my mind last night—and also makes me want to punch him this morning.

  This guy who already knows something about annulments, to judge by his reaction every time I bring it up. It makes me wonder whether this is the first time he’s done something wild like this, running off and getting married to a stranger. For some insane reason, it makes me jealous to think about him with another woman, doing the things we did. Even though I know that’s crazy. I have no claim on him, and he has no claim on me. I don’t even want to be married to him. So why should it bug me that I’m probably not his first wife?

  I shake my head as I head for the door. Wife. I’m nobody’s wife. That’s crazy talk.

  “Is that a yes?” John calls after me, and I wave a hand back at him.

  “No, it is not,” I snap over my shoulder.

  “You know, I don’t remember you being this stubborn last night when you were begging for my cock,” he calls, loud enough that it makes me tense, wondering if anyone can hear—how thin are these walls if we got noise complaints last night?

  Or how loud was I being, exactly? The latter seems more likely, and it makes me blush and makes me hot all over again to think about.

  Maybe Lea is right. Maybe I should let loose a little more often.

  But no. What am I saying? Look at how this turned out. With a ring on my finger and a wedding contract I need to wriggle out of.

  It doesn’t help that my headache and the fog of my hangover have redoubled, making every step I take feel like a mountain to my tired limbs. “Fuck off,” I mumble over my shoulder, which just makes John laugh, the bastard. Then I manage to reach the elevator—the elevator that just opens straight up into his suite, damn, how rich is this guy? —and hit the button for my floor. I refuse to turn around, even when he calls after me.

  “I’ll wait for you, darling,” he yells, teasing, I think. Probably.

  My back tenses. “Don’t make me get a restraining order on you.”

  “Be tricky to sign our annulment papers if you do that, won’t it?” he yells back.

  It’s childish, I know, but the only reply I can think of is to offer him my middle fingers, just as the doors to the elevator slide shut. But that’s as much energy as I’m willing to expend fighting him any more on this right now. Because my head has started to pulse and I swear I’m going to be sick if I worry about anything one minute longer.

  I reach my floor and stumble down the hall to my room, swiping the key and making it all the way inside before I remember that I’m sharing this room. And shockingly, in a move that feels patently unfair, Lea is sitting up in her bed already, on the other side of our double room, watching television with a spread of room service around her on the mattress.

  She takes one look at me and smirks. “So, I see your wedding night went well.”

  3

  Mara

  I slam the door behind me and flop face-first onto my bed with an angry groan that turns into a scream halfway down. “I can’t believe you let me do that,” I yell when I’m finally ready to turn back over again and glare at my ceiling. “What happened to sisters before misters and all that?”

  “Hey, you seemed entirely into it. I mean, the number of times you swore to me you wanted this, honestly—”

  “I was drunk!” I wail. “Why didn’t you stop me? You know I’m a lightweight.”

  “Relax, Mara. This kind of thing happens all the time.” Lea smiles over at me. “You guys can just go say it was a goofy one-night mistake and get it all cleared up by morning.”

  “It is morning,” I point out testily, with a glare at the curtains, as if the bright desert sunlight out there is personally responsible for the terrible decisions I made under the influence last night.

  “By tomorrow morning, then.” She waves a hand, but the words send a stone ricocheting through my gut.

  Tomorrow morning. When I’m supposed to be back in Los Angeles, ready to start my brand-new dream job at Pitfire Media. I cannot have this hanging over my head while I’m there. It will ruin any chance I have at concentrating on what I’m supposed to be doing. “That’s not going to work,” I groan. “I need to fix this today, Lea. Tomorrow I won’t have time; I need to have my head in the game. This is the worst possible moment for me to decide to go off the rails—”

  “Which is probably why your subconscious decided to go wild,” she points out. “The harder you suppress your wild side, Mara, the crazier it becomes when it bursts free. Trust me on this one. I’ve learned it the hard way.”

  “Yeah? Did you get married to a complete stranger yesterday?”

  “Well, no…” She smirks. “You might beat me on the wild side front now, actually.”

  I groan again and grab one of my pillows to bury my face in.

  “Come on.” Lea pats the bed next to her. “Come over here and have some breakfast. You’ll feel better with some food in you.”

  The word breakfast just reminds me of John. Probably waiting downstairs at that café he suggested, feeling all smug in his knowledge that I’m thinking about him. He thinks I’m just going to cave and come running after him like a good little wife? Well, he’s got another thing coming.

  I grab the ring, giving it a tug. But it’s stuck on my finger, probably because my hands are swollen from the heat and all the booze last night. Nobody warned me how sweaty and yucky hangovers would feel. I can’t decide if I want a cold shower or to drink a gallon of water or maybe just fall into a hot tub and drown myself.

  “Whoa. I didn’t notice that last night.” Lea crawls over to my bed, and offers me a plate entirely consisting of bacon and eggs. I dig into the bacon, unable to stomach the site of the slightly congealing eggs, and crunch on it while she forcibly examines the diamond. “Is that real? Holy shit, girl. Maybe you should stay married to this guy. Who the hell did you say he was again?”

  I groan. “No idea. John somebody?” I don’t even know my husband’s last name. What a mess.

  “It’s probably on your marriage certificate,” Lea points out with a sly grin, and I want to smack her all over again. I kick her away with a grumble of annoyance, though not before stealing one last slice of her bacon first.

  “It’s got to be fake,” I say. “He probably bought it at one of the zillion arcade-looking stores on the main street.”

  “That thing is not plastic,” Lea disagrees, but I just stare at the ring, too stubborn to think about what it means if she’s right.

  “Can we just not talk about it for a while?” I ask. “I’ll already have to start researching annulment procedures when we get home. I’d rather not ruin my whole day dwelling in the meantime. Especially when we need to get moving.”

  Lea sighs. “Fun time is over, huh?”

  I grimace at the clock next to my bed, all too aware that checkout is in less than an hour. After that, I’ll have to drive home, get cleaned up, and figure out how to start the rest of my life tomorrow. “I’m afraid so,” I mumble. “Time for the hard work to start.”

  * * *

  Monday morning rolls around all too soon. If I’m honest, I still feel a little fuzzy around the edges, but at least the blinding pain of the hangover has mostly faded, replaced by a vague gnawing hunger and even more nerves that I anticipated for my first day—which is saying something, since I already expected to be a mess of anxiety from the minute I walked through the studio doors.

  Not to mention, I still can’t get this damn ring off. I tried everything. Coconut oil, running cold water over it… Nothing. It must be way too small for me. But it feels all right on my finger. It’s only when I try to tug it off that my finger swells up angrily and seems like it’s holding on
to the damn thing to spite me.

  Great. I can’t wait to try and explain that away to my new coworkers. “Oh, this? Just a joke ring from my not-husband, haha, yes…”

  At least I found out how to annul this damn marriage. It didn’t take long last night, just a few google searches. The process is simple, but it does require both of our signatures. Which leaves me with my latest problem, one that only hit me, helpfully, in the car on my way in to my first day of work.

  I have no way to contact my new husband. In fact, the only thing I really know about him is that he’s probably wealthy and his name is John. Not exactly a lot to go by. You can’t really search “rich John in Vegas”—believe me, I tried. The results are… not what you’d expect. Definitely not men like the one I slept with.

  I hope, anyway.

  But when I park out front of the theater and glance up at the big Pitfire Media sign out front, it feels like a weight is lifting off my shoulders, despite all my first-day jittery nerves. Because what matters is still on track. My career is in the right spot. This whole marriage thing is a blip, and a frustrating one, but I’ll solve it.

  I’ll figure things out, and as long as after it’s done I never have to deal with my frustrating as hell one night stand again, I’ll be golden.

  Yes, okay, so he was hot. And sexy. And he’s right, he did make me come more than I’d even realized was possible in a single night. And maybe I had a sexy dream about him last night, one that I couldn’t even tell if it was a hot memory or a creation of my dirty mind.

  In it, he had me pinned across the bed, my hands above my head and clasped in his, while he teased me with his hand between my legs, toying with me right up to the edge of an orgasm, and then stopping, until I was bucking against the sheets, begging for his cock. When he finally slid into me, stretching my walls, stuffing me full of his fat cock, it was everything I’d begged for and more.