by Cari Quinn
Even as she said it, a part of her was lying. Everything was so soft and romantic. His arms around her, her cheek against his heart.
She wanted to stay in this moment for the rest of her life.
“Maybe you don’t expect it,” he said against her hair, tightening his grip. “But what if I do?”
Ten
Chloe moaned. Why couldn’t she move?
Had she ended up with another Johnson sleeping with her again? Jinx wasn’t usually the cuddling type, but Ivy liked to spoon sometimes. Chloe grunted and tried to wiggle free.
Was Ivy groping her boob? Okay, that might require a conversation about personal space. And seriously when had Ivy become close to two tons? She opened her eyes and immediately slammed them shut. Too bright.
Not good.
So not good.
Just how much had she guzzled last night? And her mouth tasted like death. Thank God it was Sunday. Obviously, she didn’t know how to handle Vegas.
A groan dented her personal flogging. Not a girl groan.
“Oh, fuck.”
No. No. No.
She squeezed her eyes shut so tightly that sparklers started going off behind her eyelids. She didn’t. She wouldn’t.
Flashes of bodies grinding in a dark room tightened her throat.
You can do it. Open your eyes. Big girl panties, goddammit.
Was she wearing panties? She wiggled her legs.
Sweet peaches, she so wasn’t.
Chloe forced herself to open her eyes and look down. Definitely not the shirt she’d been wearing last night. Was that Dave Grohl? Why had her boobs grown at least two sizes?
Because a male hand was cupping each of them like she was his own personal rock wall.
She suppressed another moan when the man’s hands tightened. His thumb flicked over her nipple and it responded instantly.
“Oh God.”
He groaned and pushed up her shirt. “Round two?” he asked in a fuzzy mumble.
“Round none!” She kicked out and connected with something before she scrambled up against the headboard.
“Fuck me.” The man curled into a fetal position.
Dark hair and naked shoulders. Was that a tattoo? Was he naked under the sheet?
She didn’t wait to find out. She leaped off the bed. Not her hotel room. This one was bigger with only one bed. A lake-sized bed with tangled white sheets.
She was going to be sick. She lunged for the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it before she skidded in front of the toilet. Her stomach revolted until there was nothing but dry heaves shuddering through her.
“Are you all right?”
No, she wasn’t all right. She’d awakened in a strange hotel room with a strange man. She gripped the edge of the bowl, frowning as something clicked against the porcelain.
She pulled shaking fingers away and flushed, then stumbled to the sink.
Her eyes were bloodshot, her pupils absolutely huge. Blindly, she fumbled with the faucet, causing another clink of metal against metal. She stuck her head under the spray to rinse away the sick.
She needed eight toothbrushes and a magic eraser for her brain.
Actually, not so much on the erasing because she couldn’t remember a damn thing.
How had she ended up here?
Why couldn’t she remember?
Where the hell was her phone?
Auto-pilot kicked in as she pumped soap on her hands. Metal clicked against metal. She still had on Snake’s ring. She couldn’t seem to take it off, but she’d moved it to her right hand.
That was only one hand.
Something flashed on her left hand.
On her ring finger.
She washed away the lather. Rubbing at the sapphire and diamond ring from yesterday. No, she hadn’t bought that.
She’d said no.
She’d given it back.
She wouldn’t ever put it on her left hand.
She slammed her elbow into the doorknob. Tears flooded her eyes as pain crashed into fear and a sob escaped. “No, no, no.”
“Open the goddamn door. It’s the least you can do after you dropkicked me in the balls. Are you hurt? Is there blood?”
She whirled around. Panic made the space seem smaller by the minute. Marble tile over marble countertops. Everything pristine white. She climbed into the shower and curled into the corner.
No.
No way.
“Dammit, open up. Are you okay?”
No, she wasn’t okay. She pulled the shirt over her knees and tightened herself into the smallest ball she could make.
Maybe it was just her. She’d gone back to see Nathan at the jewelry store. She’d gotten crazy with the girls. She’d bought the damn ring.
But wouldn’t she have put Snake’s ring back on her left hand? The sapphire wasn’t for left hand wear. It was too much like a—
No.
Not that.
It wasn’t that.
The doorknob rattled. “If you don’t open this goddamn door, I’m going to break it down.”
Ask it. Talk. “What’s on your left hand?” she asked in a shaky voice.
“What?” The voice was deep and hoarse. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Your hand!” Her voice came out as a squeak. She cleared her throat. “Check your left hand.”
“Have you lost your— What the fuck?”
Fear cramped her belly. He’s going to laugh. Please? Please laugh. She was just being stupid.
“I don’t fucking wear gold. Why do I have a gold ring on my hand?”
Eleven
He’d woken up with a pair of gorgeous breasts in his palms, and now, not ten minutes later, he was pretty sure he was sterile.
Michael leaned against the jamb of the closed bathroom door and cupped his aching dick. It matched the raging pain in his head, and the churning in his gut.
Hangovers freaking sucked.
At least the hellfire in his groin had started to subside enough that he could think. But thinking wasn’t helping him to understand why he was wearing a gold ring.
For one, he didn’t wear them. His idea of jewelry was his eyebrow piercing and his watch. He had a couple of ear piercings but he usually didn’t bother with those.
He definitely wouldn’t be wearing a ring on that finger. Not unless—
“What the hell happened last night?” he roared, louder than he’d intended.
His response was precisely nothing.
He rattled the doorknob, knowing it was a futile gesture. She’d locked him out.
Chloe. He’d spent the night with Chloe Adams.
Had they had sex? Actual full penetrative sex? Normally, he could kind of tell, especially if he’d gotten especially, uh, vigorous, but his cock and sac were currently feeling so abused he wasn’t even sure he could still pee.
Damn, that girl had some legs on her.
He already knew she had an incredible ass, as he’d had it in his hands several times the night before. He remembered that much. Recalled fuzzily that he’d gotten her off while she sat on his lap in the club. Dancing, drinking, talking. Her tipping her head back to laugh at him, her big eyes shimmering like brown velvet.
Obviously, the alcohol was still talking, because she was just a chick. Pretty eyes, gorgeous hair like a sunset. Or like the fireball that had swept through his crotch and left only embers behind.
But still, just a woman.
Just a woman he’d married.
No. He didn’t marry people. He didn’t even consider marriage. He was twenty-three, for God’s sake. Added to that, he wasn’t going to be like his parents. When he did the deed, it would be forever. So if that meant he never actually said vows, well, then fine. He was in no rush.
Except he had a ring on his hand, one that hadn’t been there yesterday. Evidently, Chloe did too, or she wouldn’t have asked him to check for one.
“Matching couples’ jewelry, right?” he asked himself out loud, winci
ng at the throb in his head. He’d given up on her answering him.
For all he knew, she was loading up on Valium. God knows he wouldn’t have minded something to take the edge off himself, except no, he would not be doing that again. His drinking had caused this clusterfuck in the first place.
Not just his. Hers too. He’d gotten drunk before with no ill effects, minus the Tabitha situation. Compared to this, though, that seemed like a minor inconvenience. So it stood to reason that since Chloe was the new element in the equation, clearly it was her fault they’d gotten mar—sprung for couples’ jewelry.
“I’m not happy about this,” he said through the door. “If you were looking for a commitment, you shouldn’t have looked at me.”
He’d barely gotten the last word out when the door swung open. Chloe stood there in his Foo Fighters T-shirt and one white sock he was pretty sure was his too. She’d painted the nails on her other foot wine-red to match her fingernails—and her mouth last night, before he’d kissed off her lipstick.
Goddamn, his shirt barely covered her thighs. She was naked under there. She had to be, since he was nude himself. And she’d definitely checked him out before she’d flung her arm over her eyes.
“Can you put on some clothes? And while you’re at it, check your attitude. I’m not interested in a commitment with a rockstar.”
Annoyed at her tone, he gripped the top of the doorframe and glared. Not that she could see him, of course, on account of her getting the vapors at the sight of his penis. “Sure, honey. Hate to tell you, but I’m not that naïve. I know full well exactly how many women want to land my kind of fish.”
She shocked him by shoving past him to go back into the bedroom. “FYI, your fish is limp,” she shot over her shoulder.
“That’s not what you said last night,” he tossed back, well aware of how juvenile he sounded. But hello, his fish was a prime specimen. He’d been told that numerous times. “And of course it’s limp, because you sterilized me with your bony knee.”
“You’re not sterilized. Your type lives to spread their seed far and wide.” She dropped to the floor on the other side of the mattress.
He came around the bed and saw her on her knees, bare ass up, digging under the bed. For what, he had no clue. But he liked her ass a lot. Shit, was that a hickey?
He’d leaned forward without thinking to trace the mark when she jerked up. Unfortunately, she was still partially under the bed at the time, and screeched as she bumped her head. He grimaced in sympathy. She had to be in as rough shape as he was.
“Did you just touch my butt, creeper?” she asked, cupping the back of her neck as she eased out from under the mattress.
“Creeper? We’re wearing rings. If I’m a creeper, I’m your creeper.” He nudged his toe against the arch of her foot just to piss her off. “And you’re mine.”
“You wish.” She blew her curls out of her face and lurched to her feet, trying to hold down her—his—shirt while she gripped her head.
“I don’t have to wish anything. See this?” He held up his hand and tapped the finger with the ring. “This here gives me rights.”
Which ones, exactly, he didn’t know, and he didn’t really want to believe they were married in the first place. But for the sake of argument, he’d use whatever he could.
Including his own idiocy.
“We’re not married. Why would we get married? I don’t even know you.”
“Now, see, you’re just hurting my feelings. Of course we know each other. Didn’t I ask you to pass the stuffing last Thanksgiving?”
“You aren’t funny.” She huffed and puffed as she yanked the sheet off the bed, then wrapped it around herself. Guess she thought he was becoming unduly aroused by her bare legs.
And what if he was? The visuals were the only good part of this mess.
So far, being married royally sucked.
“We’re not married,” he muttered, grinding the heels of his hands into his burning eyes. “It’s just the hangover talking.”
“What about the rings?” she asked him in a near shout. “What about those?”
“Couples’ jewelry,” he shouted back, dropping his hands. “It’s a thing. Read Vogue.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Couples’ jewelry like, say, wedding rings, jackass?” She flung herself on the bed and rolled off the other side without displacing her sheet. Then she bent to root around on the floor again.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m looking for my clothes. Like my skirt. Like my top. Like my freaking panties!”
Lazily, he glanced around. “Don’t see ‘em. Sorry.”
For that matter, he didn’t see any traces of Ryan either. Their suite was pretty ginormous, and Ryan had his own bedroom and bathroom and all that, but he usually popped over onto Michael’s side on the regular. Which meant his buddy had shacked up somewhere else for the night.
Hopefully he hadn’t gotten married too, unless it was a pandemic.
Come to Vegas, see a hot girl, find a fake Elvis, get a marriage license and boom.
Trauma for the rest of your life, all thanks to one night of potentially incredible sex you didn’t even remember.
“Marriage license,” he muttered, grabbing his pants off the floor to dig out his wallet.
If he didn’t have that little piece of paper, all of this would be solved. Because of course they wouldn’t have gotten a marriage license. Not possible. There were waiting periods and all that, right? Maybe not in Vegas. Possibly faux Elvis got special dispensation from the Pope or something.
He sat on the edge of the bed and flipped open his wallet, then paused. Once he’d ascertained he didn’t have a marriage license—as it naturally would be his job to hold on to all important papers as the male—he wouldn’t have a chance to ask her more questions. So it was better to do so now while she was distracted pushing aside dust bunnies to find her panties.
“So, I was good, right? I mean, you enjoyed yourself.” He cleared his throat. “I’m assuming your reaction isn’t because you weren’t satisfied. That’s never happened, I’ll have you know. Not even one time.”
She straightened and pushed a hand through her hair. “I would ask you the same question, but I’m known as a goddess in bed, so no need.”
“Really?” He glanced behind them at the obviously messed up sheets. Hell, they might already be married. A calamity and all to be sure, but he’d never had legally-sanctioned sex before. “Sucks I don’t remember. We could always—”
“No.” She held up a finger as if she was speaking to a small, possibly non-English speaking child. “You are not going to suggest we get back in bed.”
“Okay. I won’t. But the offer is on the table if—”
“I won’t. I can assure you, if you were the last man on this planet, I wouldn’t have sexual intercourse with you.”
“Again. You mean again, because we clearly did it once. Or two or three times. What’s your take on the situation?”
She was getting redder by the minute. He wasn’t one to pull out Annie jokes—and she certainly hadn’t resembled the movie heroine the night before when she’d been all vamped up—but with her makeup worn off and her freckles on full display, there were some definite comparisons. There wasn’t even a need to check to see if the drapes matched the curtains with this one, because even her eyebrows were pale red.
“My take?” she demanded. “Is that crude insinuation your way of asking if I can tell we’ve had sex?”
He shrugged. “Normally, I can tell too, but my dick was nearly crushed so I can’t. It’s not anything personal.”
“You’re asking me the current state of my—my—and it’s not personal?”
“We’re in this together, right? Might as well make the best of things. We definitely were last night.” He gave in to the urge to look her over from the tips of her just fucked hair—pity he didn’t know if that was a true statement—to the wine-red toenails peeking out from under the s
heet. “You look good in my shirt. If you can’t find your stuff, I’ll let you borrow something.”
She nodded quickly. “Okay. Yes. Thank you. I’ll have my Dad drop them off once I’m back home.”
The tickle in his throat made him swallow hard. “Your dad?”
“Yes.” She was already heading toward the suitcase spread open on the small settee on the other side of the room. “We’ll make sure the clothes get back to you soon.”
“I’d rather you return them to me yourself. Better yet, I’d like to take them off of you in the shower before I soap you up.” He rose, forgetting for a second he still hadn’t put on his pants.
But she hadn’t. Her gaze dipped to his slowly waking cock before lifting to his face, her pupils blowing wide. “The shower is the most dangerous place in the home,” she said distantly as he eliminated the space between them.
The marriage thing? Yeah, that was a load of crap. It couldn’t be real. Rings were one thing. An actual ceremony? No way he could forget that.
This, on the other hand, was coming back to him nicely. Alas, he didn’t remember all the steps they’d taken in their dance last night—at least not yet. However, the sense of anticipation, the sizzle of arousal in his blood, the drumbeat in his dick…all of those things solely belonged to Chloe.
Pity she wasn’t reacting the same way she had last night.
She kicked off her lone sock. “I need to get going. I can’t stay. I have a family.”
That word slowed him down. Family. Right. She had a son.
His wife had a frigging son.
Not your wife, twit. Your lover, who you happened to buy some bling. Much less hassle.
“Yeah. Okay. No problem.” He gripped the back of his neck and cleared his throat. Maybe he’d wait to look in his wallet until she was out of the room. Now wasn’t the time to deal with female hysteria.
His own hysteria was hard enough to contend with when he was hungover and still limping from his near de-balling.
“Thanks for the night though. We had fun. I mean, what I remember was fun.” She went scarlet again, right up to her hairline. “I’m sure the rest was too.”
He shouldn’t tease her. What was the point? She wasn’t feeling it, and he was just delaying the inevitable by not looking in his wallet or making a few phone calls to ascertain he wasn’t a complete jackass.
