Oops! I Married a Rock Star

Looks like it probably performed last night. If it can get hard now, I don’t see why it couldn’t do the same a few hours ago. My not remembering doesn’t change anything.

So…where the hell are the condoms from last night?

I force the gears in my head to turn. The rubbers should be somewhere near the bed. I mean, there’s no way I walked to the bathroom with my clothes around my calves. But I don’t see any. And there’s no way all this woman and I did was sleep. That’s just not how things go when Devlin Marsh enters a hotel room with a chick.

I root around, looking under the bed, under the pillows, between the mattress and box spring, in the drawers of the two nightstands and in my pants pockets. My blood chills. I never, ever have sex without protection. I’m not interested in making any little Devs. No matter how drunk or tired I am, I always keep my swimmers away from eager, unfertilized eggs.

A baby would mean responsibilities. Having to do things I don’t want to do. And I will jump into a swamp full of gators before letting myself get saddled with bagga

ge I can’t unload.

Maybe your dick was still on strike yesterday.

Great. So it’s a choice between temporary limpness or possible procreation? What amazing options.

The girl makes a noise in her throat, like the light’s disturbing her, and shifts with a small whine. Her hair falls from her face, and I gawk as I take in the thick, dark lashes, the pale porcelain skin, the small, cute nose, and the surprisingly full rosebud mouth that reminds me of a bing cherry.

Holy shit. It’s Ms. Bad from New York herself!

I look away, then back again to make sure it’s really her, not some doppelganger. How the hell did she get here? I had no way of getting in touch with her after New York. She left our bed before I got up and didn’t leave a number. Which was really odd, since women usually love to stick around as long as possible.

But her vanishing like that doesn’t mean I forgot about her, like I normally would with some random woman. I’ve been wondering about her since our scorching encounter. As a matter of fact, I wanted to see her again since my dick quit on me that evening. Like no other woman would do. Ever.

And I can’t really blame my penis for that. She’s easily the best I’ve ever slept with. All soft, sweet and mouth-wateringly delicious. And she smelled like a warm pear compôte made with a dash of rum I had once in New Orleans. I could’ve spent the entire night in New York just licking her.

It is definitely her. Unless she has an identical twin…

My vision shorts out for a moment as I consider the possibility. The idea is super-hot, but I doubt God created two Ms. Bads. That’d just be too good to be true.

What’s she doing in Vegas? Did she know the band was going to be here and decide to chase me across three time zones?

Normally that’d be shudder-inducingly stalkerish, but with her it’s cute and sexy. Especially since it’s making my dick hard again.

I bend over the bed, feeling like a champ and absurdly pleased. Now that we’re close, I can smell her ripe pear scent. Lust zings through me, leaving me slightly dizzy with need.

I should do something nice for her. Spoil her and treat her like a queen until we leave Vegas. Maybe ask her to come with the band. She’d probably love it, and I haven’t asked a girl to spend time with me like that since the whole fuckup with Ashley.

Ms. Bad scratches the tip of her nose and squeezes her eyes even more shut, like she’s doing her best to stay asleep just a little bit longer. Something winks on her finger. The world seems to freeze for a moment, then I inhale sharply.

A wedding ring.

“You’re married?” I say it before I can catch myself. “What the fuck?”

She shifts, her eyes slowly come open and that violet gaze hits me, still soft with sleep and something else that looks like ninety percent satisfaction and ten percent relief.

And it makes my blood heat. Not simply with outrage, but with lust, too. Because she’s glorious when she comes. I remember how she fights for air, how unfocused those eyes get when she’s lost in pleasure.

God damn it. What the hell is wrong with me? Focus on the wedding band, not how she looks when she climaxes!

My dick doesn’t get the memo.

“You were totally single in New York six weeks ago.” I point an accusing finger, furious that she’s married and my hormones are out of control for her.

“Oh, you noticed?” She stretches a bit.

“Yes, I noticed! I always check because I don’t screw married women, no matter how hot they are.”

“That’s a good policy.” She finally sits up, and the sheets slide down, revealing a white…nightshirt…?