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.