“Great. It looks like I’m married to a perverted, asshole, narcissistic, alcoholic,” sinfully handsome, sexy as hell, “prick who likes to go into full beast mode and tear off clothing before he sticks it to his new wife.”
She didn’t wait for a response before she took off, rounded the corner and locked herself away in the only clear refuge she could think of.
CHAPTER 2
Brock
Married? What the ever-living hell?
Brock William’s eyes traced a quick, scalding pattern down to his left hand. Oh no. Oh god no. My parents are going to kill me. Owen is going to kill me. He was already a publicist’s worst nightmare. His parents were always on him to grow up, settle down and give them grandkids. It was the last thing he was interested in.
And now he was married.
To the infuriating woman who’d just tried to vomit in bed. Right beside him. Who’d accused him of being some kind of pervert who forced himself on women. Like a monster in the night who preyed on the defenseless.
This was his wife?
Wait… what?
Wife?
Suddenly he was pretty sure he was the one who was going to empty his stomach onto the bed.
It finally settled in that the ring on his left hand wasn’t just for show. The throbbing pain in his head let up just enough that he realized whatever he’d done the night before was a big mistake. Drinking, okay he did that in moderation. He’d had his fair share of wild nights, but then again, what thirty-five-year-old man could say they hadn’t lived a little along the way? Especially thirty-five-year-old men with a mansion and their own private jet?
Yeah… that made a difference. Women liked that. They wanted to get in the bed of Brock William The Third, just to say they did. Maybe they thought they had a shot at his heart. Maybe they just wanted a shot at his bank account. Okay… no maybe about it.
Brock had thrown himself into work for the past few years. He’d dug in and grew the fuck up as his parents wanted. Oh and Owen as well. The guy hadn’t had to bust his balls in a long time.
And now this.
The whole point of Vegas was just to get away for a week. Do some fun shit without the side of stupid. He planned on having a few drinks, kicking back by the pool, playing hours of poker and maybe even doing a few excursions or tours to top it all off. Riding quads through the dessert seemed like a lot of fun for someone whose entire day consisted of home, gym, office in that order. Even if all three of them were located in his house.
He didn’t like to go out anymore. He didn’t like bothering with a disguise and the people of Philadelphia knew that he was still rich and he was still single. Was. As in, he wasn’t anymore.
He’d once been accosted on a morning run, by a group of six women who chased him down like a pack of hungry jackals. It spurred the whole decision to make his home gym. He liked running outside, but hell, he also didn’t like being mobbed like a male stripper on girl’s night.
It was Owen who suggested that he get away to Vegas. It seemed like a good idea at that time. A city he could just blend into. Lots of rich people went there. Hell, half of LA emptied out on weekends and drove on down for a weekend of drunken debauchery.
The black wall assailed him when he tried to recall any of what happened the night before. He’d had a few drinks. That was a given. When the hell had a few got so out of control? And when the hell had he picked up a woman along the way and convinced her that they should get married? Or maybe she picked him up. Maybe it was the other way around.
He’d believe it.
God, if he had to be married, the blonde who just fled to the bathroom wasn’t half bad. Nope. Not bad at all. She was beautiful, really. Even hung over, her long lush hair matted and tangled. Even after she’d nearly thrown up onto the bed. Even after she chewed him out, emerald eyes blazing fire. Those full sensuous lips were so utterly kissable it took all his strength not to jump out of bed and give her a good spanking for being so rude. With his mouth. On her mouth. His tongue on her tongue.
Brock groaned when he glanced down and realized that his thoughts were leading to a whole lot of sheet tenting. The last thing he needed was to spring a hard on for a woman who called him a pervert. And a predator. His wife.
When did marriage get so hard?
Oh right. Always.