Jealousy rage-punched me in the face, my throbbing head tried to implode and explode simultaneously.
“Never again. You’re mine, remember.”
“Yeah, yeah, big guy. I remember. Been there, done that. Seconds aren’t on the menu.”
“That could be said about me, too.”
“You can’t say that about your husband…”
He shot up out of the bed like he’d pulled an ejector. One minute, he was lying flat on his back, and the next, he was standing on his feet at the foot of the bed.
“Holy fuck!” he screamed, his hands in front of his face.
“Stop screaming. My head hurts.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck.”
I pulled a pillow over my face to drown out whatever he was freaking out about.
The bed dipped and weaved like a buoy during a hurricane. “Fuck, Declan. Stop. I’m going to puke.”
“Gimme your hand.”
“What are you going on about?”
“Goddammit. Gimme your fucking hand.”
I held my hand up to him, and he smacked it away.
“No, dammit. The other fucking hand.”
Worried I’d get it wrong, I held them both up.
“Holy fucking shit.”
He dropped down next to me and tumbled off the edge of the bed. I rolled toward him. “You okay?”
“No. I’m not fucking okay. We’re not fucking okay.”
“What’s wrong?”
He scrambled back onto the bed, snatching up my hand and holding it up in front of my face with his. “This. This is what’s wrong.”
My eyes widened as I took in the matching gold bands. My stomach rolled. I surged from the bed, tripping on the mad dash for the bathroom, my shoulder smacking the door frame.
“I’m going to be sick.”
I dropped to my knees in front of the toilet, not a moment too soon. Pain shot through my knees, but I was too busy losing the contents of my stomach. Not that there was anything other than bile and liquor to lose. I couldn’t remember the last time I ate. Fuck. I didn’t even know what fucking time it was.
My head fell to rest on my forearm, and the sun, glinting off the golden circle on my left hand, caught my attention. My head went back over the night before.
Arriving in Vegas?
Check.
Seeing the billionaire hotel room?
Check.
