She jumps up and down, head tilted to the sky. “We’re fucking married!”
“Ok, wifey. Let’s go before someone calls the cops.”
She jerks her chin forward, and her sparkly heart-shaped glasses from the gift shop tumble onto her face. She pushes them up her nose and smiles at me.
Fuck. She’s cute when she’s tipsy.
“Let’s go do touristy shit,” she says.
I smile. “Because getting married in a shotgun wedding wasn’t touristy enough for you?”
“Oh, come on. Let’s go to the Vegas sign. It’s like two blocks that way.” She grabs my hand and starts to drag me along with her, but her heel catches on a crack in the pavement, and she nearly tumbles to the ground.
“Ok, clumsy girl. No more walking for you.”
Angie squeals as I bend and toss her over my shoulder, but she doesn’t fight me.
She pats my back and says, “Turn left.”
Angelina
I wake the next morning to the distant sound of a door opening and closing. My mouth is dry like sandpaper. With a groan, I rub at my temples, trying to soothe the dull ache radiating from them.
“Good morning, wife. Did you sleep well?”
Is that?—
I peek one eye open, half convinced I’m still asleep.
Griffin.
I hold up my left hand. Where Tyler’s engagement ring once sat, there’s now a dainty gold band with diamonds encircling it.
It wasn’t a dream?
“Nope.”
“Did I say that out loud?”
“Mhm.”
I sniff the air, inhaling the unmistakable scents of fresh coffee and—“Pancakes.”
My stomach growls violently.
I throw back the covers and stand on wobbly legs, bringing myself face to face with Griffin Hayes. It should be criminal to look this good in the morning. He’s in a pair of greysweatpants and a plain white shirt. It’s wrinkled as if he threw it on at the last second to answer the door for room service.
He runs his fingers through his loose, wavy hair, and a memory of the night before flashes across my vision: Griffin standing on the balcony staring out at the skyline with a bottle of champagne, his golden brown tresses blowing in the breeze. I rub my hand over his back, and he leans down to kiss my forehead.
My heart squeezes at the reminder of his unexpected tenderness in the moments before he stripped me bare and fucked me over the railing on that very balcony as I cried out his name in ecstasy.
I glance down at my bare legs. I’m wearing a man’s dress shirt. Bringing the collar to my nose, I inhale Griffin’s familiar masculine scent.
Another memory flashes.
I’m up against the wall again, only this isn’t five years ago. It’s last night. Griffin is thrusting inside of me as my fingernails dig into his shoulders. I can still feel him inside of me now, a dull ache pulsing between my thighs.
A jumbled mix of images flickers like an old movie reel. Room service: chocolate-covered strawberries and a bottle of bourbon. He pulls on the tie holding my robe closed as I lie back, then he pours the cool liquid down my chest and licks a path from my belly button all the way up my sternum.
