PROLOGUE
John
Sunday morning in Vegas
Why the actual fuck am I awake right now?
I haven’t even opened my eyes yet, and the room is spinning. My head is throbbing in time with my too-fast heartbeat. I’m probably still drunk because I’m not sure where the hell I am. I’m in a bed, but it definitely isn’t mine—it’s far too comfortable for that—and I feel like absolute shit.
I’m also not alone in this plush bed. My arm is thrown over someone. I must’ve been completely trashed if I was spooning them. I’m not typically a cuddler. Don’t even like touching other people. But whoever this is, my body must like it, because apparently I’m not too hungover to have morning wood. The way this guy is grinding his ass into my dick isn’t exactly helping the situation.
“Ugh,” I mutter, my voice deeper than normal from my half-asleep, hungover state. “Stop moving.”
I’m fairly certain I was loud enough for whoever this is tohave heard me, but despite my very clear instruction, the brat moves their hips again, completely ignoring me. Then he reaches back, running his hand over my hip to my clothed ass.
“Why are you trying to touch my butt?”
“Just checking something,” he mutters before shifting back into place so his ass is grinding into my erection again. What the hell was he checking? This is ridiculous. Obviously, we didn’t do anything last night—we’re both in our underwear, and I’m far too hungover. We must have crashed as soon as we got here. This guy is insane if he thinks I’m in any shape for a hookup right now, even if I might’ve promised him something last night.
“Jesus Christ,” I groan, burying my face against the back of his muscular, smooth shoulder to shield some of the light my eyelids can’t block out. “Stop moving.”
“Why? What do you want to do to me?” he whispers, sounding way too excited. What the hell did I say to this guy last night? How is he so peppy?—
Shit.I suddenly recognize his voice.
He’s so peppy because it’s Chad.
I’m in bed with Chad.
Slowly, my mind catches up to my reality: I’m in Vegas for my best friend Liam’s bachelor party. Chad’s here too—he’s best friends with Blake, Liam’s fiancé. Chad has been obsessively clinging to my side all weekend.
Now we’re sharing a bed for the second night in a row.
Chad thought it would be fine to book a penthouse in Vegas with one less room than we needed since he assumed he could share with someone, and that someone turned out to be me.
Just my fucking luck.
“Oh my God,” he breathes before pulling my hand up. I yank it out of his grip, intending to ask him what the fuck is wrong with him, when he shouts, “Oh my God!”
“For fuck’s sake, Chad. What?”
He twists in my arms, and I groan again as he rocks the bed,amplifying my headache. I finally open my eyes in an attempt to stop the spinning sensation the movement causes.
“We’re married,” he answers reverently.
He’s lying right in front of me now, staring at me like he’s never been happier in his life. I’m so distracted by his stunning smile, especially directed at me, that it takes me a few seconds for his words to process.Married? Who’s married?I blink a few times as more memories from last night flood in like a never-ending montage of bad decisions… Chad and I at the casino where the drinking began, out on the strip where he dragged me to bar after bar, us in a bathroom stall at a gay club when I got sick of him asking about my dick piercings and showed him, and finally, him begging me to see a wedding chapel under the guise of checking off some imaginary list of things to do in Vegas.
It wasn’t supposed to end with us getting married.
I was never supposed to get married.
I can’t stop a muttered “What?” from escaping me despite remembering what he said to be true. I can’t believe I agreed to this. I don’t want to be married. I don’t want to be with anyone at all. I haven’t wanted that for nearly ten years.
He pulls my hand up again, holding it next to his between our faces. There are matching gold bands on each of our ring fingers. “This!” he exclaims. “This means married. We got married last night!”
I squint at them, and I know he’s right. We are married. “Fuck,” I mutter as more memories of our drunk night fill in the gaps.
“Wait, do you not remember, John?” Chad asks as if that’s the only reason I might be concerned right now. Without waiting for me to answer, he continues. “We got married in a chapel. There was Elvis. And we said vows, and you kissed me! Like, full-on made out with me. If you don’t remember, we can have another wedding. A proper wedding! Oh my God, maybe Blake will let us have a double wedding. He can marry Liam, then Ican remarry you. But we actually beat them to the altar, so it can just be for show. I’m going to call him!”
