Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“Last night felt pretty real to me.”
To me too. Not that I remember. But the supporting evidence is hard to argue with. The heavy ache between my legs, my deliciously soupy limbs. It feels like I’ve taken part in a sex marathon. Not that I’ve ever been the participant in a sex marathon before. If that’s even a thing. Which I’m sure it isn’t. “So we definitely . . .” I give a tiny nod, inviting him to fill in the blanks. “We . . .”
“You don’t remember?” he asks, his voice sort of sleep husky.
“Some things.” I give a spiky shrug. “I remember we were in the dark.” Where the heck did that come from?
He leans in, his eyes shining as they meet mine. “What else?”
I moisten my lips as fragments of memory seem to rise like smoke between us. Taut breaths, quiet moans, the darkness amplifying my senses.
“You were kissing me,” I whisper. Oh . . . It’s probably best I don’t mention which part of me I remember him kissing, because that didn’t happen during the ceremony.
“And?”
“Was there a bucket?”
He gives a low chuckle, and I gasp, clutching the sheet tighter as my cheeks burn hotter than a thousand suns.
“You know!” I accuse. “You know exactly what happened!”
“Maybe.”
“Please be serious. Did we—”
“Oh, we thoroughly consummated this union.” He moves his hand to his abs and gives a tiny wince.
Lord alive, I had sex with him. And I bet it was worth remembering. What I mean is, I am such an idiot! I make a tiny, hiccuping sob.
“You really don’t remember?” Something flickers in Fin’s expression: a flash of concern or maybe hurt? Whatever it is, it’s fleeting. There and then gone in an instant.
I shake my head. “I remember the wrist-tying thing, and then we drank from a coconut. After that, I just don’t know.” Is there such a thing as coconut poisoning? I begin to turn toward the nightstand—which is where my phone normally is—to offer my pleas at the great altar of Google. But I realize that would mean flashing him my bum, which is probably a bit like closing the stable door after the horse has bolted. But he’s not seeing it. Not again.
“But you weren’t drunk.” Fin half rolls to face me, propping himself on his elbow, a crease forming between his brows.
My stomach flips as I notice the thin gold band on his finger. “Where did we get the rings?”
“A jeweler. The concierge called for me.”
“Oh.” Keeping up appearances, I suppose. “Send me the bill and I’ll . . . I’ll reimburse you for mine.” When I get my money from Oliver.
His expression gives a tiny flicker of annoyance. “How come you don’t remember? You only had one, maybe two glasses of champagne.”
I don’t answer as I mentally tally the mini vodkas in my head once again, but I know I didn’t have enough to make me black out.
“You were coherent, not messy. Though I was kind of surprised at how you threw yourself into the spirit of things.”
“How d’you mean?”
“Dancing and laughing and having fun.”
“I can be fun,” I say, feeling the sting of my perceived slight. “I know what fun feels like.” Life has just been tough lately, that’s all. “I’m not always uptight and—”
“Mila.” The way he says my name as he reaches for my hand. “I don’t think you’re uptight. What I’m saying is you weren’t drunk. You were lucid and articulate and, quite frankly, a little dominant.”
“What if I only seemed okay because you were under the influence of something too?” My attention snaps up. “Wait, what did you just say?”
“You practically dragged me into bed.”
“That I doubt, sincerely,” I retort, sounding like a stuffy old maid. “Not that I hear it’s hard to persuade you.”
“Slut shaming, Mila. That is so passé.”
I ignore his mocking expression in favor of allowing my gaze to slide over him. Given the size disparity between us, how would that even work? Unless I rode him into the bedroom.
An image flashes in my head. Oh, God. I think I did. With a pretend lasso and much yeehawing.
“And I’m pretty sure there are photos to prove it.”
“You took photographs?” My heart dances a quickstep beat, but strangely, not with fear or offense.
“Wedding-night Mila would’ve been so into that. But I was talking about the wedding photographer. Pictures of you dragging me to the dance floor, you climbing into my lap. You stripping me out of my clothes . . .”
“In public?” I give my head another painful shake. Oww. Serves me right for trying to locate that memory.
“We’ll leave that one to come back to you naturally.”
“No thanks.” Wow, Mila. Another excellent comeback. Maybe he doesn’t remember all of this—maybe he’s making it up just to get a reaction. “Look, what I’m trying to say is, last night, something happened to make me behave that way.”