1. Kurt

I'm dead.

Or maybe I'm about to die. That's a distinct possibility, too. One way or the other, I'm pretty sure I won't live to see the rest of today. Death has to be preferable to whatever invisible demon is rubbing sandpaper on my brain.

I attempt to open an eyelid, but it's crusted shut, so it takes me a moment to pry my lashes apart. I'll probably need a crowbar for the other eye.

My limited vision informs me that I'm in a dim but downright pleasant bedroom. It's grand, with modern chrome-and-white furnishings and a sitting room off to the side with a sleek but comfy-looking couch. Tall ceilings make the space airy and fresh. Although the curtains are drawn shut, daylight peeks through around the edges. An enormous bouquet of pink roses with a small white card poking out the top sits on a round table. My drool is decorating a fluffy white pillow with a seriously high thread count.

Using careful logic, I deduce I must be in a suite in a fancy hotel.

Then it dawns on me that I must still be on my trip to Las Vegas.

Problem is, this isn't my suite.

I manage to open my other eye so I can see more of the room. My cell phone is lying next to another one on a dresser by the TV. A plain black roller bag with jeans spilling out of it rests on the floor by a pair of well-used cowboy boots. A white cowboy hat is thrown on the couch.

Except for the cell, none of this stuff is mine. I don't own a cowboy hat or boots. My luggage is classic red T. Anthony.

What the actual hell happened?

Moving my bare arm wakes up more of my body, and a once-familiar horrible feeling comes over me. Bile starts in my stomach and rises up my esophagus, making me want to dry heave.

Ugh. A hangover. I haven't had one of these since college.

I hold still. Am I going to puke? I scan my body quickly. Stable. I think. I just feel like absolute crap. I need the bathroom, then to drink some water and take pain relief, and maybe I'll survive after all.

My rusty joints creak when I attempt to move again, but I manage to turn my head to the other side … and stop dead.

As I should've suspected, there's a man in my bed. Or, wait, I'm a man in his bed. Anyway, he's a very, very large man. His big frame takes up a significant portion of this king-size mattress. He's got light brown hair that's buzz-cut on the sides but longer and wavy on top, and I have a close-up view of his wide, buff shoulders and smooth back. His rounded muscles make me stare. The sheet has dipped down below his midsection, displaying an expanse of golden tan skin. By the way the linens are tangled around his hips, I'm guessing he's naked.

Come to think of it, now that I look down, I'm naked, too.

I freeze again and check my body for any aches down there.

Nope. Okay, then.

Who is he?

I'm trying to think of a way to find that out without waking him, when he turns and gives me a sleepy smile—or maybe it's a grimace.

I'm distracted from trying to analyze his expression by the awareness that I know him (or at least recognize him)—and in a rather intimate way. I've watched his videos more times than I can count.

I'm naked in bed with Velvet the Cowboy, my favorite porn star.

My skin tingles at the same time my stomach lurches, and I gulp and scold my belly, telling it to get itself under control. The curve of Velvet's ass is barely covered by the sheet, and his skin is just so … touchable. My gaze moves to his messy hair and drowsy bedroom eyes, which are blinking rapidly.

Since this is a top-tier fantasy come true, I just wish: (1) I felt better, (2) I remembered how I met him, and (3) I remembered what we did.

If anything.

As he moved, the sheet slid farther down, so his famous—and quite large and hard—dick is now exposed, thwapping against his lower belly. My brain helpfully notices that he doesn't have any tan lines, and I briefly imagine him beside a pool, all stretched out—and nude. The man's just plain huge, with long legs, a defined torso, and burly arms. I'm 5′11″. While I'm not tiny, he's a giant compared to me.

He flinches back slightly, and his eyebrows squish together. Then he narrows his eyes.

I'm still trying to figure out what happened. I'm ruling out any kind of sex, since there's no crusted come on my belly. My jaw's not even sore. The only ailments I have relate to this damn hangover.

That's disappointing.

Why am I here with him—and, more importantly, why are we naked, if we didn't do anything? Is this a practical joke?

It's sabotage.

A chill goes through me, followed by a wave of nausea that I can't blame on whatever I drank last night. Did Santangelo set me up? Are there hidden cameras in this suite? Or is it extortion?

Photos of me naked in bed with a porn star would be a sure way for me to end up in the tabloids and not in a Senate seat.

Or, shit. Did one of my mom's enemies set this up? That'd be even worse.

Tremors rack my body. Gasping for air, I scramble away from Velvet and fall backward out of the bed, taking the sheet with me and landing on my ass with a thud.

I look around for my self-respect, but I appear to have misplaced it.

Dammit.

Velvet pushes himself up, army crawls over on his belly, and peers down at me. A lock of his hair flops over his forehead.

Oh my god, is he handsome, even first thing in the morning. He has … not quite a baby face, but close. Despite his chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and narrow nose—and despite the very, very "adult" situations I've thoroughly enjoyed viewing him in—there's an element of innocence about him. Thick lashes rim his wide blue-green eyes. And then there's the rest of him. Hair dusts his veiny forearms, and his biceps bulge without him even trying. I've seen his physique on my screens often enough to know that he's beyond perfect. The way the videos show his ass in Wranglers? Yum. And when he dips that Stetson to greet people—before he fucks them into the mattress. I shiver.

I think he was wearing the hat last night.

I think he dipped it at me.

Velvet gazes at me with concern as he, too, appears to be putting the night together. At least, that's how I interpret the scrunch of his nose. His sleepy eyes register genuine bewilderment.

"Hey, darlin'," he whispers, his iconic voice deep, with a hint of a drawl. "Are you okay?" He rubs his temples.

"I … don't know," I admit, drawing my knees to my chest and wrapping my hands around my calves. As I do, I notice something amiss. Well, something else amiss.

My naked companion nods, as if my words make perfect sense. "Yeah. Last night must've been wild, since I'm not entirely sure how I got back here." His eyes dart to his left hand, and he squints. "What in tarnation?" Then he looks at my hand at the same time I pull it up to my face to inspect it.

A ring circles the fourth finger. A shiny platinum band without any scratches or dings.

I don't wear a ring on that hand. I don't wear jewelry, period. I glance back at Velvet and confirm that he's got a ring on his fourth finger, too.

I blink.

He blinks.

I furrow my brow.

He does the same.

"Um," I rasp, staring at my ring, then gesturing to his. "Do you know where these came from?"

Velvet starts to shake his head and then frowns. A light dawns in his now fully awake eyes. He cocks his head as he studies his hand. He blows out his cheeks, then releases the air. "Well, heck," he says. "I think we might be hitched. What's your name again?"