8. Ember

8

EMBER

O h, God. Everything hurts.

The incessant pounding in my head matches the sound of my heartbeat as it pulses through my eardrums. I don’t know how much we ended up drinking last night, but I’m certain by the way my eyelids are protesting, it was far too much.

I wonder if Dana can have that hydration IV truck come back today. I didn’t need it yesterday. I, for one hundred percent certainty, need it today.

I roll from my side onto my back as the blanket lowers, exposing more light than my closed lids desire. So, I continue to roll onto my other side, curling up into the pillow next to me.

Except it’s warm. And hard. And muscular.

My eyes flip open, and the instant jab to my irises is like lashes to an open wound. My brain chastises me for it before I squint, turning my face into a pillow that smells like cranberries and spice.

Cinnamon .

Giving my abused eyes a moment to adjust, I slowly open one lid and glance at the corded muscular arm that takes up the center of the bed. I trail my eyes up the lines that ink his light olive skin, following the intricate design and colors that collide on his shoulder and over his collarbone.

I follow the rise and fall of his chest, as he takes in slow relaxed breaths, before trailing my eyes up the column of his throat. I can see his pulse protest through his skin in steady beats as mine begins to race.

Oh. My. God.

For the past two days, I couldn’t stop the perpetual memories of our flight invading my mind. I left because I had to. He is so dangerous. To my willpower. To my resolve. But now, I’ve ended up in his bed, proving both of those characteristics in me totally suck. I slam my face back into the pillow with a groan.

Slowly rolling out of the bed, I’m unaware that I am completely naked until the frigid air of the hotel air conditioning hits me with the power of a pressure washer.

I. am. naked.

I pull the comforter from the bed, yanking the fabric that’s fighting to stay glued to the goddamn bed frame. Finally, it frees, and I slide it off the bed, separating it from the sheet that was covering Hudson. Also, the thinnest sheet in the entire world, that now only covers Hudson’s hips and thighs, but partially see-through as it frames his impressively sized dick.

A flashback of a neon green g-string covering another enormous piece of meat glints through my mind, and I cover my hands over my face in absolute horror, recalling being pulled onto the stage by Kilo.

Another wave of cinnamon hits my nostrils as I pull my palms down to investigate. Realization dawns on me that I probably never washed my hands after the strip club.

So gross.

The wave of nausea that hits me is not from the thought of questionable germs on my hands, but from the small, shiny tinfoil wrapped around the ring finger on my left hand .

I squint as I examine the foreign band on my finger, flipping my hand back and forth, back and forth.

The stage. The dance. Cheers and people shouting. Elvis . Wedding bells. And Big Red gum wrappers that we magically turned into origami sheets to make wedding bands.

“What the hell!” bellows out of me unexpectedly. I not only scare myself, but Hudson, too; his arms fly up over his head, like he was preparing for an incoming attack.

I grab the comforter that’s wrapped around me with my right hand as I wave my left hand in Hudson’s direction.

“We got married?!” I scream as both a question and a statement.

Hudson looks around disoriented, one eye squeezed shut, the other hardly open. Then he brings the base of his palms into his eyelids with a long breathy groan. Another memory hits me as the sounds of Hudson’s voice seize my brain.

“I’ve thought of nothing but you since I saw you on that plane.”

“I can’t wait to have your tight pussy wrapped around my cock.”

“You look good in my bed.”

“Come for me, little red.”

My breath quickens as panic truly sets in. I take a few unsteady steps back, hitting a wall, and I slump down into myself. Wrapping my arms around my legs, pressing them closer to my chest, and I drop my head down to my knees.

The rustling of the bedsheets doesn’t lift my gaze. Only when I feel his hand cup my cheek do I peer up to look at him.

“Hey.” He tucks my hair behind my ear and lifts my chin. His hair is savagely wild, and his jawline is peppered with a stubble that wasn’t there yesterday.

“We’ll figure this out,” he says softly. His brows pinch together, painfully, probably from the looming hangover that proceeds us both, as well as the devastated redhead currently freaking out in his room.

I give him my best and forced, tight-lipped smile that lacks conviction in his statement. A slight squint meets his eyes before they widen.

“Your boyfriend,” he whispers out loud, closing his eyes as regret blankets his face.

“Who? Huh? My—What boyfriend?” My reply is defensive and abrasive.

“Fuck. We’ll fix this. We’ll fix this today.” He stands, grabbing a small decorative pillow to cover himself. He turns around, the hard round globes of his ass cheeks on full display, and so goddamn sexy, I might add, as he walks toward the en suite.

Pressing into the wall, I push myself up to stand.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” I say it like it’s a disease. Why would he say that?

He stops and looks over his shoulder back at me. Which is really dangerous because now, I not only see his handsome face but his gorgeous, incredible ass, as well.

“You told the guy on the plane you had a boyfriend. You said you had a boyfriend.”

Realization hits me that he heard that conversation.

“I was trying to turn him down nicely.” His eyes narrow and look downward, blinking a few times, then returning to look at me.

He takes a step toward me.

“But you didn’t tell me that.”

Another step.

“You told me, ‘I can’t .’”

Another step.

“Why did you tell me that?”

He stops in front of me.

“Why didn’t you turn me down nicely?”

I swallow hard enough my ears pop.

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” I admit.

“And you didn’t want to go out with me? ”

A small quick shake of my head naturally responds.

“No, you didn’t want to go out with me? Or no, that’s not right?”

This is definitely how miscommunication happens.

The constant hum of the air conditioner sounds like a foghorn through the silence.

Because you are a dangerous distraction, and I don’t want to become my mother.

I bite my lip, pulling the soft flesh in between my teeth. His eyes bore into me, demanding an answer that refuses to show up.

Reaching out, he grabs my left hand with his and gently rubs the foil that’s wrapped around my ring finger. A long breath leaves his lips as he turns his hand over to reveal his own foil band wrapped around his finger, taking a moment to inspect our matching makeshift rings.

Everlasting sting.

A lopsided grin graces his face as he turns his eyes up to meet mine, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing. Leaning into me, he kisses my temple, then smacks my comforter-covered ass.

“Come on, wife . Let’s get you some breakfast.”