That voice . . . Oh my God. I’ve heard that voice more times than I can count, but it’s never sounded quite that good. Deep and gravelly and so fucking sexy that heat pools in places it has no business pooling at the moment.
A big, warm, deliciously callused palm wraps around my waist and presses flat against my stomach. My very bare stomach. Butterflies take flight, and every nerve-ending in my entire body stands alert. And that’s before I’m pulled back against an incredibly firm chest, and the man that chest belongs to groans.
A man who shouldn’t be in my bed.
Why is he in my bed?
Wait . . . is this my bed?
“Unless you don’t want to sleep,” Easton murmurs as he buries his face in my hair as that question hangs in the air. Fuck me.
Wait. No.
This has got to be a dream. I’m on a girls’ trip in Vegas.
I’m rooming with Everly.
Nowhere in my plan was I supposed to end up in a bed with anyone this weekend.
Especially. Not. Him.
No . . . I press the pillow down against my eyes.
This can’t be happening.
It’s a dream. You’re still dreaming.
Hips press against my ass, and any doubt that I might actually still be dreaming quickly vanishes because in my dreams, Easton Hayes doesn’t feel this good. Of course, my dreams usually end before I get the chance to enjoy his ridiculously large erection pressing firmly against my ass.
I shift a little, and Easton’s hands grip my hips. “Lindy,” he warns.
This. Cannot. Be. Happening.
“Yeah, princess, it is.”
Huh?
Who’s he answering?
“You, baby. Now stop thinking so loud and go back to sleep.” Easton pulls the pillow off my face and tucks it and his arm under my head, positioning me so I’m snuggled between the crook of his neck and his bicep.
Just where I always wanted to be, only I have no idea how the hell I got here.
How many times have I wondered what this would feel like? And now that I know, how am I ever going to live without it again? Easton’s mouth presses against my neck, and a small moan slips past my lips.
Stupid, traitorous lips.
This isn’t right.
Maybe nothing happened.
Maybe he just fell asleep next to me.
Or maybe I finally indulged in the one thing I’ve always wanted to do but never had the lady balls to grab for myself.
Okay, time to be a big girl. Roll the fuck over and face the music.
I take a hot fucking second to cringe at the poorest excuse for a pep talk I’ve ever given myself, and I’ve given myself plenty. I’m a goddamn gold medalist. I can do pep talks. They just usually happen on the ice or in the locker room. Occasionally in a car. Once while lying in the wet grass when I fell running and had to convince myself to get the hell back up and finish the run. But never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d be giving myself one in bed.
Stalling done, I try to carefully roll over without exposing any of my bits in the process, and two things happen at once. First, I say a quick thank-you to the one-night-stand gods because as I roll over, my panties go straight up my ass in the most uncomfortable way possible. Sleeping in a thong is not fun. But I’m pretty sure if I had sex with Easton last night, my panties would have been incinerated in the process. I’m hoping this means I didn’t finally give up my virginity when I was sloppy drunk to the man I’ve been half in love with since before I started shaving my legs.
The second I look up, any thoughts about how my thong is permanently wedged up my ass like dental floss or about how drunk I must have been last night evaporate into thin air. Because Easton is looking at me with the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen. Wow. That smile promises wicked things. “Mornin’, princess.”
He presses his lips to my forehead, and I’m pretty sure I melt into a puddle of goo, right here on the thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets on the massive hotel bed. My headache forgotten, I bring a shaky hand up to his neck and dig my fingers into the back of his hair.
For a single second, I let myself lie here, safe in his arms before panic sets in.
Because it always sets in.
I pull back, yanking the blanket up around my chest to cover myself while inching back against the headboard. “What the hell, E?”
Easton runs his hand up my thigh, and damn it, there go those goosebumps again, followed by a literal knee-jerk reaction when he tickles me.
As in, maybe I kick him a little.
And maybe he kinda, sorta falls off the bed.
Because really, how many more ways could this morning be more humiliating?
Easton falls to the floor, tangled up in the blanket with a thud, and I peek over at him. “What the fuck, Lindy?”
I can’t believe this is happening.
I close my eyes as embarrassment washes over me, followed by freezing cold waves of panic. With a deep breath, I hide my face in my hands. Only, when I yank my hand back, I stare in horror at the big, fat, perfect brilliant-cut diamond sitting on my ring finger, right next to a matching band.
A wedding band.
My mouth opens and shuts a few times as I try to find words. Then I look from the beautiful diamond and platinum band to the mouthwatering man now standing at the foot of the bed, shirtless and in a pair of navy-blue boxer briefs. Every inch of his golden chest is on beautiful display. Muscles stretch under taut skin. Veins bulge. It’s a sight I would love to savor if it weren’t for the shock I’m pretty sure I’m going into. Because there’s a plain black band on his left ring finger too.
“My eyes are up here, princess.”
I snap my head up to his stupid grin and throw a pillow at his face as I climb up to my knees. “Wanna tell me why I have a wedding ring on my finger, Easton Hayes?”
“Pretty sure because you’re my wife, Madeline Hayes.”
“I’m sorry. WHAT?” I shriek at Easton as I stand up and attempt to secure the sheet around myself, while hysteria bubbles underneath my skin. “For a second, I thought you said I was your wife. But that couldn’t be right. I mean, that’s crazy.” I fight to get the stupid fucking sheet knotted so I can move without my boobs popping free but can’t seem to manage since my hands won’t stop shaking. “I can’t be your wife. I’m not even your girlfriend.” When I still can’t get the damn sheet tied, I grab a white t-shirt off the floor and take a step toward Easton. “How exactly could I possibly be your wife?”
Easton takes the shirt out of my hands and pulls it down over my head like I’m a freaking child, and I manage to slide my arms through it without flashing him. My husband. “What the fuck, E?”
His eyes soften as I drop the sheet to the floor and step out of it. The shirt comes to mid thigh, covering all the important bits, and I feel slightly better for a second until he reaches out and cups my face. “What’s the last thing you remember, Lindy?”
I close my eyes—trying to ignore how good it feels to be held like this—and try to focus on last night, but that makes my head hurt ten times worse. “Everything gets a little fuzzy after the shots.”
Oh, lord. So many shots. “There was dancing.”