Well Hung (8 page)

T
he big orb
in the sky blares angrily through the window, shooting bright bolts of light that assault my eyes. I squeeze my lids, rubbing them, trying to will away the relentless sunshine attack.

But my head . . .

When did my head start doing an impression of a cannonball? Wait. No, it feels more like a construction zone, and an army of small angry men are jackhammering inside my skull. I groan and fling an arm over my eyes.

A small voice speaks softly. “Hey, time to get up.”

I wince, not from the voice, but from reality. Reality sucks. My mouth is sawdust. My veins slog with mud. My head weighs fifty tons.

Hangovers are fun
, said no one ever.

“Sleeping beauty,” the voice whispers, accompanied by a gentle shake on my shoulder.

I scoot up in bed, drag a hand through my messy hair, then cover my mouth as I yawn and . . .
What the fuck is this on my left hand???

I sit bolt upright, cannonball-brain be damned.

I lift my hand as if it’s been sewn on by extraterrestrials in my sleep. Because there’s a motherfucking gold band on my finger.

Yup. Aliens. UFOs. Martians. That’s the only reasonable explanation. Little green men visited me last night and shoved a wedding ring on my finger.

I turn my head slightly and see a blonde in my bed. She must be the owner of the soft voice. Or maybe she’s an angel. Looks like one. The sun shines brightly, and I squint, but I can see she’s smiling, a little wistfully. Damn, she’s pretty, and her eyes are the warmest shade of blue I’ve ever seen. I cover my mouth because my breath must be dumpster levels now, and infecting a lovely like her with morning mouth is a crime.

I blink.

Holy shit.

That’s my assistant in my bed, dressed in a gray tank top and jeans, with her wet hair twisted in a bun on top of her head.

And I’m dressed like I’m about to go skinny-dipping.

I scratch my head. Maybe I called her last night. Begged her to come rescue me from whatever shenanigans I’d gotten myself into with whoever is wearing the other half of this pair of rings. Man, I’ve no clue who I married last night, or when Natalie, ever efficient and super organized, arrived to save my ass. Maybe I’m still drunk.

Note to self: Exhibit a bit more decorum with employees in the future.

“Need to brush my teeth,” I say, and scramble out of bed.

Scramble may be an exaggeration. More like drag my sorry, hungover ass out of bed. Oh. Right. Naked ass, too. I really need to work on decorum, stat.

But nature calls. In the bathroom, I take an epic piss that lasts so long I might need to call Guinness and enter it in Longest Whizzes Ever. While I’m at it, I’d like to campaign to change the phrase
take a piss
to
leave a piss
because no one actually takes pee.

I flush, wash my hands, and brush the morning-after stink-breath from my mouth.

Better. I’m semi-human now.

Nah, that’s too generous. More like one-quarter human. I run the faucet, splash cold water on my face and into my eyes, and stare in the mirror. Then at my ring. Then back in the mirror.

“What the fuck did you do last night, Hammer?” I mutter.

Natalie’s eyes flash back at me in the reflection. I spin around and wince, groaning as the drilling in my head resumes.

She holds a cup of coffee in one hand and points to the marble counter with the other. “There’s aspirin. I set some out for you when I got up and had mine. Looks like you need it.”

I grab the two white pills, toss them on my tongue, and send them down the hatch, on a mercy mission to take away the pain. She thrusts the coffee at me. “Since you’re a coffee whore,” she says with a knowing little wink.

I take it and thank her. She is part-angel, after all. I drink some of the life-sustaining substance, and its restorative powers begin to kick in. Maybe I’m closing in on halfway human now.

“You okay?” Her voice is gentle, caring. “I didn’t feel so hot when I woke up, either. But I’m managing better now.”

I shrug, trying to play it cool, which is not helped by the fact that I’m swinging free this morning. She doesn’t seem fazed by my lack of pants, though. Must really give this woman a raise. She’s unflappable. She’s gone above and beyond the call of duty. “Yeah, sure. And sorry about all this.” I gesture to my crotch, which is heading into morning wood territory.

She shoots me a tiny grin.

Jesus Christ.

Could I possibly cross any more lines of inappropriate behavior with her? My eyes land on her left hand, and the matching ring.

My heart stops pumping. My breath stutters. The floor falls out.

I squeeze my eyes shut. No way. No way.
No way
. This is just a dream. A very vivid dream. I haven’t actually crossed
that
line. But when I open my eyes, she’s here, I’m here, and so are the rings. My heart gallops away from my chest and steals my sanity with it.

I point.

Gawk.

Try to speak.

“What the . . .?”

She parks her hand on her hips. “What? Is there a tiger in the tub?”

“Huh?”

“Are you missing a tooth?”

My hand goes to my mouth. No, please God no—I have nightmares about that. I love my teeth. Years of braces set them straight, and now they’re a fantastic set of gleaming choppers. Running my fingers over them, I breathe a sigh of relief. Whew. They’re all good. “Teeth are fine.”

“Or is
this
the thing freaking you out?” She holds up her hand, brandishing the matching band once more. “You married me last night, dingdong.” She rolls her eyes. They’re a bit red, like she didn’t get much more sleep than I did. “I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

“Noooo,” I say coolly, lying my fucking ass off. “I remember everything. It’s all crystal clear.”

She cocks her head, studying me. “Is it?”

I drag a hand along the back of my neck, determined to get a handle on the big, fat blank inside my mind. “Yeah. It’s in Technicolor up here,” I say, tapping my head.

“That’s great, then. You won’t be surprised when the cops show up shortly to take a statement about how you stripped to your birthday suit, jumped into the Bellagio Fountains and shouted, ‘Join me, Frisky Mittens.’”

Ding, ding, ding.

That’s it. With those words, bits and pieces of last night surface. I remember a sideburn, a rollercoaster, her frisky hands, a towering drink, a crazy proposal, and then my head spins. I sway, grabbing the sink. More comes into focus. The fucking and the kissing and the talking and then the brilliant idea, like we’d never had a better one in the world, to get married.

And so we did.

Because . . . we were drunk in Vegas.

Holy shit.

I kissed my assistant.

I banged my assistant.

I married my assistant.

I broke my one big fat rule. Because I don’t, as in never fucking ever, mix business and pleasure. But by all accounts, last night I stomped on that rule in spectacular fashion.

“Oh, and apparently there’s a viral video circulating of you climbing up the Vegas sign,” she adds. “Like a tree monkey.”

She’s fucking with me, but rather than let on that I’m reeling, I adopt my best playful smile. “I’m agile, but I’m not that agile, sweetheart. I’d need suction cups on my hands to pull that off.” In an effort to regain some memory cred with her, I rattle off, “Maybe if you’d told me I climbed a rollercoaster I’d believe you. Or a pinball machine.”

I just can’t fathom that those fiestas of fucking led to a proposal, and I can’t stop staring at my finger, either, like the longer I look, the greater the chance it’ll disappear. But it’s not conducting a vanishing act, even though the details of the wedding itself are just a blur, like a streak of neon across the night. I can recall a guy in a tight gold leisure suit, some Elvis tunes, laughing like crazy with Natalie, then a speedy “I do.” Next, a ride in a limo, toasting, sticking our heads out the window, the night air blasting our faces and cooling us off from the heat of all that . . . screwing.

A memory of the sounds she made when she came blasts through my brain, like a chorus of her pleasure, stirring my cock to full salute.

Why, oh why, did the sex with her have to be so ridiculously sublime?

She taps her wrist. “Our flight leaves in two hours, Sleeping Beauty. I did a little research before you got out of bed, and it looks like there’s just enough time for you to shower and for us to get an annulment, grab a car to the airport, and make our departure. I checked us into our flight already, and we can just go to TSA pre-screen since we’re first class,” she says, brushing one palm against the other.

My mind spins with whiplash. We got married last night, and Natalie has already arranged the exodus from that bad decision? How does she do this? She yawns, the only other evidence that last night took a toll on her, too, but then she returns to normal in a heartbeat. Damn, she has impressive hangover recovery skills.

“You found someone already?” I shouldn’t be surprised. This is what she does. She’s impeccably organized and a master planner. Still, this is a new level of efficiency even for her.

“I did. We’ll be unmarried before you know it,” she says, then makes a shooing gesture. “Move it along.”

“Did you book the annulment before we even tied the knot?” I say, trying to make a joke. “Admit it—you brought me here planning to get me down the aisle and have your wicked way with me. You tricked me, didn’t you?”

But judging from the furrow of her brows, I’ve failed miserably in the humor department. “Tricked you?”

“Yeah. So you could have me all night long.”

She sighs heavily. “That would imply I’d intended to marry you last night.”

“Wait. Whose idea was it, then?”

She stares at me like the words coming out of my mouth are foreign. Maybe they are. When she speaks, her tone is laced with frustration. “Both. We got married because we were drunk and daring and having fun, not because
I
planned it,” she says, tapping her chest. “We both woke up hungover. We both woke up shocked. I’m simply the one trying to untangle the mess we both made and make sure we still get home on time. Thanks to my amazing googling skills, as well as my astonishing ability to wake up before you, I accomplished that. Not through some feat of supreme trickery. Anyway, I tracked down a paralegal that’s not too far out of the way as we head to the airport. The car service will be here in thirty minutes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to blow-dry my hair.”

She turns on her heel. But before she leaves, she snaps her gaze back to me then roams her eyes down my body. “By the way, nice boner. In case you forgot that part of last night, we screwed four times, and you came harder and louder than I’m sure you ever did before.”

She leaves, and my feet are glued to the tiles of the bathroom, and my dick points in her direction, wanting a repeat.

“Down, boy,” I mutter, but my dick doesn’t listen because what she just said was fucking hot. So were all those orgasms last night.

“You were loud, too,” I call out as I trudge to the shower, turn it on high, and try to wash off the regret. Because as hot as the sex was, I was sure I’d moved on from my stint of bad choices with women. I’d been to rehab, I’d learned my lesson, and I’d followed my own guidelines.

Till last night.

When I fell off the wagon big time.

I bend my head under the stream, letting the hot water scald my neck and run down my back. As I soap up, a blast of memories fights its way to the front of my head, reminding me of the two big mistakes in my past when it comes to women. I picture Roxy, her sexy smirk that won me, then the letter from her years later trying to rip me to shreds. Given how all the shit went down with her, I was cautious and careful with Katrina. Little good it did. The bitch hacked me anyway.

My chest tightens painfully as I picture that sweet, blond beauty in the other room doing the same. Natalie could skewer me and have my business for lunch. She’s Mrs. Hammer now. She’s got access to what’s mine, and I can’t stop imagining her taking my credit card numbers, stealing my shit, digging her claws in.

But it’s crazy to think that.

“Get a grip,” I mutter, because Natalie would never screw me over. She’s not like those others. She’s not a kick-’em-in-the-balls kind of woman.

Except . . . you’ve only known her six months, dude
.

I scrub my skin harder and try to talk myself off the ledge. I’m being ridiculous. Natalie and I spent
one
night together, and she already organized the annulment to fix our mistake. Just because I’ve got a couple of nutso chicks behind me doesn’t mean the chick I nailed last night will go cuckoo, too.

But, calling her
the chick I nailed
seems wrong, especially as the metal on my finger glints at me, reminding me of how much more than
nailing
it was with her. Bits and pieces of laughter and lightness jostle in my brain, along with a memory of sweet, tender kisses, of a connection that felt deeper.

I didn’t just nail her last night. I’m sure of it. What happened between the two of us was way more than that.

I’m equally sure it can’t happen again.