Son of a mother effing bitch,” I shout as smoke billows from my oven, clogging my kitchen in a grey haze.

The smoke alarm sets off immediately. No surprise there. It’s as if the fog chokes everything in the room. In an attempt to clear out the smoke, I open the windows around the first floor of my house and use a baking pan as a fan, waving it around like a maniac.

I cough a few times, wondering what the chicken I was trying to bake looks like at this point. Probably charred to its very core. No salmonella here. At least I have that going for me.

Broken teeth, now that’s a different story.

Smoke alarm still blaring, echoing around my neighborhood, I bring a chair below the alarm, stand on it, and wave my baking sheet frantically, my ear drums ready to rupture any second.

“I get it, you think the house is burning down,” I shout. “I can assure you, it’s not. So shut the ever loving hell up!”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“You demon machine!”

Dogs rally with the smoke detector, barking out their displeasure, a car alarm is set off, and the noise echoes horrendously in my head, like a pounding ice pick to the brain.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“You’re a loud mother fucker, aren’t you?” I grunt, my arms getting tired and just when I think I’m about to pass out from smoke inhalation and brain damage from the beeping, the sound stops, startling me and sending me careening to the ground.

I land flat on my ass with a plop.

Dressed in a cute flower apron that I thought might give me some super-human cooking powers, hair a sweaty hot mess and plastered to my face, and my baking sheet next to me, looking warped, I sit there, staring at the floor.

“Well,” I let out a sigh. “Rachel Ray is a freaking liar. Easy thirty-minute meals, my ass.”

From the counter, my phone rings, pulling my attention away from my pathetic attempt at cooking another meal. I don’t have to look at the caller ID to know who it is. He calls the same time almost every night.

Not standing from my seat on the floor, I fling my arm to the top of my counter, wiggle my fingers around until I find my phone, and accept the FaceTime call. Always FaceTime, never a straight-up phone call anymore. I think it’s cute . . . usually. Right now, not so much.

“Hey,” I sigh when his face comes on screen.

Sitting in his living room, he’s got a shirt on this go around, a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the top few buttons undone. It reminds me of the outfit he wore to the wedding. Over the past several weeks, I’ve noticed he’s let his hair grow out on top, leaving the sides shaved. I like the new look, and I’d like it even more if I was able to run my fingers through it.

“Hey, Saucy.” His face crinkles together when he gets a good look at me. “What’s wrong?”

Always perceptive.

“Burnt another dinner.” This isn’t the first time he’s found me in this situation. We tried once making a meal together on FaceTime, guiding me step by step, and in the end, I still charred the hell out of my meal. I blame my oven. It’s a temperamental ass.

“Damn, really? What was it this time?”

“Some chicken bake Rachel Ray believes everyone can make. Well guess what, I’ll be writing that lady a letter and shipping her my chicken meal just to prove her wrong. That’ll teach her.”

“Sure will.” He laughs. “Sorry about your meal. Are you going for pizza or lobster bisque tonight?” See, this really isn’t the first time he’s caught me on a bad cooking night.

“Crackers and cheese. I’m too lazy to go grab something.” I stand from my floor and prop the phone against the fruit bowl on my counter so I can start cleaning my kitchen while talking.

“When you say crackers and cheese do you mean—?”

“Goldfish and Cheez Whiz.” I nod. “Yup, unfortunately it’s a staple in my house.”

Shaking his head, laughter in his features, he says, “I should have guessed. At least I’ve seen you eat this delicacy before and know you have the decency to squirt the cheese on the Goldfish.”

“I’m not a monster.” I chuckle. Then gasp as someone walks through my sliding glass door, scaring the crap out of me. “Oh Christ, you scared me.”

“What?” Beck asks, seeming confused.

Before I can answer him, Griffin says, “Sorry about that, Rylee.”

I cringe. There is no doubt in my mind Beck can hear that Griffin is here.

“Are you okay?” Griffin waves his hand in the air. “It’s really smoky in here.”

“Rylee?” Beck asks, sending a wave of nerves up my spine.

“Uh, yeah, just a cooking mishap.” I turn to Beck and give him a quick smile. “Everything is good though.”

Being the good guy he is, Griffin comes over to the kitchen and gives me a once-over before opening up my oven, sending another wave of smoke into the air. Oh for the love of God, please don’t set off the alarm again.

Pulling out the chicken with an oven mitt, he takes in the charred chicken and says, “Damn, Rylee. What were you trying to do? Turn it into dust?”

Griffin is in clear view now to the phone, giving Beck quite the show as he moves around my kitchen, pouring some water on the chicken, and then taking it outside. “Let me handle this for you.”

When he steps out of the kitchen, I turn to Beck and say, “Sorry, he must have heard the smoke alarm going off. He doesn’t live very far from me.” My explanation is cut off when the phone says poor connection, will resume shortly. Damn you, iPhone.

“There, that should do it.” Griffin comes in the house with only an oven mitt in hand. “I left the chicken outside to cool off and remove the smell. Keep the windows open for at least an hour to help with the smoke and please, for the sake of the neighborhood, get your oven cleaned before you cook anything else. Something dripped to the bottom, and that’s why there was so much smoke, like double the amount.”

“Oh.” I nod. “That’s why she called for a bigger pan in the recipe.”

Griffin shakes his head and squeezes my shoulder. “Stick to the writing, Rylee.” He smiles his handsome smile, then takes off toward the sliding glass door. “Holler if you need anything.”

“Sure, thanks.” Feeling awkward, I turn back to my phone where Beck is waiting patiently, hands clasped in front of him, his forearms flexing from his grip.

Not knowing what to really do, I drop the apron on my counter, pick up the phone, and take it to the couch where I prop it up on my tucked-in knees. There’s nothing I can do about the smoke but let it air out on its own, so I devote my time to Beck instead.

“Sorry about that.” I wince, hoping . . . hell, I don’t know what I hope. It’s not like Beck and I are dating, but then again, we talk so much that I kind of feel like I owe him an explanation. “He is a volunteer firefighter—”

“I miss you.” Beck’s voice is gruff. He grips the back of his neck, pulling on it and rubbing it. “Damn it, Rylee, I miss you a whole fucking lot.”

Well, that’s not what I expected him to say, but I can’t deny the little jump in my heart it’s giving me.

“Do you miss me, Rylee? Or is this a one-sided feeling? Tell me now, because if you’re not experiencing the same kind of feeling, I have to know. I don’t want to keep calling you, and thinking about you every goddamn day, if you’re not missing the hell out of me too.”

As much as I want to deny my growing feelings for Beck, as much as for my heart’s sake I should tell him no, there is no way I can tell him I don’t miss him. It’s a blatant lie. I feel sheer panic from the thought of him not calling me anymore. This is stupid. I spent a few days with him on an island and over a month with him on the phone, and yet, I feel this bond between us, this electric force pulling us together.

Biting on the inside of my cheek, I nod, unable to squeak the words out.

“No, Rylee. I need to hear it. I need you to tell me.” There is a different tone to his voice, a . . . desperation about him that I’ve never heard before and what’s really weird, is that I can feel the same desperation inside me.

Making eye contact with him, I say, “I miss you, too, Beck.”

Briefly he shuts his eyes and exhales. “Thank fuck.”

“Were you really that worried? Isn’t it obvious I miss you?”

“Hell, I don’t know, Rylee.” He grumbles something as he rubs his hand over his face. “Fuck.” Looking at me now, leaning forward, his stare cutting through me, he says, “Meet me somewhere.”

“What?” My brow pulls together.

“Let’s crash another wedding. Meet me somewhere, anywhere, and we can crash another wedding, maybe spend more time together, see where these feelings are taking us.”

“Why crash another wedding?”

“Because, that’s what we do.” He says it so matter-of-factly, it’s hard to give it a second thought.

“I don’t know anyone getting married.”

“That’s the point. We could truly crash a wedding this time.”

“But . . . how would we know where to go?”

A devilish smile passes over his lips. “That’s easy, the wedding capital of the world. Vegas, baby.”

“You want to go to Las Vegas to crash a wedding?” I raise my eyebrows in question. This might be the dumbest idea ever, but I’m actually entertaining the possibility.

“Yeah, why the hell not? We meet up, scour the wedding chapels, maybe take a few pictures with the bride and groom, do a little gambling, and then spend the rest of the time in our hotel room. Sounds like a fucking fantastic time to me.”

“You’re serious?” I don’t know why I asked the question, because I can see it in his eyes. He’s locked in on this idea.

“Completely serious. This Friday, let’s do it.”

“But . . .”

He chuckles. “While you wrack your mind for an excuse, I’m booking a flight.” He stands from the couch, propping the phone up on something and quickly returns with a computer. His fingers furiously type across the keyboard.

“Beck, are you really booking a flight?”

Without saying a word, he turns the computer around for me to see the airline flight he’s on. Oh my God, he’s really doing it. “Better hurry up and get your computer, Saucy. Flights from Maine might be booking up.” He looks up from his computer and says, “You know you want to see me.”

Damn it, I do. Ever since we turned up the heat and I was ready to masturbate while he watched, I feel as though I’ve been on pins and needles. So horny. So frustrated. So needy . . . for him.

Gnawing on my lip for all but two seconds, I get up from my couch, grab my computer, and start searching through flights, the impulse decision sending a rush of excitement through me.

“That’s my girl.” There is a huge grin across Beck’s face. That grin. I’ve come to love that grin. Am I really doing this? Are we really going to see if there is more between us than just the mini-vacay jaunt? Yes. We are. And to be honest, I love that he wants this. That he wants to see where our feelings lead us.

God, this is going to be so worth it.

* * *

Nervous about flying?” the guy next to me asks as he sips from the stir straws of his drink.

“What? No.” I shake my head.

“Oh, well it looks like it from the way your legs are bouncing up and down, as if they’re trying to create turbulence.”

I still my legs and release my grip on the armrests. I couldn’t care less about flying. I never get nervous about slicing through the skies in a metal tube. No, the bounce of my legs and the death grip on my armrest is a result of “what the hell was I thinking?” syndrome.

You know when you decide to do something and think to yourself, this is going to be the greatest thing ever! And when the time comes for the greatest thing ever to happen, immediate questioning and regret pop into your head, drowning you in a roller coaster of “what the fuck am I doing?”

Yeah, I’m there. I’m drowning in my thoughts, questioning my sanity.

“Uh, no, not nervous.”

The guy nods his head. “Good, good.” He leans closer to me and stirs his drink, rum on his breath. “You know, I was upgraded to this seat. Fancy, huh?”

I eye him up and down, wishing I could sit farther away due to his cheap cologne searing my nostrils. “Oh yeah, that’s cool.”

“Yup, got the old upgrade.” He sips loudly on his straw. “You know they give you free alcohol up here. Want me to order you something? It’s on me.” He winks, like a dweeb.

I hold up my hand. “I’m good, but thank you.”

“Yeah, sure, anytime. I know the waitress. We’re tight.” He holds his crossed fingers up to me.

“Flight attendant. She is a flight attendant, not a waitress.” He needs to be corrected, but doesn’t seem to be fazed.

“Oh I know, just joshing around with you.” He nudges me with his elbow. “You know, this is when you laugh.”

I pick up my earbuds and hold them over my ears. “I laugh when a joke is actually funny.” I put in my earbuds and turn up the music on my phone, starting a playlist I created after my Key West trip. The first song to play is Havana, the song Beck and I danced to at the wedding, the one where I swear the dance floor was ours and ours alone. Flashes of us plastered against each other play through my mind. His hands gliding up my thighs, his breath caressing my neck, his lips a whisper away from my skin.

Goosebumps break out over my arms and the tension starts to ease in my shoulders as I close my eyes and think of the man I’ll be seeing shortly. It will be okay; this was a good idea. Maybe I can get one last fill and move on. Maybe that’s all this is—one last hurrah. I bet after this weekend, we won’t want to see each other anymore. Won’t I?

Settling into my seat, I let out a pent-up breath and melt into the leather—

“I got you something.” My earphone is yanked from my ear and the man next to me points to a drink beside me. Smiling, he repeats, “I got you something. I like to call it The Brad. Try it.”

I eye the drink and then look back at this immature man who frankly shouldn’t be touching any part of me. He crossed a line, and I’m about to let him know about it.

Taking my earbud back, and not in a kind way, I say, “Are you delusional? In what universe do you think I’m going to take a drink from you? First of all, I didn’t want a drink. Second of all, how do I know you didn’t tamper with it? And third of all—I lean in close, my eyes slicing him in half—“touch my earbuds again and I will take those straws out of your drink, pierce your balls with them, and serve them to the other first-class passengers as mini shish ka-balls.” To make my point clear, I add, “Leave me the fuck alone.”

When he quivers backward, I feel a little bad. But then I tell myself he pushed his luck, so he deserves the little tongue-lashing. Turning toward the window now, I block him off and close my eyes, focusing on one thing. Beck.

* * *

I stare at my text messages as I ride the train through the Las Vegas Airport to baggage claim. When I turned my phone off airplane mode, I had two text messages waiting for me.

Beck: Can’t wait to fucking see you, Saucy.

Beck: Here. Waiting for you in baggage claim

That last one set off a flutter of nerves, the nerves I thought I already kicked. It’s real. It’s not just talk over the phone or flirtatious texts. This is really happening. And I haven’t told anyone.

Probably not a smart decision, but I couldn’t make myself tell Zoey and Victoria. I didn’t want to hear their ribbing, and I really didn’t want to talk through my decision, because in my mind, I could see them trying to talk me out of it. And maybe I should have had them talk me out of it, given the unsteady situation between Beck and I, but I also feel like I need this wild streak to continue; I need to give myself another chance at throwing caution to the wind.

And that’s exactly what this is.

The train stops and I follow the passengers through the exit and past a wall of security doors out into an open room where there are rows and rows of baggage claim carousels. I bite my bottom lip as I search the space, looking for Beck, and when my eyes land on him, my breath catches in my chest.

Leaning against a pole, one leg propped up, in all his sexy, six-foot-something glory, he stands, waiting for me. He’s wearing tight-fitting black jeans, black boots, a loose white V-neck shirt, and a grey sock hat. When he spots me, he doesn’t attempt to make a move. No, his eyes lock with mine, making a magnitude of promises I’m sure he won’t fail to deliver on, and his trademark devilish smile takes over his face.

As I approach, he doesn’t shift, and he doesn’t even waiver. He waits for me, as if he wants me to make the first move.

Three steps.

Two steps

One.

“Hey,” I breathe out, unsure of what to do with my hands.

He tilts his head to the side and pushes off the pillar, coming toe to toe with me. He doesn’t say anything. The sounds of our beating hearts fill the silence as he reaches forward and pinches my chin with his index finger and thumb, bringing my mouth to his. It’s a light but passionate kiss, his lips taking what they want with just enough pressure to make me want to beg for more.

Growling against my lips, he lifts away, revealing lust-filled hazel eyes, the same eyes I can’t seem to erase from my dreams.

“Exactly how I remembered.” He places one more kiss on my lips and pulls me into a hug. “I’ve missed you.”

My cheek rests against his chest, his arms enveloping me into his warmth, and for the first time since I said goodbye to him all those weeks ago, I feel at ease, like all my worries are washing away, and I can live in this moment. How does he do that to me?

Being honest, I respond, “I missed you too.”

“That’s my girl.” He kisses the top of my head and links my hand with his. Bending down, he picks up a small duffle bag that’s at his feet and guides me to the carousel. “I’m going to assume you checked a bag, unless you decided to have a naked weekend in the hotel room, then I’m good with that.”

I squeeze his hand, loving how this isn’t awkward at all, almost as if we haven’t skipped a beat since we parted. “I checked a bag. I’m here to crash weddings and nothing else.”

Chuckling, that deep rumbly sound causing me to sigh, Beck says, “I would like to say nothing else is going to happen, but you and I both know that’s not the truth.” He presses his lips against my ear as he speaks low. “Because I’m going to tell you right now, the first chance I get, I’m going to sink my cock into you and fuck you. For hours.”

The way he says the word fuck—with such confidence, such sensual, hidden promises—has my legs shaking beneath me.

Unable to speak, especially with Beck rubbing his thumb along my hand, I spot my baggage quickly and we make our way to the taxi line, which thankfully, isn’t very long.

“Where to?” the driver asks. I’m about to open my mouth when I pause. I have no clue where we’re headed. I didn’t make any reservations.

But I don’t have to worry for long. “The Bellagio.” Leaning into me, he whispers, “My friend hooked us up.”

The taxi takes off and Beck scoots as close to me as possible, his arm stretched out behind me.

“Good flight, Rylee?” he asks, so casually. It’s impressive he can seem so chill, especially when I’m shaking with excitement and nerves.

“Sort of. Some college guy was trying to hit on me, I think.”

“Is that right?” He chuckles. “Did you shut the poor bastard down?”

“Quickly.”

“Man, I feel bad for him.”

“Why?” I turn slightly to look at Beck. His scruff looks even thicker, and those lips of his, God, I want to feel them all over my body.

“Because, if I was shut down by you, I’m pretty sure I would cry myself to sleep.”

I roll my eyes and playfully knock him in the stomach. “Please, you’d move on to the next girl.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I would have gone after Victoria.”

“What?” Now I turn completely in my seat. He what? Beck’s laughter carries through the cab. “Are you serious? You would have gone after Victoria if I’d turned you down?”

“Nah, but it’s damn sexy seeing that fiery spirit in you again.”

Infuriating man.

We get checked in to our hotel, and I faintly hear the words suite when the clerk at the front desk speaks to Beck. Just how good of a deal did we receive from Beck’s friend? In the elevator to our high-rise floor, we exchange glances, Beck’s fingers delicately tracing my back, working their way up and down my spine, slipping under my shirt then below my waistline. I suck in a harsh breath when he starts to play with the lace of my thong.

Tug and snap then a gentle rub of his finger. It’s on constant repeat, sending my mind into a whirl of sensations. And thanks to the man in front of us, I’m forced to be on my best behavior.

The elevator stops at our floor and we scoot past the unwelcome passenger, down the hall to our room, where Beck pushes the keycard in to open the door for me. I brush past him, catching his masculine cologne as I walk by. For a moment, I temporarily forget about the sensual attack Beck made on me, and I’m caught up in the beauty of the room.

Windows run the expanse of the large wall, giving a picture-perfect view of the city lights. To the right is a giant bed, fluffy and white, and to the left is a small sitting area and bar. The room is decorated in tans and browns, with touches of black. It’s clean and crisp and beautiful.

Stepping behind me, Beck puts his hands on my shoulders and starts to lower them down my arms. His lips press against my neck, and my body starts to tingle with awareness.

“I’m going to take a shower and get ready. I have dinner plans for us, and I’ve scoped out some wedding chapels. Do you need to shower before we leave?” He kisses my neck again and I’m a little stunned. Don’t get me wrong, I’m ready for dinner, my stomach could use something in it, but I thought the minute we stepped foot in this hotel room, Beck would strip me down and make me feel so incredibly good.

But when he parts from me and takes his duffle bag to the bathroom, I’m proven wrong.

The shower sounds off through the partially open door. Beck was serious? We’re . . . getting ready to go out? As I hear him move around in the bathroom, getting in the shower, I contemplate if I should simply shower with him. Is that too bold? To invite myself in?

We only spent one night exploring each other’s bodies. I haven’t seen him in over a month, so would it be super weird? Does he want me in the shower with him?

I nibble on my finger, my suitcase handle in hand, trying to figure out what to do. Deciding to take things slow since we’ve only reunited, I take my suitcase to the luggage stand and open it up to let my clothes air. Carefully I unfold the black, sequined dress I brought for wedding crashing and lay it on the back of a chair to avoid wrinkles. Next, I pull out my cosmetic bags and grip them to my chest as I take a peek into the bathroom. I can’t see anything but billowing steam. How hot does he have the water?

Maybe the shower is partitioned off. Contemplating taking my cosmetics into the bathroom, I decide it won’t hurt if I slip in quickly, cast my eyes down, and set my bags on the counter.

Yes, that’s exactly what I’ll do.

Head held high, plan in place, I slip into the bathroom, keeping my eyes turned down . . . just in time for me to hear a light groan come from the shower directly behind me.

Because my eyes are curious—and don’t listen to my brain—I glance in the mirror. And what a sight. A dark outline of Beck’s incredible body. I cast my eyes down, focusing on the marble countertop of the vanity. I shouldn’t be looking. I should leave. It was supposed to be a quick drop and go, but . . .

I peek up again and notice Beck hunched over, one hand propping his body up against the tile, the other at his waist.

My mouth goes dry as I watch him slowly pump himself, his groan echoing through the bathroom, the steam and sounds coming from him heating my entire body. Like a voyeur, feet cemented to the tile beneath me, I stare into the mirror and watch his silhouette pump his length. Up and down, up and down.

A low ache starts to thrum between my legs, the need for him building, my will for leaving slipping.

I hear him grumble something I can’t quite make out, but it sounds a lot like my name, which pulls me toward the shower. On shaky legs, I kick off my shoes and socks, my body moving automatically, my hand reaching for the handle of the shower door.

T-shirt and shorts on, I open the shower door, and the cold air must pull Beck’s attention in my direction. Pained eyes meet mine, his hand stills on his cock, and his back muscles ripple from the tension building inside him. He’s so gloriously naked, sinew wrapped around the sturdy bones of his body, enticing me inside. Water be damned. I step up from behind him and bring my hands to his back where I hook them around his stomach, and his abs flicker beneath my palms with each inch I lower to his hard-on. I’m silent as I kiss his wet body, his back tight against my mouth, his hand parting from his length, giving me the access I want. With both of his hands leaning against the tile in front of him now, he braces himself as I move my hands to his center.

I grab his hard-as-rock cock and grip the base tightly, rotating my hand, making sure to move my thumb up and down his stiff veins. A low hiss escapes him, and when I grab his balls with the other hand, he bucks against me. I hold him tightly, giving him no wiggle room, as I roll his balls back and forth in my palm, his cock cut off at the root, my squeeze like a vise, trying to pool the blood at the tip as I slowly move my hand to the head. I don’t pump. I don’t rub. I squeeze and at a snail’s pace move upward.

“Fucking hell, Rylee. Goddamn it.” His fist pounds against the tile of the shower, his muscles in his back tensing even more. I continue to move my hand up, my other hand rapidly rolling his balls.

“Rylee, please, fuck, I can’t take this.”

I kiss his back and continue to move my hand up, my squeeze growing tighter with each pass. His breathing becomes labored, and his cock twitches in my hand, as he leans his brow against the tile. When I reach the bottom of the head, I twist my hand at the base.

“Fuck!” he shouts and stands tall, removing my hands. When he spins around, his cock looks heavy, ready to burst, and his eyes look murderous.

He doesn’t give me a chance to make a move because he’s on me before I can reach out for him again. He plasters my arms against the tile of the shower, bits of water bouncing off his back. Leaning forward, he nips at my lips, pulling on them, giving me no other option but to let him take charge. When he pulls away, he says, “Keep your hands here, Rylee.”

Reaching for my shorts, he undoes them and drags them down my legs along with my lace thong. He leaves them on the ground and slowly moves his hands up my legs, past my hips, to the hem of my shirt where he peels the wet fabric off my body.

“We were supposed to wait,” he grumbles, working my bra off as well, freeing my nipples as he immediately starts to tweak them with his fingers. I breathe out heavily when he pinches both at the same time. “I had plans of fucking you all over this hotel room tonight, but not right now.”

“Why not . . . now?” I practically yelp when he squeezes my boob with his entire palm.

“Because, I don’t think after tasting you again I’ll be able to leave this hotel room.”

Yeah, he might be right about that. It’s going to be pretty damn hard.

“Well, you’re the one who was jacking off without me.”

“To get through the fucking night,” he mumbles against my skin. “Seeing you again, fuck, Rylee. It’s doing something to my body, something dangerous. I had to take care of myself, to relieve some of the tightness inside me in order to make it through the night with you.”

“You should have asked me to help.” I move my head to the side as his lips work up and down my neck, my core tingling with need.

“The surprise was better.” He lowers his hands and presses a finger against my clit. He slides in easily. “Shit, Saucy. You’re ready.”

“I was ready the minute I saw you in the airport.” And that’s the truth, because him leaning against the pole is an image I won’t forget for a very long time.

Growling, he hoists me around his waist, spins us around, and presses me against the opposite end of the shower. His erection presses against my ass as I squeeze my legs tightly around him, holding me up since he’s once again pinned my arms above me.

He moves his hands down my body, his thumbs rubbing against the side of my breasts as he ravages me with his mouth. Parting my lips, he slips his tongue inside and plunges forward, so aggressive, so needy, so male. So Beck.

Everything about Beck is male from the way he’s taking me against the tile of the shower, to his hardened cock so thick and enticing, to the way his mouth takes control, moving his tongue expertly against mine.

“Are you on the pill?”

“What? Yes,” I mutter, my mind unable to truly comprehend what he’s asking until he grunts and lifts my hips up, his cock pressed at my center.

“Tell me now if you don’t want this.”

Is he insane? Looking him in the eyes, I say, “I need this.”

Wasting no time, he brings me down on his cock. Our foreheads press together, our breathing both erratic as I adjust around his girth. I don’t remember him being this big. Hell, I don’t remember it being this intense, like every nerve ending in my body is set on fire and no amount of water will be able to extinguish the blaze inside me.

“So full,” I breathe out.

“So tight,” he replies, his voice strained. “I won’t last long.”

He pumps his hips into me. My body rubs along the tile wall, his mouth is on mine, his tongue busy flicking across mine, and his hands? They’re all over my body, searing my skin with each touch.

Relentless.

Slow.

Fast.

A rhythmic pattern of his cock hitting me in just the right spot.

Pulse after pulse.

Toes curling, nipples hardening, deep groans.

My body numbs, my stomach bottoms out, my clit pounds, yearning for release.

“Oh God, yes, more.”

Pump after pump.

Groaning, biting, scraping.

Fingertips across my skin, pinching my nipples.

“Fuck,” he says, his dick is so hard inside me.

One rub.

Two.

Three . . .

“Yes,” I scream as I convulse around him, his dick stilling as he releases right along with me, his cock pulsing inside me.

Light like a feather, my body floats down from my orgasm, tremors ratcheting through me, small little pulses shooting around my nerves.

Head on his shoulder, I catch my breath as he lowers me to the ground. My legs shake. He pulls me into a hug and holds me tightly for a few moments before separating us and grabbing a bar of soap.

What the hell was that?

I’ve never felt that good.

So sated.

Relaxing into his touch, for the first time ever, I let a man soap me up. It’s as if I’ve been waiting. Waiting for the right man, the man I can trust, and the man I can give myself to freely.

Beck.

* * *

Are you almost ready, Saucy? I’m about to demolish my damn shoe if we don’t eat soon.”

I fluff my hair one more time and check my lipstick to make sure it’s all in place. We might have missed our reservation for dinner due to unforeseen sexual activities, but Beck assured me he’d rather spend the time fucking me than eating dinner. After round three, my stomach grumbled and Beck slapped me on the ass, sending me to the bathroom to get ready.

The plan was to get ready, eat and crash weddings, but after the shower, there was no way we were going to be able to move out of this hotel room without making up for lost time. Again. And when he was groaning into my ear from behind, his release taking over the both of us, I couldn’t agree more. We needed a little fucking before we could move forward.

I pat down my dress and do a little turn in the mirror to check out my backside. I love how low the dress dips, low enough to make any man lustful. It’s so Vegas, so scandalous, and the perfect dress to drive Beck crazy. Especially after seeing him in his black button-up shirt and black slacks, looking sexy as sin.

Taking a deep breath, I walk out of the bathroom and find Beck on a chair, his legs wide, and his forearms resting on his knees as he stares at his phone. When he looks up, he does a quick double take and a slow smile spreads over his lips. Standing and pocketing his phone, he walks toward me, a swagger in every step forward.

Gripping my hips, his eyes then rake over me with hot perusal, his pupils darkening with each pass. “You’re trying to get me into trouble tonight, aren’t you, Saucy?”

“Whatever do you mean?” I play with the open collar of his shirt, marveling at his bronze skin.

“This dress is going to get me in trouble with every man on the strip tonight.” Leaning forward and pressing a light kiss across my lips, he says, “I take no responsibility for any fights I get into.”

“There will be no fighting.” I walk past him when he catches my wrist and his eyes soften.

“You look gorgeous, Rylee.”

My heart sputters in my chest as I feel my cheeks blush. Shyly, I reply, “Thank you.”

We take a moment, and an unknown electricity bounces between us, an awareness I’ve never felt with another man before. I like him . . . a lot, and that’s scary.

I shouldn’t like him, but I can’t help it. I’m drawn to him. I’m addicted to making him smile, and now, to feeling him pulse inside me. And I’m addicted to his mind, the way he lives life so freely, like every day is his last. It’s refreshing.

“Come on”—he nods toward the door—“before I rip that dress off you and we do nothing tonight but tangle each other up in the sheets.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” I give him a wink and pick up my small clutch on the way to the door, Beck trailing closely behind.

After some debating in the elevator about where to eat, we end up hitting a lobster joint called Lobster Me inside the shops by Planet Hollywood. Beck says his friend’s husband swears by their rolls. Being from Maine, where lobster is plucked from the sea in the morning and served on your plate that night for dinner, I’m skeptical, especially since Nevada is a land-locked state.

“Come on, admit it, Rylee. This shit is good.” Beck takes another giant bite of his lobster roll, his jaw working the food around. Call me crazy, but watching him eat is arousing.

“I’m not sure,” I answer, taking another bite of the lobster roll, loving how the flavors pop on my tongue.

“You’re such a liar.”

Okay, I’m a liar. I admit it; the lobster roll is fucking good. It’s more than good, because it’s one of the best I’ve had. And what a sin for me to admit such a thing. I was born and raised in Maine, and not just Maine, but on the coast where I’ve caught lobster myself. I shouldn’t like this lobster roll, I should turn my nose up at it. But holy shit, I can’t stop eating it.

“Ha!” Beck pokes my lip where it’s turned up. “You like it and you know it. You want another one, don’t you?”

I’m halfway through my first lobster roll and, yes, it’s crossed my mind to grab another, because that’s how good these are.

Ugh, I’m a sham of a woman. I shouldn’t be able to return to Maine. My parents will disown me if they find out.

“I mean, it’s good.” I try to play it casual but Beck can see right through me.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll go order another one to split.”

“Extra grilled bun,” I call out as Beck walks toward the register, his laugh shifting his shoulders up and down.

I’m such a shame to my home state. Thank God, I have this delicious lobster roll to comfort me.

* * *

Have you been to Vegas before?” I ask Beck as we walk to the Vegas Wedding Chapel, well known for their Elvis weddings.

“Maybe too many times, especially when I was younger.” His jaw turns tight and I can see the change in his features when he mentions his past. “What about you?”

“A few times for author signings. Spent many a night at Chippendales.”

“Love that show. Can’t get enough of men’s dicks in small fabric slings.”

“What?” I laugh. “You’ve been to a Chippendales show?”

He holds the door open to me and nods. “Yeah, I’ve done it all, Saucy. Maybe a little too much.”

“So does that mean you want to catch a Chippendales show with me?”

“Not even a little.”

He kisses the side of my head and directs his attention to the woman at the front desk. It’s hard to take her seriously given the Dolly Parton hairdo, the blaring, bright pink blazer, and neon-blue eyeshadow. My eyes are almost watering from the bright, slightly over-the-top ensemble. Welcome to Vegas!

“Hello, are we getting married tonight?”

The question catches me off guard. I never thought of going to a wedding chapel with Beck and being mistaken for an eager bride to marry her man, but here we are.

Squeezing my shoulder, Beck says, “We’ve been married for five years actually. We came here to watch our friends, Becca and Charles, get married. I’m Frank, and this is Bitsy, we’re super excited to be here.”

Becca and Charles. Who the hell are they? And Frank and Bitsy? Good God.

“Oh how wonderful, their ceremony is about to start, so go ahead and sneak right in.”

“Thank you.” Beck takes my hand in his and guides me through the chapel doors.

“Who the hell are Becca and Charles?” I whisper, scooting into a pew next to Beck. When we sit down, he wraps his arm over my shoulder and pulls me in close.

“No idea,” he answers on a whisper. “Just saw the names scrolled on the schedule in front of her.”

I turn to look him in the eyes. “Are you really that stealth?”

He wiggles his eyebrows at me. “You have no idea who you’re hanging out with, Saucy.”

And isn’t that the scary truth? I feel like I know him, especially after our month of phone conversations, but I know there is a darker side to him I don’t know, a side that’s been instrumental in shaping who he is today. A side I desperately want to find out about.

Before I can question him, wedding bells chime and Elvis steps up to the altar and starts belting out a song as the bride and groom walk down the aisle together. Beck twiddles his fingers in their direction as they walk by, pulling a confused look from both of them.

Oh hell. Looks like it’s going to be one of those nights again.

* * *

Dr. Pelican and Gloria here for the Barclay wedding,” Beck says, putting one hand in his pocket, looking rather dignified.

“Yes, they’re over in chapel two. Flamingo hats are on the right, so be sure to put one on before you enter the chapel.”

“Oh perfect.” Beck presses his hand against his chest in relief. “We left our flamingo hats back at the hotel and I was worried.”

“We got you covered,” the receptionist answers, her eyes making a dangerous perusal of Beck.

“Come on, sugarplum.” Beck presses his hand at the opening of my lower back. “Time to get our bird on.”

When we walk away, I lean into Beck and say, “She was totally checking you out.”

“Really? I didn’t notice, as I kind of had my eyes glued to your cleavage.” He presses a kiss against my temple and hands me a flamingo hat. He puts his on and flaps fake wings. “Kaw-Kaw!”

I snort laugh and cover my nose. “I don’t think flamingos make that noise.”

“They sure as hell stand on one leg and flap their wings though.” And to demonstrate his flamingo skills, he does just that, making me laugh all too hard.

* * *

Mr. and Mrs. Gentry, you can sit right here.” The usher sits us in a pew behind two beautifully perfect drag queens and a Dolly Parton impersonator.

“Thank ya, kind sir,” Beck says in a thick southern accent, tipping a felt cowboy hat he bought from a vendor on the street.

“Anytime. Looking forward to your debut album.”

“That’s awfully kind of ya.” He points at the usher. “Keep that autograph. In a few years it will be worth something.”

“I will, sir.”

The poor usher will be scouring iTunes trying to find Max Gentry. He might be pissed when he comes up short.

“You’re absurd,” I whisper. Taking in the setup of the wedding around us, and from the hot pink scattered all over the chapel, I actually think this wedding is going to be a good one.

From the side of the chapel, the groom appears in the brightest pink suit I’ve ever seen and looking so incredibly happy. I’m going to take a wild guess here and say he’s one hell of a guy trying to make his girl happy, and that’s all around sweet.

The doors behind us open and a woman in white with hot pink flowers appears. She looks beautiful with her hair flowing around her shoulders, flowers pinned in the tendrils. The Wedding March begins, but is quickly cut out when she motions to her neck to stop the music.

Oh boy . . . this is going to be good. The scene from The Office pops into my head where all the characters dance down the aisle at Pam and Jim’s wedding. A smile crosses my face as I prepare for the entrance of a lifetime.

But when I think Vegas showgirls are about to burst through the doors as well, I’m utterly mistaken. With the bouquet clutched to her chest, the bride slowly—and I mean slowly—walks down the aisle . . . humming Mendelssohn’s infamous Wedding March.

Yes, humming.

Humming to her little heart’s content, as loud as can be.

And just when I don’t think it could get any stranger, the groom joins in, swaying back and forth, hands linked in front of him.

They hum in unison, eyes locked together, their pitch off, making for an interesting rendition.

That is until Beck joins in next to me. Eyes wide, I turn to him in shock when the drag queens in front of us join in as well and before we know it, the entire chapel is humming together.

Well, okay then. This is by far, one of the weirdest weddings I’ve ever been to.

* * *

Nope.

Nope, nope, nope.

I take that back. THIS is by far the weirdest wedding I’ve ever attended.

The elderly couple dressed in leather and whips walk down the aisle together as their attendees cheer them on. Next to me, Beck claps and then performs a congratulatory whistle, really getting into it.

When the couple reaches Beck, the balding groom grabs Beck by the back of the neck and says, “Thank you for being here, Pastor Rick.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Beck replies before placing a rough kiss on the groom’s head. Leaning past his newfound friend, Beck says, “Edith, you give our boy Erwin here a run for his money tonight, you hear me?”

She points her finger at Beck. “You know I will.” Waving at me, she says, “Bye, Marni. Good luck with stripper school; we know you’ll do great.” Yeah, can you guess who came up with my backstory, once again.

“Thank you and congratulations,” I add.

Turning away from us, arm and arm, Edith and Erwin walk off into “the sunset” in assless chaps, their wrinkly old butts swaying back and forth to the music.

Jesus Christ.

I rub a hand over my face. I think my wedding crashing days are soon to be over. Pretty sure I’ve seen it all.

Once Edith and Erwin are gone, Beck takes my hand and says, “Ice cream?” He says it so casually, as if we didn’t just experience a mind-blowing, freaky bondage-type wedding with two old coots.

“You want ice cream? After watching Edith and Erwin’s wrinkly butts walk away?”

He shrugs. “Nothing wrong with assless chaps at a wedding. Just means they’re marrying the right person for them.”

And there he goes, being insightful again.

“You are amazing to me, you know that? Always seeing the good in people, no matter what situation you’re in.”

“Because there’s no need to focus on the negative, it only brings you down.” He pulls on my hand. “Come on, Saucy, I’m dying for some mint chocolate chip ice cream.”

“Can we get waffle cones?” I ask, trailing behind him.

“Do you even need to ask?” He winks at me and ushers me toward the strip, carefree and handsome as ever.