Chapter 1

Becky

10:01 AM THURSDAY

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzt!

When I wake up, it takes all the pluck and determination of a Bob the Builder crowbar to get my stupid fucking eyes open.

When I come to, I immediately decide it wasn’t worth the effort.

The Royale Casino, Viva Las Vegas.

Maybe you’ve heard of it? Opulence out the ass. Costs an arm and a leg to book a standard room. Fancy ordering room service? Hope you’re prepared to sign away your firstborn.

And my fiancé, Dan the Man? He booked me the bridal suite. His brother—sorry, step-brother—owns the place. Family discount, I guess. They let him keep his good arm.

So. Here I am, hungover as fuck in the most expensive hotel in Las Vegas, a city known for money, sex, and sin.

But I’m not here to sin.

I’m here to get married. Hitched. I’m here to tie the knot, settle down, and make an honest woman of myself once and for all.

So when I open my eyes on the first morning of my three-day bachelorette party in Vegas, I ought to be thinking about bride stuff. Roses. Hors d’oeuvres.

I should be peeling off an organic cucumber-placenta facial rejuvenation mask, gently fretting about whether there will be enough beluga caviar at the wedding reception and ruminating on how fucking much I love my husband-to-be.

When I actually open my eyes, what really happens is I peel my tongue off the roof of my dry-mouth and realize that Dan is not getting his fucking deposit back.

Broken bottles. Shattered glass. Smoke. Feathers. Whipped cream. And that noise—an incessant vibrating that strikes fear in my loins and sends a pang of guilt shooting through my very soul, though I know not why.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzt!

A bedazzled rogue vibrator chugs across the floor of the lounge. It smears blue raspberry lube behind it like a snail trail until it jams up, sputters and dies tangled in the shag of the white lounge rug.

The smell hits me next, so dark and pungent that I’m not entirely sure I’m not having a stroke. It’s eau de burnt condoms and splattered wine, with maybe a hint of breakfast. There’s no use crying over spilled Merlot, but I almost shed a tear when I realize it’s been splashed across the Banksy mural in the foyer.

I’m vaguely aware that something’s on fire, but when I try to muster up the courage to go grab an extinguisher, I can’t.

Hangovers, man.

What the fuck did I do last night?

The late-morning sun pours in from the patio. It’s like getting LASIK from a flamethrower. I whimper pathetically from the place where I must have passed out last night: naked, upside down and reeking of tequila on a white velvet sofa worth more than my parents’ mortgage.

I squint, still a little drunk, and raise my hand to shield my eyes. But before I can, something moves in front me, eclipsing the light.

A thigh. A thick, muscular thigh with blonde hairs that glisten, back-lit by sunshine, like spun gold. Naked. Bulging with sinew.

In awe, I follow the line of that thigh up to a hip. A manly fucking hip. A hip which has no doubt powered thrusts that have facilitated a thousand orgasms.

Oh.

Make that a million orgasms.

Because let’s slide the fuck across that hip, shall we?

I know I shouldn’t look, but it’s right fucking there. Beckoning my gaze. Begging to be seen.

Thick.

Half-hard, long as my forearm and still. Fucking. Growing.

Uncut. Like turning your porn settings over from US to UK.

A pearl of pre-cum trembling at its engorged, fat, rose-pink tip.

Hung.

And hanging right over my fucking face.

Total dream, right? Perfect way to wake up in the morning. Forget hangover cures. Forget hair of the dog.

The most beautiful dick my formerly-slutty eyes have ever ogled is dangling within licking distance of my suddenly drooling mouth, and I wanna ride that bad boy like a bitch in heat.

There’s just one problem. There always is, isn’t there?

Remember Dan? Dan “Dan the Man” Hardbottom, that almost-handsome, totally kind, and caring fiancé who booked me into this sweet-ass room that I’m probably burning to the ground literally as we speak?

Yeah…

That’s definitely not his cock.

“Morning, love,” Very Much Not Dan says, passing me a giant mug of coffee.

I accept the mug gratefully as I twist myself upright. I find myself blinking at Not Dan in a slow, disbelieving daze. Every time I close my eyes, I’m certain he’s going to be gone when I open them again.

Every time I open them, he’s still fucking there.

Alright. Let’s talk specifics here, hmm? He’s in his late twenties. Early thirties at the most. 6’2”, probably more like 6’3” if you get him in dress shoes.

What we’re dealing with here is a man who seems to be constructed mostly of muscle, sex appeal, and my own wet dreams.

He’s got dark blonde stubble that you just know will tickle your cheeks when he kisses you. The kind of lips that make you wonder how that stubble will feel against your inner thighs.

My heart says no, but my pussy says I want to ride his scruffy face like a jockey on Kentucky Derby day.

Blue eyes, bright and pale and flecked with gold. Like sunlight on the ocean. Or like the Royale’s $500,000 poker chips scattered across the baby blue felt of a roulette table.

A jawline that looks like it was formed with a chisel and a chest that makes me feel like if God were real, he’s either gay or female.

It’s like I dropped acid last night and accidentally hallucinated a naked Charlie Hunnam into my bridal suite.

“How did you sleep, darling?” he asks me. “I made brekky.”

Oh god. Did I mention it gets worse? Because it gets worse.

He’s British.

“Uhh,” I say, fluently. Because apparently, as I stare at the Union Jack flag he has tattooed on a bulging pectoral—right over his heart—I’ve forgotten how to speak English.

His eyes narrow with the hint of an amused smile.

“Drink your coffee, love.”

My breath sticks in my chest as he reaches past the mug I’m holding in my two trembling hands and pinches one of my nipples between his index finger and his thumb.

“Cheeky,” he says with a roguish wink. “Fancy a quickie before you eat? Let me know.”

I stare at his ass as he goes. You wouldn’t fucking blame me, either.

Look, I know what you’re thinking. I get it. I really fucking do.

This man is perfect. Delectable. Gloriously delicious in every single way. He’s got the looks of a notorious bad boy tempered with a dash of English charm. The body of a Greek sculpture, the tattoos of a rock star, and the cock of dildo model.

And he called me cheeky, for fucks sake. Tip me over, and I would drown in my own pussy juice right now.

But he’s not my fiancé.

He’s not Dan.

Of course he’s not Dan. That much’s pretty fucking clear.

He makes better coffee, for one.

I take a sip, if only because in my hungover state, I’m pretty solid at following orders. It’s warm and rich, brewed perfectly. Light roast, the way I like it. One sugar. Full fat milk. And the pièce de résistance: a pack of instant hot chocolate dumped on top of it—because while I do my best to be classy, I’m not a fucking saint. It’s like a mocha-flavored orgasm in my mouth.

How the fuck does Not Dan know how I like my morning cup of joe?

Actually—speaking of orgasms in my mouth—

“Um,” I say nervously.

Oh, bravo, Becky. We’re off to a great start.

“Excuse me,” I try again, “But last night, did we, uh—”

Not Dan looks up at me from his station in the kitchen where he’s currently poaching eggs. He stops swirling water round the pot just long enough to make a rude gesture with his hands.

Not Dan has thick fingers. Long, thick, well-practiced fingers. He works two of them in and out of a tight little hole he’s formed with the index finger and thumb of his other hand in a way that makes my pussy do a back flip and find religion.

“Yeah,” I say, swallowing hard. I drown my embarrassment in another mouthful of coffee. It’s good, but it doesn’t quite do the trick.

“You don’t remember?” he asks, eyes sparkling. They’re actually mesmerizing. Like pirate gold sinking beneath the Caribbean’s waves.

I look around the trashed hotel suite. The white smoke pouring casually from one bedroom. Goose feathers, sticky with Triple Sec and cigarette ash, strewn across the floor like a white Christmas on the naughty list. The left stiletto of a passed-out showgirl peeking out from behind the kitchen island. The rogue vibrator, completely feral, which has resumed its buzzing and trucked itself into the master bath.

A sob rises in my chest as I trot over to Not Dan in the kitchen.

“Honestly? I don’t remember anything,” I confess.

This hasn’t happened since the night I fucking met Dan. The night he helped me clean the vomit off my Christian Louboutins, sober the fuck up, and turn my life around.

I decided that I was going to marry Dan on that night. Now, eight months and three days later, I’m just a few vows and a marriage certificate away from making that decision a reality.

Unless, of course—

“Mm,” Not Dan hums absently, fishing a perfectly poached egg out of the boiling water with a slotted spoon. “Fuck, you mean. We did. Gloriously, might I add.”

“Oh. And…what did we do, exactly?” I’m desperate for details and it shows. Not just because I’m a horny cunt who doesn’t remember fucking the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

No, I need to know how guilty I need to feel.

Not Dan stares up at me with an awful look in his eyes.

“What we didn’t do would be a shorter conversation, love,” he says, unable to contain his grin. “Here. Brekky. Tuck in.”

I stare at the beautiful, wobbling poached egg on a bed of splayed avocado slices and grill-marked sourdough. Even his breakfast is beautiful.

I consider crying. I’m pretty sure I could cry, anyway.

It seems like the reasonable thing to do.

“What’s wrong, darling?” Not Dan says as he sprinkles the eggs with pink sea salt.

“I’m supposed to be getting m-married!” I whimper, collapsing against the counter like that time I tried to drunk-bake a soufflé.

Desperate for comfort from my own dumbshittery, I hug my arms tight around my body. It’s a good call. I’m still fucking naked, and it’s not like the confession of my engaged status has stopped Not Dan from staring.

“Ah,” Not Dan sighs, leaning across the kitchen island and smiling reassuringly. “That would explain the veil then. Who’s the lucky bloke?”

I reach up, patting my hair. Not completely naked after all, then. Because sure enough, there it is: not my expensive, Spanish lace bridal veil, but a cheap gag veil with the word SLUT emblazoned in rhinestones across the tiara.

I put it back on mournfully.

You know how it is. If the shoe fits…

Here’s the deal. I know what this looks like. No apologies. No bullshit.

This is fucking bad.

But with no memory of last night and no sign of my bridesmaids in sight…there’s got to be a reasonable answer for all of this craziness, right?

I know I wouldn’t cheat on my fiancé. No matter how many drinks I’ve had or how gorgeous Not Dan is.

I need answers here. I think we all do. But before I can get them…

“AAAAAAHHH!” screams a husky female voice from the spare room. “My motherfucking PUBES are on fire!”

I’ve got a few other messes to clean up first.