I’m naked.

That was the first thing that hit me as I slowly opened my eyes: that I was naked, and in a bed. But it wasn’t my bed. I blinked, and then suddenly, the second thing hit me, and it hit me like a ton of bricks to the head. I winced, the pain lancing through my temples and my stomach rolling with nausea.

Okay, so this was a hangover.

I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut and seeing stars explode across my brain. Oh, this was definitely a hangover alright. My first one. Slowly, I opened my eyes to tiny slits, peering around the room. Okay, not my bed. Not my room either. No, this one was huge, and gilded, and…oddly familiar as my brain struggled to piece together the foggy bits of remembering what had happened last—

And then suddenly, the third thing hit me.

…I wasn’t alone in the bed.

Strong, muscled arms held me tight, nestling me against a hard, chiseled, big, warm body.

Yeah, I freaked.

I gasped as I sprung from the bed like I’d been hit by lightning, jumping away from the bed and staring at the man still lying in it, his face buried in a pillow. I tried to swallow the dryness in my mouth as my eyes darted over his muscled body, my heart pounding as I glanced at the swirls and lines of tattoos criss-crossing his skin. My head spun and ached, my bleary eyes squinting as my brain tried to piece it all together.

What the fuck did I do?

I was in a strange, huge hotel room. In bed with a gorgeous, shirtless stranger. I was naked, and I remembered absolutely nothing. My pulse hammered through me, my breath coming in quick gasps as I slowly shook my head.

…Please no.

Please tell me I hadn’t just done what every sign pointed to me having done. Please tell me this wasn’t real. Please tell me I hadn’t slept with a stranger while completely drunk for the first time.

…Please tell me I hadn’t lost my virginity to him.

I turned, my breath coming in short, quick little gasps as my heart sank into my stomach. I felt the panic rising, my head spinning as I pushed my fingers through my hair. I froze, my eyes suddenly locking on my wrist — the wrist that was currently wrapped in a bandage and covered in clear tape.

What the FUCK.

I felt the panic explode through me as I scratched at the tape, clawing it off and ripping at the bandage as the fear lanced through me. I got my fingers under it, and without waiting another second, I yanked the thing off of me.

Oh fuck.

I didn’t know what I’d expected to find — a wound? Had I been in an accident? Had I been attacked? Whatever worst case scenario my brain had been jumping to, when I pulled off that bandage, I knew one thing: the reality was much worse.

My eyes focused on the bright, red, fresh rose tattoo inked across my wrist, and suddenly, everything came rushing back to me.

The concert.

The man — the very same man still lying asleep in the bed. I remembered that look in his eyes, and that grin that promised all sorts of bad decisions. I remembered his touch, and his whispered words.

It came back like a series of lightning bolts flashing through my mind. The drinks, and then more drinks, and then so many more that I lost track. The fountain, his hands on me, his lips so close to mine. I remembered the kiss, and for one second, I remembered the way the whole freaking world had just stopped when his lips touched mine.

And then I remembered the rest of it, and this time, the room really did spin. I remembered the chapel, and the priest. I remembered saying certain words.

Oh holy fucking shit.

I staggered, blinding reaching for anything as I felt myself tumble. Because right there, I remembered something else.

…I remembered getting married.

Slowly, I turned, my hands covering my mouth as my wide eyes stared at the tattooed stranger lying naked in the same bed I’d just been lying in with him. No, not a stranger, I thought as it all came back to me in a horrible rush. Not a stranger at all. The man lying in bed — the one with the muscled, gorgeous body covered in beautiful tattoos — the one with the smug, cocksure, pulse-quickening smile, and the piercing dark eyes, and the filthy, panty-meltingly dirty mouth — wasn’t a stranger at all.

The man in the bed was Prince Cole McCabe of Luthane. The most tabloid-infamous bad boy in royalty. The kind of man your parents warn you about. The kind you most certainly do not wake up naked next to. The filthy prince with the reputation as long as my arm. The one who allegedly had a tattoo on his, well, you know.

The man lying in bed was all of those things. Oh, right. All those and one more thing…

…My husband.

Yeah. I was screwed. Royally, royally screwed.