Sammi
10:07 AM SATURDAY
The Bangkok heat beats down on my body like a toddler trying to hammer a square peg into a round hole. The humidity hangs heavy on my skin like a fur coat on the 4th of July.
Pretty much, it fucking sucks.
It’s not just the sun or the humidity or the heat, though. It’s the fact that every cell of my being still feels full of tequila—except for my head, which feels full of spiders, and my stomach, which feels full of worms.
“What the fuck did I do last night?” I mumble to myself.
And then, it hits me.
I don’t fucking remember.
Oh god, no. Not again.
See, I’ve learned my lesson about dancing with Jose Cuervo. I no longer patronize Patron. It might take two to tango, but it only takes one of me to tequila—
And these days, I know better than to indulge in the devil’s happy hour. Give me a glass of wine with dinner or a nip of bourbon before bedtime, but dammit! I’m not in college anymore, and this isn’t Las Vegas, either.
Slammin’ Sammi B. is dead and buried beneath a clinking mountain of empty bottles of silver label. And Samira Brighton—that’s me—she’s no longer the kind of girl who gets blackout drunk and ends up naked on a dick-shaped pool floaty, adrift out in the middle of a hotel swimming pool.
Unfortunately for me, it only takes two agonizing seconds of having my eyes open to realize that no, actually, that’s exactly the kind of girl I am right now.
In fact, I’m probably going to have to hold onto this damn floaty’s big inflatable balls just to try and paddle my way back to shore.
But even that much effort…that’s fucking beyond me now. My head hurts. My whole shoulder feels swollen and tender. And my mouth…my mouth is so goddamn dry that I’m feeling the surface of the pool lapping at my toes and thinking water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.
So I just fucking lay there for a while.
Floating on an inflatable dick and hoping that if I keep my eyes closed for long enough, maybe—just maybe—when I open them again, I’ll be literally anywhere else.
Doesn’t fucking work.
Imagine that.
I’m tentative to get too splishy splashy in this pool right now—and if you knew me, you’d know why. Last time I woke up like this, there was a shark in the pool with me.
And I fucking like sharks. Love them, even. Hell, I’m spending my whole life trying to save the noble hammerhead from extinction, y’know?
But I don’t want to get eaten by one.
Imagine that.
It takes me a while, but finally, I get there. With a lot of tentative little flutter kicks and a lot more holding my breath, I make it to the edge of the pool.
I’m thinking I’m going to go into my hotel suite, drink some water, pop some aspirin, and see what my BFF Percy has handcuffed herself to this time. Maybe grab some sunglasses on the way—because while my future might be bright, right now, there are better reasons I could use some serious fucking shades.
In fact, I’m shielding my eyes with my hand just to try and stop that nasty Thai sun beaming straight through my eyelids and into my soul.
But then the weirdest fucking thing happens.
Some big, hulking object shifts at the edge of the pool and eclipses that sunshine.
And even though it fucking kills me to do it…
I open my eyes to see what the fuck is casting a shadow that damn long.
I see a calf—a shapely, well-muscled calf with thick with shimmering, sandy blonde hair.
It’s attached to a thigh. A thick, manly thigh. The kind of thigh that you just want to sink your teeth into or spread your legs for—or first one, then the other.
A hip. God, the most glorious fucking hip. A hip made for fucking, and an inguinal crease right beside made for sliding your tongue up and down until you’ve rubbed off all your taste buds on the rough ruggedness of his skin.
He’s got a chest so hard and so rippled with muscle that he could join a bluegrass band as a washboard player and use his body as his instrument. A scruffy, sandy blonde sailor’s beard so thick that when he walks through a drugstore, it probably breaks all the razors just from proximity.
A Southern Cross constellation tattoo on his forearm and the Aussie fucking flag tattooed over his heart.
But it’s not his gorgeous seafoam eyes or his bastard smirk or his dumb, gorgeous, stupid beautiful Christ Hemsworth face that I find myself staring at when I’m done taking him all in.
And I mean, there’s a lot of him to take in. Broad shoulders. Messy, sunkissed hair. Big, thick fingers and a handsome nose more crooked than a seasoned politician.
But that’s not what I’m staring at.
Not even close.
What I’m staring at is the biggest, thickest, most gorgeous fucking dick that I’ve ever seen in my whole damn life.
Perfect shape. Perfect color. At least nine inches, but probably more like ten—uncut, girthy as fuck, half-mast and growing…
And with a glistening drop of precum, just begging to drip down on my face.
“Morning, darl,” owner of said dick says down to me in a rough Aussie accent. “Need a hand?”
I want to tell him no. I want to tell him that I don’t need a hand—what I need is that big fucking cock between my lips or between my legs or just rubbed all over me until I forget my own name.
But I don’t fucking tell him that.
I don’t fucking dare.
Because for one thing, I’m supposed to get married later today. God help me, I’m about to be Mrs. Eggbert Humphreys—and yes, that is his real name, poor bastard.
And for another thing, I know exactly who that dick and that body and that delicious fucking voice belongs to.
But so help me god, none of it belongs to my husband-to-be.
“Lachlan fucking Williams,” I snarl.
And then I do the last fucking thing in the world that I mean to do.
I try to take a swing at him, then fall right off the dick I floated over on and into the fucking pool.
“Aaagh!” I growl, gasping as I resurface. If I felt wiped before, I feel more alert than ever now.
“Aw, darl,” Lock coos, clucking sympathetically and offering me a strong, manly hand out of the pool. “If you needed help getting wet, I could’ve sorted you out with that.”
I should be too proud to take his hand…but I’m not. Maybe I just want to touch him. Maybe I’m just that fucking done with this morning already.
“How’s the hangover?” Lock Williams asks.
I steal another glance at that dick.
“Yours is looking better than mine,” I admit, shoving my fingers through my dark, thick, dripping hair and slicking it away from my eyes. “What happened last night?”
“Aw, darl,” Lock says again. I’ve never seen a man pout like that before, but it makes my stomach do gymnastics flips, and my heart skip more than a couple beats. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”
“Every last bit of it.” I shake my head out, feeling my brain rattle around loose inside my aching, tender skull as I drip and dribble my way inside.
The suite’s trashed, which doesn’t fucking surprise me. Empty cans, empty bottles, plastic cups still half-filled with beer and more questionable fluids—the works.
What surprises me, I realize, is that Lock fucking Williams is even here.
“Lock, honey,” I say, crossing my arms over my bare chest and surveying the scene inside the hotel suite. “What did I tell you the last time we saw each other?”
My beauty queen BFF Mysti May is passed out in the kitchen, covered in pad Thai with her arm draped around the shoulder of a Thai ladyboy who looks a hell of a lot like Celine Dion.
I’m betting my valley girl BFF Becky is probably passed out in the arms of her wheeling, dealing, card shark billionaire hubby Liam in one of the rooms here.
Percy is still nowhere to be found, and Lock…
I cast a glance back at Lock.
He’s still bare-ass naked.
And he’s also very thoroughly checking out my ass.
“Lock?” I say, getting his attention.
“Mm. Sorry, darl,” he purrs. “I think you said…ah. Right-o. You said you never wanted to see my shit-smirking Crocodile Dundee face again, I think it was.”
“Sounds about right,” I agree, rubbing my temples. “So what the fuck are you doing naked in my hotel suite?”
“Darling,” Lock coos, walking past me and slapping my ass as he goes. “For that, you really ought to try and remember last night.” He steps effortlessly over Mysti May and her new friend, making his way into the kitchen as his man-meat slaps against his thigh. “Breakfast, darl? I make a mean vegemite toast.”
I’m about to tell him that I don’t want his vegemite toast. I’m about to tell him that the thing I told him last time our paths crossed still stands, and that I’m getting married tonight, and to put on some goddamn fucking clothes.
I’m about to tell him that I love my husband. That whatever he thinks he’s selling with that dick of his, I’m not buying. That I want him out of my suite, out of my hair, and out of my fucking life.
But before I can say any of that, something else interrupts me.
Something loud, belligerent…and frantic as fucking hell.
“HOLY FUCKING GOD,” a startled voice bellows from the bathroom. “MY GODDAMN PUBES ARE PINK!!!!!”
Percy.
“I’ll deal with you later,” I snarl, poking a frustrated finger into Lock’s rock-hard chest.
I’m still nursing that finger when I race towards the bathroom, Percy’s latest body hair disaster on my mind.