Page 1 of Notorious

CHAPTER 1

Kurt

I’m dead.

Or maybe I’m about to die. That’s a distinct possibility, too. One way or the other, I’m pretty sure I won’t live to see the rest of today. Death has to be preferable to whatever invisible demon is rubbing sandpaper on my brain.

I attempt to open an eyelid, but it’s crusted shut, so it takes me a moment to pry my lashes apart. I’ll probably need a crowbar for the other eye.

My limited vision informs me that I’m in a dim but downright pleasant bedroom. It’s grand, with modern chrome-and-white furnishings and a sitting room off to the side with a sleek but comfy-looking couch. Tall ceilings make the space airy and fresh. Although the curtains are drawn shut, daylight peeks through around the edges. An enormous bouquet of pink roses with a small white card poking out the top sits on a round table. My drool is decorating a fluffy white pillow with a seriously high thread count.

Using careful logic, I deduce I must be in a suite in a fancy hotel.

Then it dawns on me that I must still be on my trip to Las Vegas.

Problem is, this isn’t my suite.

I manage to open my other eye so I can see more of the room. My cell phone is lying next to another one on a dresser by the TV. A plain black roller bag with jeans spilling out of it rests on the floor by a pair of well-used cowboy boots. A white cowboy hat is thrown on the couch.

Except for the cell, none of this stuff is mine. I don’t own a cowboy hat or boots. My luggage is classic red T. Anthony.

What the actual hell happened?

Moving my bare arm wakes up more of my body, and a once-familiar horrible feeling comes over me. Bile starts in my stomach and rises up my esophagus, making me want to dry heave.

Ugh. A hangover. I haven’t had one of these since college.

I hold still. Am I going to puke? I scan my body quickly. Stable. I think. I just feel like absolute crap. I need the bathroom, then to drink some water and take pain relief, and maybe I’ll survive after all.

My rusty joints creak when I attempt to move again, but I manage to turn my head to the other side … and stop dead.

As I should’ve suspected, there’s a man in my bed. Or, wait, I’m a man in his bed. Anyway, he’s a very, very large man. His big frame takes up a significant portion of this king-size mattress. He’s got light brown hair that’s buzz-cut on the sides but longer and wavy on top, and I have a close-up view of his wide, buff shoulders and smooth back. His rounded muscles make me stare. The sheet has dipped down below his midsection, displaying an expanse of golden tan skin. By the way the linens are tangled around his hips, I’m guessing he’s naked.

Come to think of it, now that I look down, I’m naked, too.

I freeze again and check my body for any aches down there.

Nope. Okay, then.

Who is he?

I’m trying to think of a way to find that out without waking him, when he turns and gives me a sleepy smile—or maybe it’s a grimace.

I’m distracted from trying to analyze his expression by the awareness that I know him (or at least recognize him)—and in a rather intimate way. I’ve watched his videos more times than I can count.

I’m naked in bed with Velvet the Cowboy, my favorite porn star.

My skin tingles at the same time my stomach lurches, and I gulp and scold my belly, telling it to get itself under control. The curve of Velvet’s ass is barely covered by the sheet, and his skin is just so … touchable. My gaze moves to his messy hair and drowsy bedroom eyes, which are blinking rapidly.

Since this is a top-tier fantasy come true, I just wish: (1) I felt better, (2) I remembered how I met him, and (3) I remembered what we did.

If anything.

As he moved, the sheet slid farther down, so his famous—and quite large and hard—dick is now exposed, thwapping against his lower belly. My brain helpfully notices that he doesn’t have any tan lines, and I briefly imagine him beside a pool, all stretched out—and nude. The man’s just plain huge, with long legs, a defined torso, and burly arms. I’m 5′11″. While I’m not tiny, he’s a giant compared to me.

He flinches back slightly, and his eyebrows squish together. Then he narrows his eyes.

I’m still trying to figure out what happened. I’m ruling out any kind of sex, since there’s no crusted come on my belly. My jaw’s not even sore. The only ailments I have relate to this damn hangover.

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