Page 5 of Rim Job

Gross.

I crack one eye and hiss like a vampire at the light that streams in through the hair hanging over my face. The room starts to spin. I close my eye and bury my face further into the pillow.

No, thank you.

Jesus. How much did we drink last night?

I need to get my ass up to get ready for Glory’s wedding. I roll over onto my back and puff out a breath. The tangled mass of my hair, covering my face, lifts before it falls back down. I bet those girls haven’t surfaced yet. If I’m feeling this rough, lord only knows what they feel like. They always drink more than I do.

I groan as my muscles tense and bunch with the motion.

God. I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.

My body is sore and tender in spots I didn’t even know existed.

Did I fall?

That’s the problem with drinking. Shit that happens while you’re buzzed, doesn’t hurt until the next day. I haven’t been that drunk in years, or maybe ever. I don’t even know how I got back to the hotel. The last thing I remember is the strip club—ew, gross—and Glory’s Nana getting a lap dance on stage from four men. That woman is a wild cat.

Pulling the backs of my hands up toward my face requires great effort, and I try to rub the sleep and mascara from my eyes. I bet I look like hell. My body feels like it’s been beat with a bag of hammers. As I rub my eyes, something on my left hand scratches my eyelid.

“Ow. What the hell?” I pry my eyes open, blinking a few times before I can focus.

“What the fuck is that?” I blink again, my focus becoming clearer. My right hand shoots to my mouth as I stare at my left hand.

“What the actual fuck?”

Did I rob a jeweler?

A diamond ring the size of my head sits on a very important finger with a diamond encrusted wedding band below it. I shoot upright in the bed and groan as the room wobbles. I blink my dry eyes rapidly, trying to look at the fucking boulder.

“What the fuck?”

This is not my room.

Mother fucker.

My mouth hangs open as I take in the luxury surrounding me. This bedroom is the size of my house. A visual scan of the expansive, richly decorated room finds my clothes strewn across the marble floor mingled with pieces of what appears to be a man’s very expensive suit. I look down at myself.

Shit! Fucking shit! Why am I naked? And is that a fucking hickey on my boob?

I have a hickey on my boob.

“What the fuck is going on?”

The bed moves, and every muscle in my body tenses. Someone is in this bed with me. I slowly pull the blanket up to my chin to cover my nakedness, and I turn to see what is beside me.

“Holy fuck,” I whisper quietly while I take in the naked man sleeping on his back.

Wavy tufts of messy, dark brown hair peek out around his forearm that rests over his eyes. His full, luscious lips part slightly in his slumber, and the morning light streaming in from the partially opened curtains highlights his sharp jaw shadowed with stubble. The fucking optical delight of his toned torso draws my eyes lower. His massive, semi-hard dick twitches under my gaze, and damn, if that thing gets bigger, it’s no wonder my body feels like I’ve gone twelve rounds with a prize-fighter. My gaze travels back up toward his face.

Who the hell is this man?

His arm still rests over his eyes, but the silver band on his ring finger shines in the morning light. My stomach turns, and nausea slams into me full force.

I’ve fucked a married man.

No, no, no, no.

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