Page 57 of Menace in Vegas

As though he didn’t emotionally annihilate me last night and leave me lying here staring at the ceiling, questioning everything.

I get out of bed as quietly as possible, whispering a mantra to myself.

I will not look at him.

I will not acknowledge him.

I’ll get dressed, drink caffeine, and pretend last night never happened.

I’m halfway through buttoning my jeans, trying to delude myself.

The bed shifts, and I freeze.

His morning voice—deep, lazy, teasing—absolutely ends me.

"Mornin’, wife."

My head jerks up.

He’s stretching, smirking at me like he already won.

“Will you stop calling me that?” I snap.

He tilts his head.

"Why?" he asks casually, like he’s talking about the weather instead of slowly unraveling my sanity.

“Because we arenotmarried, Connor!"

His lips twitch. "We can change that when we get to Vegas.”

I don’t think.

I just lunge at him, shoving him back against the pillows.

I straddle him, my breath ragged.

His eyes darken.

His smirk is gone.

I have his full, undivided attention.

“You think this is funny?" I hiss.

He doesn’t blink.

I yank him closer.

"You think this is some kind of game?"

His hands settle on my waist.

"Yeah, I do, sweetheart. And you’re losing."

I snap.

Like a completely insane fool, I crash my lips against his.

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