Page 64 of Menace in Vegas

Oh my God.

What the actual fuck did I do?

Regret slams into me like a wrecking ball, seeping deep into my bones.

I turn my head slowly.

Connor is still asleep — all messy hair, kiss-bitten lips, and unfairly gorgeous cheekbones.

He looks peaceful yet smug even in his sleep.

His arm’s still slung over my stomach like I belong to him.

I’m sore. In that “stretched out and destroyed in the best way” kind of way. Every ache reminds me exactly what happened.

And worst of all?

It was good.

Like…life-altering, ruin-me-foreverkind of good.

I should feel victorious. Empowered.

Instead, I want to throw myself out a window.

Panic takes over.

I slowly slide out of bed, careful not to wake him.

I tiptoe over to the disaster zone of clothes on the floor, rifling through the tangled mess for mine.

Every rustle feels like a bomb going off.

My heart beats like a ticking time bomb.

I need to get out of here.

I need air.

Distance.

Sanity.

I tug my shirt on and catch sight of myself in the mirror, and promptly die inside.

My neck and chest are covered in hickeys. My lips are swollen. And my hair looks like I went twelve rounds with a feral raccoon.

I look like a woman who got thoroughly, savagely fucked.

Whimpering softly, I try to smooth my hair and slap some color back into my cheeks like it’ll erase the damage.

The bed shifts behind me.

I freeze.

His low, sleep-rough, and smug voice punches the breath from my lungs.

"Morning, wife."

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