Page 36 of Dirty Ink

Seeing her wide, startled, searching eyes, I almost felt bad. I mean, she probably didn’t know which continent she was in, let alone which country. And here was this big tattooed Irishman yelling in her face. I’d been there, too. The confusion first. The realisation second. The impending hangover third. All worse than the one before. All sucky. All unavoidable.

“Well, aren’t you looking a stunner this morning?” I said as Rachel wiped a long line of drool from her mouth. A line of spit stretched from her lips to her finger and I added with a grimace, “Just absolutely stunning.”

“Fuck you,” Rachel grumbled. She flopped her head back down onto the pillow and tried to shove me away with all the strength of a newly birthed kitten.

“Eh, eh, eh,” I said, patting her cheek as she groaned. “A good wife is never negligent in her duties.”

“Make your own goddamn bacon,” she muttered, eyes falling shut again.

Despite the smears of makeup and the foul alcohol, most-likely-no-teeth-brushing breath, Rachel looked like an angel with her eyes closed, hands tucked up beneath her cheek. I almost gave up and left.

Then I remembered that she’d already done that: given up and left.

I didn’t feel at all bad about climbing over her and rolling her over till she fell out the bed.

“Mason, goddammit!” Rachel shouted as she glared up at me from the floor.

I grinned down at her, chin against the edge of the mattress. She let out a groan and buried her eyes into the crook of her elbow.

“It’s not exactly breakfast that I’m looking for, babe,” I told her, finding myself having way more fun than I should have. “I need you to serve up something a little different.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

I plucked Rachel on the nose. She smacked my hand away.

“Our little deal,” I reminded her. “I need you to serve matrimonial ire. Righteous indignation. Familial rage.”

Rachel peered up at me from underneath her arm still flung over her face. I smiled down at her.

With a groan, Rachel sat up. With another groan, she fell back atop me in bed.

And then there we were, the two of us. In bed together. Husband and wife. Wife beginning to snore. Husband beginning to get a boner.

I climbed out of bed before anything could get too noticeable. The plan was to keep Rachel around so I could figure out what the hell I wanted. Or didn’t want. The plan was not to show my hand (rod-hard cock) right off the bat.

“Wifey, darling,” I said, sweetly leaning over to whisper in Rachel’s ear. “You need to go get rid of my Miss Last Night. Otherwise you’re not getting rid of me. Please and thank you.”

Rachel’s head almost collided with my nose. She blinked one eye open.

“Your Miss Last Night?”

“Just in the other room there. Down the hall. Can’t miss it.”

“But—”

Before Rachel could protest, I bounded toward the door. I ducked my head back in and winked.

“Break a leg!”

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