Waking up was a slow-motion car crash of memories. First, there was the dull, rhythmic thumping in my temples — the price I was paying for those four glasses of spiked punch. Then, there was warmth. A steady, radiating heat that felt like being pressed against a brick wall that had been baking in the sun all day.
I didn’t need to open my eyes to know where I was. Or who I was with.
The first wave of awareness that hit me was that I was wearing a t-shirt that wasn’t mine. Along with a pair of panties and bra that had twisted in the night, cutting into me.
Then the events of the rehearsal dinner hit me in a wave ofI can’t believe I did that. My mouth had apparently decided enough was enough and had insulted Tiffany with little finesse. In the cold light of day, I sincerely doubted she’d had plastic surgery. I wasn’t so certain about the botox.
But as embarrassing as that was, it wasn’t the reason I wanted to crawl out of the bed like a thief in the middle of the night.
It was what had happened after that. In the elevator. Max’s hands on my ass, his mouth devouring mine. The way he lookedat me when he slammed the door to our suite, and I’d told him to hurry.
I’d been so close. I’d been seconds away from finally finding out what it would be like to spend the night in Max Wilder’s bed, and my traitorous body had decided that was the perfect moment to shut down and go to sleep.
I groaned, the sound muffled by the pillow. Or so I thought.
“Finally awake?”
Max’s arm tightened around me, draped over my waist like a heavy iron bar, pinning me back against the hard planes of his chest and thighs. He pulled me back tighter, his hand sliding from my waist, up my stomach to cup the underside of one breast. He didn’t hide his arousal—he freaking pushed it against me, reminding me of exactly where we’d left off. I was not the type of woman who found herself in this position very often.
In fact, I could count the times with two fingers. And I wasn’t even sure one time had actually counted.
“Max. I didn’t mean to... you know. Pass out on you. It was the punch. You were right. It was spiked. Really, really spiked.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Frankie.” He kissed my shoulder, his stubble grazing my skin. “Though I’ll admit, my patience is wearing thin. I’ve spent the last eight hours holding you, smelling you, and trying not to wake you up just to finish what we started.”
“You could have,” I whispered, my no-filter brain deciding that since I was already mortified, I might as well be honest. “I wouldn’t have complained.”
“I want you wide awake. I want to see your eyes when I’m inside you. I want to hear exactly what that mouth of yours says when I’m giving you something better to think about than lag bolts.”
I let out a shaky breath, my body arching into his. I was a mess of high-heat arousal and shy embarrassment. “Well, I’m awake now.”
“You’re hungover,” he corrected, his hand sliding back down, finding the soft skin of my ribs. “And we have a wedding to get through. My family is already circling the wagons downstairs. Tiffany probably has a hit out on you by now.”
I sighed, the reality of the day crashing back in. The wedding. The finale. The last hurdle before we could get out of this mountain lodge and back to the real world — whatever real was going to look like for me after this.
This was the second night we’d woken in each other’s arms. It had felt right both times.
“We stay for the ceremony, we stay for the dance, we show them we don’t give a damn about anything, and then we’re out. Agreed?”
“Yes, sir,” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could catch them.
Max got out the bed then reached down and pulled me into his arms. He leaned down, his mouth hovering just an inch from mine. “I like it when you call me that.”
Then he kissed me, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with devastating thoroughness. When he finally pulled back, I was breathless and aching.
“Get in that shower. Before I say to hell with the wedding and keep you in this bed all day.”
I practically ran for the bathroom. Behind me, I heard his low, dark chuckle.
An hour later, I stood in front of the full-length mirror, having a quiet crisis about appropriate wedding attire. The dress was simple — a deep navy that wasn’t quite black but wasn’t quite blue either. It had elbow length sleeves and the hem hitjust below the knee. Conservative. Boring. The kind of dress that said,please don’t look at me, I’m just here for the cake.
Which was hilarious, considering I felt like I’d spent the entire weekend being the center of attention for all the wrong reasons.
Max emerged from the bathroom in a dark suit that probably cost more than my car. He looked like money and power and sex all wrapped up in one gorgeous bundle.
He stopped when he saw me, his gaze traveling slowly from my shoes to my face.
“You look beautiful.”
