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Rachel
It was hard to say for sure, given the absolute pounding in my head—and the fact that I wasn’t entirely sure whether I was in Dublin, New York or goddamn Mars—but I was pretty sure this was what just happened: Mason scared the fuck out of me, he called me “wifey”, he instructed me to go chase off someone named “Miss Last Night”, and then walked out of the room butt-ass naked (and more than aware that I could see it).
It’s even harder to say for sure why I actually did what he told me to. There was something in the back of my mind about blackmail. Blackmail Lite. Something about my big new role. Something about not wanting to jeopardise it. About Mason (and my legal and binding marriage to him) being something that would jeopardise it.
I rolled over and sat up in the bed with a pained groan. I vaguely remembered a deal. A shaking of hands. A feeling that his body was too close. A thrill that he wasn’t letting me go. A fear. A fear that I didn’t want him to let me go.
My head collapsed into my hands and I squeezed my eyes shut. Blackmail. A deal. Break a leg. It was all so foggy. Just scraps of conversation. Just flashes of light. Different bars. Different cafes. Different glasses. Same booze. Whiskey. Irish fucking whiskey.
If it was all such a blur and if I was still piecing it together, what in the actual fuck was going on? Why in God’s name did I push myself up from the edge of the bed, catch myself against the wallpapered wall before I fell over, and then heave myself toward the door to stumble down the hallway?
The only thing I could think of was: there was a woman in Mason’s room. He had fucked her. And, most importantly, she was not me.
These thoughts alone were enough to make me squint down the hallway. Enough to make me resist the urge to flop back into bed as the rain fell against the stained-glass window. What room had he said, again?
Hmmm, this one. The one with the door ajar. I was too hungover to realise that this was not good. Scaring off some woman because I was being effectively blackmailed into doing so was one thing. Scaring off some woman because she was in a bed I somehow felt I had a right to was something else entirely. More stupid. More idiotic. More dangerous.
But that was something for sober (or sober-ish) Rachel to deal with later.
Because in that moment I had something else to deal with when I peered in: a messy, bedhead bun poking out from beneath the covers. Little strands of hair fallen from the bun draped over Mason’s cheek. Mason’s not-so-hidden grin as he peeked open an eye to wink at me before shutting it once more.
I was being used. This poor woman really didn’t deserve what I was about to do. Mason was an asshole. A fucking, goddamn asshole. And I also knew, as I stumbled into the room, that I didn’t fucking care.
“Hey!” I shouted as I grabbed the end of the comforter and yanked it down. “Who the fuck are you?!”
The woman, a Miss Last Night as Mason so charmingly referred to her, startled awake just like I supposed anyone would. Mason thrashed awake so dramatically that I knew an acting career was in his future. But I wasn’t. If I could just hold onto a shred of fucking common sense for two seconds in his presence.
“What the—” Miss Last Night began, covering her tits with her arm.
“Honey,” Mason interrupted, extending his arms toward me. “Now, sweetie pie—”
“Get out of here!” I shouted at Miss Last Night. “Get the fuck out right now!”
I threw her clothes at her as she ducked and squealed.
Mason, the asshole, was pretending to comfort her, saying things like, “Fuck, I thought she was out of town till Saturday” and “She wasn’t supposed to be home, I swear” and “Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry”. For some reason that last one pissed me off more than anything. He was saying sorry to her? To Miss Last Night? What about me?
“Nobody fucks my husband but me, do you hear?” I pointed toward the door. “Now get the fuck out before I call the dogs on you!”
Okay, so I was going a little crazy. A little overboard. A tad melodramatic. I mean, we didn’t even have dogs. But I was hungover. And jet lagged. Most of all I was mad that I was forced to see another woman with Mason. I mean, no, I didn’t see them fuck. But I knew they did. I’d seen enough of the woman’s body to imagine how her hips would have looked rolling against Mason’s cock. Her tits were big enough that I knew he’d hold them as she rode him. I could practically point out where his thumb and four fingers would have been as Miss Last Night ran out past me. One heel on. The other in her hand. Clothes clutched at her naked chest. Ass bouncing as she darted down the hallway and disappeared down the stairs.
By the time Mason and I were alone, my chest was heaving. The only good thing about the whole thing was that I had momentarily forgotten what a massive headache I was going to have all day. My body slumped. I was just about to trudge back down the hall and back to bed when I heard a slow clap begin from the bed.
Oh, right. I’d chased out Miss Last Night. But there was still Mr Husband—Mr Fucking Asshole Husband. Couldn’t I chase him out, too?
With a roll of my eyes, I glanced over toward him. He was sprawled out naked, completely naked, across the bed. His arms were behind his head. His toes were wiggling merrily. He was goddamn smiling at me.
“Beautiful,” he said, somehow still charming despite everything. I fucking hated him. “I have to say that went exactly as planned. Exactly as planned.”
I tried not to shift uncomfortably at the sight of him naked. His abs bare. The array of tattoos I remembered in that Americana style he loved, all bold colours and classic prints of sailor girls and roses, eagles and mermaids. And the ones I didn’t remember because he must have added them after me.
Other women had seen them before. Miss Last Night had even seen them before. But not me. Not till now.
His long, muscular legs. And of course, his thick cock. He expected me to look away. To shield my eyes. To act demure and innocent and sweet. To act like how I told him I was now. Like the new me was.
But I didn’t look away. I was not demure. Not innocent. Not sweet.
I drank in the sight of his cock like it was a big, thick glass of cold water. Oh God, how I needed fucking water.
