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I open my eyes to see what the fuck is casting a shadow that damn long.
I see a calf—a shapely, well-muscled calf with thick with shimmering, sandy blonde hair.
It’s attached to a thigh. A thick, manly thigh. The kind of thigh that you just want to sink your teeth into or spread your legs for—or first one, then the other.
A hip. God, the most glorious fucking hip. A hip made for fucking, and an inguinal crease right beside made for sliding your tongue up and down until you’ve rubbed off all your taste buds on the rough ruggedness of his skin.
He’s got a chest so hard and so rippled with muscle that he could join a bluegrass band as a washboard player and use his body as his instrument. A scruffy, sandy blonde sailor’s beard so thick that when he walks through a drugstore, it probably breaks all the razors just from proximity.
A Southern Cross constellation tattoo on his forearm and the Aussie fucking flag tattooed over his heart.
But it’s not his gorgeous seafoam eyes or his bastard smirk or his dumb, gorgeous, stupid beautiful Christ Hemsworth face that I find myself staring at when I’m done taking him all in.
And I mean, there’s alotof him to take in. Broad shoulders. Messy, sunkissed hair. Big, thick fingers and a handsome nose more crooked than a seasoned politician.
But that’s not what I’m staring at.
Not even close.
What I’m staring at is the biggest, thickest, most gorgeous fucking dick that I’ve ever seen in my whole damn life.
Perfect shape. Perfect color. At least nine inches, but probably more like ten—uncut, girthy as fuck, half-mast and growing…
And with a glistening drop of precum, just begging to drip down on my face.
“Morning, darl,” owner of said dick says down to me in a rough Aussie accent. “Need a hand?”
I want to tell himno. I want to tell him that I don’t need a hand—what I need is that big fucking cock between my lips or between my legs or just rubbed all over me until I forget my own name.
But I don’t fucking tell him that.
I don’t fucking dare.
Because for one thing, I’m supposed to get married later today. God help me, I’m about to be Mrs. Eggbert Humphreys—and yes, thatishis real name, poor bastard.
And for another thing, I know exactly who that dick and that body and that delicious fucking voice belongs to.
But so help me god, none of it belongs to my husband-to-be.
“Lachlan fucking Williams,” I snarl.
And then I do the last fucking thing in the world that I mean to do.
I try to take a swing at him, then fall right off the dick I floated over on and into the fucking pool.
“Aaagh!” I growl, gasping as I resurface. If I felt wiped before, I feel more alert than ever now.
“Aw, darl,” Lock coos, clucking sympathetically and offering me a strong, manly hand out of the pool. “If you needed help getting wet, I could’ve sorted you out with that.”
I should be too proud to take his hand…but I’m not. Maybe I just want to touch him. Maybe I’m just that fucking done with this morning already.
“How’s the hangover?” Lock Williams asks.
I steal another glance at that dick.
“Yours is looking better than mine,” I admit, shoving my fingers through my dark, thick, dripping hair and slicking it away from my eyes. “What happened last night?”
“Aw, darl,” Lock says again. I’ve never seen a man pout like that before, but it makes my stomach do gymnastics flips, and my heart skip more than a couple beats. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”
