Number 94, a.k.a. Landon freaking Covington, the Ice Hawks rookie, is asleep in my bed. Shirtless. And although the sheets are pulled above his trim waist, the pile of clothes on the floor is a pretty good indication that he’s naked below the waist too.
It doesn’t take a detective to tell you what that means. Shit got real last night. My heart takes off like a race car, thumping so loudly that I’m sure it’s going to wake him up.
Okay, Aubree. Deep breaths. It’s a hookup. People do this all the time. It’s no biggie.
And then I catch a glimpse of my left hand. Staring back at me is a beautiful halo-cut ring with a huge diamond that is most definitely a biggie. Literally and figuratively.
My gaze pings between my left hand and the sexy man sleeping next to me, trying to fill in the gaps in my memory. Slowly, it starts coming back to me—the feel of his strong arms wrapped around me, him whispering something in my ear that made me laugh like a hyena. Us stumbling down the Vegas strip together, hand in hand.
But after that, things start to get a little foggy between midnight and now, when there’s a naked man in my bed and an enormous diamond ring on my left hand. You do the math.
I peel back the covers and tiptoe as softly as humanly possible to grab a sleep shirt from my suitcase. I don’t need Landon waking up to the sight of me wearing only a thong, scouring the room for proof that we used a condom last night.
But that’s exactly what I do.
I check the trash cans for a torn silver wrapper, a mysterious bundle of toilet paper, anything to give me peace of mind that we used protection last night. But no. The only remnants of our drunken evening together are our clothes, lying in heaps on the floor, and a certificate from Happily Ever After Chapel that I spot on the dresser.
With quivering fingers, I hold it up, scanning the fine print for something that says this is just a souvenir we picked up. Instead, I find the scrawled signatures of our witnesses and the cold hard truth. Landon Covington and Aubree Derrick are certifiably joined in wedlock.
Panic rises, tightening my throat and squeezing my chest until I can hardly breathe. It’s like my lungs can’t expand all the way, and my heart is beating so fast, I think it might explode.
I’m not sure if the sound I make qualifies as a shout, a sob, or somewhere in between, but whatever it is, it wakes Landon up. He jolts upright in bed, fumbling for the sheet to keep his lower half covered.
“Holy shit, Bree. Are you okay?”
My mouth opens to reply, but no words come out. Just shaky breaths and a throaty moaning sound as I drop the marriage certificate, letting it float to the carpet. I can feel my cheeks go pale as the blood rushes out of my face, and I crumple onto the edge of the bed, resting my head in my hands. Shallow, uneven breaths push past my lips, and I feel so light-headed, I could faint.
“Fuck.” The bed shifts as Landon scrambles out of it, tugs on some article of clothing from the floor—pants, I think—and rushes to my side. “You’re okay, Aubree. Take a breath.”
He strokes my back until I’m brave enough to pull my face from my hands and look him in the eye, which only gets my heart racing again.
“You’re doing great. Can you breathe with me?” He inhales through his nose, urging me to do the same, then releases the air slowly through pursed lips.
As I come down from my panic, he keeps his arms tight around me like a security blanket, holding me flush against his chest until my heart rate slows to match his. A few minutes of deep breathing later, I’m in enough of a normal state to pose the question demanding to be asked.
“Did we . . .” I fumble for the right words, gesturing to the sparkling rock on my finger. “Is this real? Did we get married?”
He nods slowly, pushing a strand of hair out of my eyes and tucking it behind my ear. “Yes, to both. The ring is real and, according to that piece of paper you were holding, the marriage is too.”
“I . . . I don’t remember any of it,” I whisper, dropping my gaze to my feet.
“Really? I didn’t know you were that drunk. You seemed pretty with it last night.”
“Well, I wasn’t,” I mumble. “If I were with it, I would’ve suggested we use a condom.”
Landon flinches. “Hold on. What?”
I repeat myself, drawing out the words. “A condom. We should have used one.”
But this time, instead of a look of confusion, he looks back at me with a smirk. “You really don’t remember anything, do you?”
“No!” I huff, folding my arms over my chest. “Can you please clue me in?”
“We didn’t have sex,” he says, his voice equal parts blunt and soothing.
My brow crinkles as I try to read his expression for signs of sarcasm. “Are . . . are you sure?”
“I wouldn’t lie about that.”
“But what about the marks on your back?” When Landon’s face twists in confusion, I gesture toward the mirror. “See for yourself.”
He pushes off the bed and stalks toward the mirror, his eyebrows lifting as he gets a look at his back, sizing up the marks running from his shoulder blades to the small of his back. “I guess you got a little rough when we were making out.”
Rough? Me?
Maybe I was really into it?
Slowly, the fog covering my memory starts to lift . . .
• • •
We were outside the door to my room, laughing and kissing while I dug through my purse for my room key. Landon shushed me playfully, pressing kiss after kiss into my neck until I finally got the door open, making a big fuss of hanging the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the handle.
The second it clicked closed behind us, our mouths collided, his tongue greedily exploring mine as my hand cupped the bulge growing behind his zipper. He moaned into my mouth, a deep, lustful sound that triggered something primal inside me that I couldn’t quite explain. His hands moved up my thighs, slipping under my dress to touch the front of my panties, and he groaned when he felt the damp fabric. I leaned into his touch, my knees parting to accommodate his fingers.
“C’mon, Mrs. Covington,” he growled into my ear. “Let’s take this to bed.”
And we did, falling into the center of the huge king-size bed together.
Fumbling with the buttons on his dress shirt, Landon finally got it off. His chest was broad and smooth with wide pecs, and I stroked the firm muscles, unable to stop touching him. When I reached his abs—dear God, they were amazing—I made a happy sound, and Landon chuckled.
Panting, I said, “God bless hockey players.”
“Amen.” His lips moved against my throat.
My dress was rucked up around my waist, and his eyes darkened with hunger as he looked at the scrap of black lace between my legs.
“Damn, you’re sexy,” he murmured, trailing one large palm over my hip, sending little sparks of heat racing down my spine.
While he leaned closer, kissing my neck, I arched into him and trailed my hand down his back, enjoying the feel of warm, sculpted muscle beneath my fingertips.
With one more sweet kiss, he pulled back so he was kneeling between my parted thighs. I worked my dress off over my head, which was no small feat. Landon groaned at the sight of me, his gaze locked on my bare breasts.
“Jesus, Aubree.” His voice was little more than a harsh pant.