I knew she came at least once, as evidenced by the way her pussy quivered around me. I flipped her on her stomach after she came, grabbed her hips, and drove into her once more. I was pretty sure she came again, though by this point, she was reduced to a blabbering mess that made it difficult to understand what she was saying.
I was getting close, but the alcohol and the condom were a potent combination, making it difficult to climax. Fortunately, after either the third or fourth orgasm, she pulled away, ripped the condom off, and started stroking and sucking me off. She had me sit on her stomach, begging me to come on her tits.
And what fucking spectacular tits they were. With the condom off, it felt like my dick could breathe once more. I didn’t last but another minute or two, and I shot my come all over her. She smiled and moaned my name the whole time, as turned on by me finishing on her as I had been fingering her.
“Holy fuck,” I said.
“Holy fuck, indeed,” she said.
I got off her so she could go clean up, but only because I wanted to fuck her again, and I would rather have not felt my come when I pressed my body against her. I heard the sink running and her saying something, but I ignored her.
I just could not fucking believe that after all of these years, after all of that time spent looking at each other, flirting with each other, hinting at each other, we had finally, finally fucked. No one made me feel like this, but even under the spell of a shitload of alcohol, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of wonder.
“Remind me not to forget this necklace,” she said. “It’s important to me.”
I stood up, walked toward the bathroom door, and met her with a strong kiss.
“You’re not going to forget anything about tonight,” I growled. “Because we’re not done yet.”
* * *
Except, it turned out, we were.
And until I had seen that necklace, I had forgotten much of what had happened.
In fact, I still could not recall what had happened between going to the Marquee nightclub and me putting my dick deep inside her. Which was a damn shame, considering, you know, it was what fucking led us to get married.
But whether or not I could recall that gap from dancing to fucking, I needed her back right now.
I called her on her cell phone. She didn’t answer. I tried again. It didn’t work.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I muttered to myself.
I really, really didn’t want to have to resort to my backup options. I was a man who solved his own problems, even with the resources I had from my family. In fact, I considered it something of a weakness to turn to what I knew our family had.
For one, while my extended family could help, my immediate family was not exactly the most helpful. My mother often suffered from anxiety issues, and I didn’t have a father. He’d been murdered nearly a decade ago.
As a result, I was thrust into the role of father figure for the family far too early, even though that was only my mother. She’d never said anything directly, but I always suspected there was much more to her past and upbringing that made her so needy for attention and care. Regardless, though, it made asking her for help a non-starter.
And for another, as fucked up as this was, this wasn’t a problem that I needed to “disappear” as was sometimes implied. This was a problem I needed to handle, not the least because…well, I wasn’t going to say that out loud.
But I knew it might be time to turn to someone whom I knew could “take care of problems,” and I didn’t mean in the business sense. I was referring to my uncle.
Gio Nimico.
Chapter 4: Megan
I was scrambling for help, and I had no fucking idea where to turn.
No, that wasn’t right. It was more like I was scrambling for support for what I had done—and what I was thinking about doing. I didn’t exactly need to help to know what I wanted to do.
I was seated inside Encore, the twin to the Wynn Hotel and Casino, at some unoccupied slot machine. The ding-ding-ding of slot machines filled my ears, but I wasn’t listening. I was instead reading a text message that my best friend, Julia, had sent me this morning.
“Girl, what kind of a night did you have? Call me!”
I was terrified to do just that. I had a feeling that I’d blabbed something about this marriage—this marriage!—last night, and let’s just say that while Julia knew what my father had done last year, I didn’t think she’d known that I would pull something like this. She’d never seen me do anything wilder than too drunk to walk home, but even that was more of a “don’t get mugged in NYC” deal than an “I literally can’t walk back home.”
Then again, I didn’t know that I would pull something like this.
At first, I didn’t call her. The idea that was running through my head, one that would last us past just this odd period of time, was almost insulting. It would fuck over a lot of people if they didn’t agree with it, and even I wasn’t sure that it was the right call.
But the person who would probably be the most fucked over, my father—assuming that Brad even acquiesced a smidge to my proposal—was not someone I was particularly concerned with. If I could get Brad to agree with it, everything else would fall into place.
I just needed a sanity check from someone.
And, also, someone to fill me on what the hell had gone down last night.
I finally dialed Julia. She picked up on the second ring, not the least bit surprising for how close she and I were.
“Do you have any idea what you said to me when you called last night?”
That’s a great fucking start.
“Do I want to?”
“I believe your exact words were, ‘Hey, hey, Julia, Julia, remember how you got married in Las Vegas a few years ago and regretted it? Well, I just, I just did it, and it’s going to be fucking awesome!’”
Yep, that sounded like drunk Megan, all right. And that aligned all too well with everything else that had happened.
“So did you actually really get married? Or were you just fucking with me?”
I stared at the rock on my hand and sighed. The hangover made it a bit difficult to feel anything too strongly, but it wasn’t so powerful as to prevent me from feeling something. And that something…well, I was trying not to feel it so I could make sure Julia didn’t think I was crazy.
“I really got married. I married Brad Nimico.”
The other end went completely silent. I thought Julia had hung up on me for a second.
“Julia?”
No answer. I knew Julia had hated what I had done, but I didn’t think she’d reject my conversation as a result.
“Julia.”
“You’re serious,” she finally said.
“Completely.”
Julia sighed.
“OK, well, good news is you have about three years to annul a marriage in the state of Nevada before shit gets really complicated, so you have time. The bad news is, well, you got married, and you’ll have to get divorced, and it may seem funny, but—”
“Well.”
I wished Julia was sitting across from me right now. That would have made this conversation a lot easier.
Or, more likely, it would have let her slap me.