Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
At least I didn’t forget about that.
My memories are shot to hell. Mercifully, it is only for the last fourteen-plus hours.
They’re all a fog. I think I warned Vlad of the imminent tornado about to bear down on him before swallowing tequila like it was water to forget my shameful plea to be picked first, but don’t ask me to place my hand on the Bible and testify to that.
I truly can’t remember. I recall groping, and a leathery strap circling my thighs. The rest of my night is a haze.
I’ve never had such a bad tequila intolerance. It usually takes a bottle or two to drag me to the depths of memory loss. I don’t recall having more than two shots.
After blowing a wayward hair out of my face, I trudge to the bathroom to remove the makeup I shouldn’t have slept in. If my pores can’t breathe, my body will struggle to remove the toxins I forced it to endure last night, and it will make my recovery that much longer.
The jack hammer going to town in my head means I don’t realize the sound of running water is coming from my bathroom until it is too late. A dark-haired devil is in my shower. Regretfully, it isn’t the imp my depraved heart is craving.
“Morning, Sunshine,” Mikhail croons, not bothering to cover up.
There’s enough soap scum on my shower door to maintain his modesty, making the visual more an outline instead of a double-page centerfold spread.
Well, it was until Mikhail switches off the water and steps out of the shower.
He chuckles when I divert my eyes before they can ogle his cock. The naughty vixen on my shoulder isn’t understanding of my heart’s desire not to be pulverized. She stomps her feet in disgust, certain the visual will outweigh any heartache a quick peek would instill.
Mikhail is more like his older brother than I first gave him credit for. Banging guns, firm pecs, and a six-pack that stole my focus long enough that I can’t compare their cocks.
After twisting a towel around his waist, he flicks off the excess droplets of water from his locks with his fingers. It gives it that sexed-up look women love and unlocks my first memory of the day.
“It rained last night.”
The scent lingering in the air isn’t the sole cause of my sudden recollection. It is also how the wetness removes the natural kink in the bottom of Mikhail’s boyish locks.
“It did. We got drenched.”
When his lips quirk at the end of his sentence, I arch a brow. There’s too much ambiguity in his tone for me to let slide, but I’m too hungover to gently chip at my confusion, so I go straight for the jugular.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Mikhail drags his hand across the stubble on his chin before spinning to face me. “What do you remember about last night?”
“I remember kicking you out.” When his eyes gleam, I mutter, “Yet here you are the following morning, acting like my casa is your casa.” He looks like he wants to interrupt me, but something stops him. “Then I recall going to Vixens and being bombarded by your brother”—I hit him with the stink eye to rival all stink eyes—“again.”
“That had nothing to do with me. You made that bed when you accepted that douchebag’s invite. Then you wholly fucking destroyed it by accepting another dickwad’s invitation for some X-rated PDA.”
“Huh?” Excuse my daftness. I’m hungover and completely fucking lost. You will barely get two sentences out of me today.
Mikhail smiles like my stupidity is endearing.
It has my elbow desperate to reacquaint with his groin.
Since my expression announces that, he works on eradicating my confusion instead of doubling it. “Douchebag—”
“Vlad,” I announce, too hungover to continue working out who is whom on the long list of nicknames he uses.
“Vlad wouldn’t take your hint to leave, so you forced the focus off him by…” I can’t hear a thing he says. It isn’t because my brain is being drilled by the tequila worm I forever swallow because I’ve yet to learn I am no longer sixteen. It is because he’s mumbling.
“Speak up, Marshmallow Man. I’m two minutes from barfing, and you look like the type who sympathy vomits.”
His nose screws up before his words come out crisp and clear. “You forced the focus off Vlad by accepting an invitation to participate in a public scene.”
I swallow down the slosh in my stomach a mere second before it makes its way back into the world. “I went on stage?”
“Uh-huh,” Mikhail answers nonchalantly.
“And then…?”
Thank god he isn’t a fan of delayed gratification. “After you were strapped to a sex swing, three to ten men from the audience raced to the stage as volunteers.” I learn he isn’t bad at math when he shifts from foot to foot while murmuring, “It was hard to gauge an exact number. Once gun fire rang out throughout the club, things went a little crazy.”