5. Olivia
Chapter 5
Olivia
I wasn’t sure if it was the horrible, blinding headache or the drying thirst that woke me. Blinking away the bleariness in my eyes, I looked toward the foot of the bed where most of the offending light was pouring in from.
It took me far too long to remember I was in Vegas and not Paris with the giant replica of the Eiffel Tower staring me down.
Vegas.
Vegas.
Bile crept up my throat as my pulse thundered. I was still in my dress from last night, but the bottom of it had ridden up, gathering around my rear and only barely covering my upper thighs and what lay between them. Oh my God. The sheets barely even covered me, and from what I could tell, my underwear was missing.
I knew what I’d find if I looked to my right. I knew it with every little fiber of my being. But still, as if to twist the knife just an inch further, I did it anyway.
My hands flew to my mouth, covering the little squeak that left me before it became loud enough that he’d hear and wake up.
Sprawled across the right side of the king-size mattress, Damien slept soundly on his back. Completely bare from the waist up, I studied his chest and the ripples of muscles. Vague memories from the night before flooded my mind — dragging my fingers along each ab in a bathroom, kissing them, sinking my teeth into his pectoral. A wave of nausea hit me in a flash and I wasn’t sure if it was entirely the hangover’s fault.
Lower, the sheets covered his knees and feet, his belt unbuckled but his slacks zipped and buttoned. But the fabric was stretched taut over his… bulge.
My cheeks heated as I realized that must be morning wood.
Steadying my breathing to match his measured, sleeping ones, I tried to recall everything that had happened last night. The dull ache between my thighs worried me more than I cared to admit.
The dinner. Scandalous, and he’d joked about marrying me, he’d kissed me. I’d gotten a little too drunk, but nothing wild stuck out to me.
The drinks on the rooftop of the Delano. There was… shit, we were alone then. I’d let him touch me in ways I’d never been touched by another person. I’d come around his fingers in a quiet corner.
The balcony at the Mandalay Bay. Oh, God. That was hazier, like wading through thick fog, but tendrils of memories flashed behind my eyes. Spreading my legs for him as he kneeled on the concrete, his fingers inside of me, his mouth on my?—
“Fuck, my head .”
Damien shifted, rolling onto his side to face me, his eyes still closed but a little crease indenting between them. One arm reached out, his hand tucking itself between the left side of my waist and the bed, and a second later he was yanking me toward him, pulling me flush against his bare chest. Hands shaking, I placed my left against his chest to push myself away, pausing the moment I saw it.
His ring. A single platinum band, loosely hanging onto my left ring finger.
It all came smashing down. Him wanting more, me holding out. The way I’d grasped him through his slacks on the balcony. Sitting on his lap in a bar in the Bellagio, feeling his erection beneath my rear, grinding on it. Dragging him to the bathroom. Clumsily undressing him, undressing myself , salivating at the idea of him sliding inside of me. Giving him a handjob until he came on my stomach.
The full-circle moment when he begged me to marry him again.
My agreement.
Elvis.
“Oh my fucking God,” I gulped, and his eyes fluttered open. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God .”
He blinked at me, confusion rippling across his face. “What’s—” Cutting himself off, he looked from me to my hand on his chest, his gaze catching on the ring. He groaned as he turned his head, burying it in the pillow. “Fuck’s sake.”
“Damien,” I gulped.
His hand tightened around my waist. “I know.”
Every hammer of my heart against my ribs echoed in my ears. We’d gotten married , and that little ache between my thighs seemed so much bolder now, like I could imagine what had gone inside of me. I could barely remember what his cock looked like and I’d somehow managed to marry a man almost twice my age and lose my virginity without even having the memory of it.
“Is it all coming back to you, too?” he asked, his hand dragging up my covered spine until it reached the bare skin at the back of my neck. His fingers splayed out, drawing little calming circles on my flesh, and it was almost distracting enough to calm me down a little.
“We got married ?” I breathed.
He hesitated, his fingers stopping for just a second, but then he was laughing, full-bellied and genuine, his crows’ feet deepening as a smile spread across his cheeks. “Yeah. By Elvis.”
I covered my face with my hands as I tucked my head into his bare chest, trying to hide from his line of sight. “Oh my God.”
His laugh continued, shaking his body. “We didn’t even have sex.”
I paused.
We didn’t even have sex.
Holy shit, he was fucking right.
“Happy, princess?” he asked, his nose and chin pressing into the top of my head as he chuckled. “You tortured me all night and still won.”
I didn’t know what to say — the shame and horror still bubbled at the surface, but more importantly, there was relief . Relief and cosmic irony that we’d gone through that much trouble, that much temptation, and caved , but passed out ten minutes after we’d found ourselves in bed was hilarious in theory. I’d agreed to marry him just to feel good about sleeping with him and even then, I couldn’t do it right.
What an absolute joke.
I laughed and he joined in. I gave myself that ounce of grace to find the humor in it because if I didn’t, I knew damn well I’d sink into that regret and let it eat me alive. Since I was a kid, I’d been picturing my wedding and my wedding night, and somehow all of that had gone up in fucking flames because a man twice my age had tempted me so wholly that I was willing to be married by Elvis just to have sex with him.
Once we’d calmed down and settled into a somewhat comfortable silence, his fingers resumed their circles once more and his breathing steadied. I tucked myself right up into his chest, pressing my forehead to him, taking in the scent of his cologne and the lingering smell of alcohol. Little tufts of black hair tickled my nose from where they sprouted between his pecs, and for a moment, I was able to calm down, to just… relax with him.
But then he spoke.
“You know,” he rasped, his voice hoarse as his fingers traced over the top of my zipper, “there’s still time to consummate it.”
Oh, God. I wasn’t out of the water yet.
His knee pressed at the space between my legs, forcing them to separate enough that he could slip his clothed thigh between my bare ones. He lifted it higher, higher, until he couldn’t go any further and my pussy was bearing down on it.
The pleasure hit me before the regret. Little sparks of it took off like wildfire just as I remembered them doing last night. A breathy moan passed my lips as I shifted my hips forward, giving myself just a hint of friction, and his deep, answering hum of approval made my lower stomach twist.
“That’s it,” he mumbled. Cool air hit my back as he slid the zipper of my dress down, inch by maddening inch. “Grind on my thigh, princess.”
Another pitch forward and my pounding head swam, the hint of satisfaction from it almost canceling out the pain. His hand fisted the front of my dress, pulling the loosened fabric down over my arms and exposing my breasts. Taking one in his grasp, he kneaded at the soft flesh, his thumb grazing my nipple and pulling another moan from me.
“Such a good girl for me,” he groaned, his voice like fucking silk. “Or should I say, wife ?”
Reality slammed back in instantly.
I scrambled, weaseling out of his loose hold and nearly falling off the bed in the process. Catching my footing on shaky legs, I stood, the little mess I’d made on his knee sticking out like a sore thumb. “I’m sorry,” he said, shoving himself up onto one elbow.
I pulled my dress up over my chest, my hands shaking, that stupid ring glinting off the blinding tendrils of sunlight that littered the bedroom. The dark red walls, the plush carpet, and the open door that led into a much larger, much grander space told me I was in his suite at the Bellagio. I needed to get out of here, needed to go to my room at the Flamingo.
“Olivia—”
“Oh my God, this was a mistake,” I said, my voice quivering. Behind him, on the nightstand, sat the half-drank bottle of cheap Prosecco and the two plastic cups we’d been drinking out of. I barely remembered it. “Fuck, fuck .”
He slipped from the bed, his belt chiming as he got himself to his feet. In an instant, he stood in front of me, taking my face in his too-large hands, forcing me to look all the way up at him. “Calm down, calm down,” he cooed, his chest rising and falling almost as quickly as mine. It didn’t do a damn thing to help. “We can fix it.”
The backs of my eyes burned. “How, a divorce ? Jesus, Damien, I’m twenty-four, I don’t want to be a fucking divorcee?—”
“An annulment,” he clarified. His thumb rubbed my cheek, back and forth, over and over. I focused on it, tried to calm myself with it even though it was coming from a man that I barely knew, who was almost twice my age. “It’ll be like it never happened. Like we’re erasing a mistake.”
“Before we make any more of them,” I added, glancing at the bed. I didn’t know much about annulments other than the vague references in movies and television shows, but if Damien was right and it would wipe it from our records like erasing a mistake, then that’s what we needed to do. Immediately.
“I’ll call my lawyer and have him start the paperwork.” He flashed me a tight-lipped smile as he let go of me, taking a step back to give me some space. I almost wished he hadn’t. “Why don’t you take a shower?”
I shook my head and pushed the hair from my face, smoothing it down with my hands. “I think… I think I’ll go to the Flamingo for that.”
Searching my eyes for something he didn’t quite find, he mumbled something under his breath as he slipped his phone from his pocket. One little spinning motion with his finger had me following his instruction and turning around, presenting my bare back to him. Gently, he zipped my dress up, his fingers just barely brushing against the back of my neck where he’d touched me moments ago.
I grabbed my phone, my purse, my shoes, and started the search for my underwear before remembering he’d thrown them off the balcony at the Mandalay Bay. He tapped quickly at his phone, his eyes flicking up to trail my movements, and by the time I was ready to leave, he’d finished whatever he was doing and walked me to the door of the suite.
“The rest of us are going out for drinks tonight at the Wynn,” he offered. A single strand of messy peppered hair fell across his cheek, and despite the part of me that was screaming to leave the room, the smaller part that he’d woken last night wanted to tuck it behind his ear. “Come with us.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Wrapping my hand around the door handle, I pulled. “But thank you. For… almost everything.”
He said nothing as I left, nothing as the door creaked shut when I was halfway down the hall.