Her Reckless Rockstar by Gena Snow

Chapter 11

 

Avery

 

 

 

I wake in a pair of powerful arms. My body is pressed against something broad and firm, and my leg is tangled with something hairy.

I hear snores. Sounds like an animal. A fierce tiger. I open my eyes warily, but instead of a big wild cat, I see first a man’s chest matted with curly hair and then a bearded chin. I gasp and struggle up. Tristan! I slept with him, and I’m naked. Oh God!

Did we? Shit! I vaguely recall the ecstatic feeling and my screams. Wasn’t I dreaming? But the soreness of my lady parts confirms the fact: we had sex.

I close my eyes and instantly recall his gruff voice whispering in my ear.

“Is that your cherry?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“What do you mean? I don’t look like a virgin? You think I’m a whore?”

“No! I’m thrilled. I’ve never had virgins before.”

“Well, congrats.”

That reminds me of something and I quickly glance down at the sheet under me. There are some reddish browns pots, which further prove what we did. I’ve given my cherry to Tristan.  God help me.

Calm down and think. It isn’t so bad. Tristan is an okay guy. Nice actually. I recall what we did before coming to his room. We had a few drinks at a bar. Okay. I had two piña colada. Maybe three.  But that’s hardly anything it doesn’t explain why I lost my head. I guess I liked sitting there next to Tristan and feeling all cozy and protected, and before I knew it, I gave him everything I had. Stupid. Stupid. Tristan is a rock star. He might be a nice guy, but he surely isn’t serious about me. Wait, why do I need serious? I’m fine with it. It was a great first time. It couldn’t have been better.

I get up, gaze at the luxurious interior of the suite and the fantastic view of the Strip for a moment. And then I head for the bathroom, which is all marble and lights.  When I turn on the shower faucet, I notice a ring on my finger. What? Where did it come from?

I stare at it and blink. Oh. My. God. I bury my face in my hands as more flashbacks come to me: the 24-hour wedding chapel, the exchange of vows, and the officiant’s voice. “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

Holy Mother of God. I married Tristan? It must’ve been a dream…except it didn’t seem so. I’m recalling too many details, including Dylan and Brian congratulating us.

How did it happen? Did he even propose?

I squeeze my eyes and recall again drinking with him at the bar, and a kiss that seemed to have intoxicated me and driven me away from my senses. And before that, he asked me to marry him, saying he wanted to take care of me. I don’t recall saying yes at all. Shit.

Are we really married? I stare at the ring. Maybe it isn’t a wedding band. It might be a joke. Maybe the part at the chapel is a dream. Shit. My head hurts. I’ll never drink again.

I quickly rinse, dry, and rush out of the bathroom. As I reach for my clothes strewn on the floor, I see a piece of paper folded inside. I unfold it and gasp—marriage license with both of our signatures.

It wasn’t a dream.

Oh God. I freak out. What am I going to do to get out of this? I wake Tristan right away, resisting the lust that rushes back in the sight of his gorgeous naked body.

He grumbles as he opens his eyes. And then he blinks and smiles. “Hey, beautiful! What the hell are you doing here in my room?”

Shit. He doesn’t remember it either.

How am I going to tell him? Should I tell him? Maybe I should just pretend nothing has happened, but what if he recalled it later? And besides, I need him to annul the marriage, don’t I?”

So I sit down next to him and sigh. “Do you not remember anything that happened last night, after we …err, left the bar?”

He closes his eyes for a moment, and then he grins. “I do!” he pulls me to him, and I fall on top of him. “I’ll never forget it. The best sex of my life.”

I whine. “Stop it, Tristan! I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about this.”

I show him my ring finger, and then I take his left hand, and sure enough, find a matching band on his finger as well.

“Holy fuck!” he curses. “What the hell does it mean?”

“It means we’re married, you dumbass rock star!” I fling the paper at his face.

He reads it and grins. “Un-fucking-believable. You’re my wife?”

His happy expression flatters me a bit, but I quickly push the silly emotion away. “Yes. It looks like we made a poor decision under the influence of alcohol. We need to do something about it. Annul it! It shouldn’t be difficult because we were both drunk. People do that all the time, right? I mean, celebrities. They get married for a few days and then divorce—”

I stop talking because Tristan frowns. “Do you regret marrying me already?”

My mouth opens. “I didn’t want to. We were both drunk!”

He presses his lips together. “Maybe. But you had to want to do it in the first place. Alcohol can only make you do things you won’t normally do but want to do.”

“Are you saying I wanted to marry you?”

“Yes.” He says. “I remember you say yes many times when I asked you.”

“Remind me how it happened?”

“Okay, let me think,” he says and closes his eyes, rubbing his temple.

“I asked you to marry me at the bar, but you said I was drunk, and then I kissed you, and then you said, ‘take me, Tristan.’” He describes the part at the bar with details.

I’m embarrassed by my eagerness, but I argue, “It doesn’t count. It isn’t a yes.”

“Right, you didn’t say yes then,” he agrees. “But I swear you did later.”

“Sure, keep thinking!” I taunt him as he continues to rub his temples, frowning.

And then my eyes fall on his morning wood, which is quite erect and beautiful, and it brings another flashback to my mind.

“You feel so fucking amazing. I never want to get out of you,” Tristan said while thrusting his hardness deep inside me.

I moaned in response.

“Will you marry me?”

I giggled. “Why? So you can live inside of me?”

“Yes. So I can fuck you every day and night.”

Really? That was his proposal? So lame. So dirty. So hot.

But I don’t remember saying yes to it either.

Shit. I’m a bartender and I got drunk on two glasses of piña colada.

And then I remember.

Tristan’s cock was doing wonders in my vagina, and I was in ecstasy. I was shouting, “Yes, yes, yes!” when I came.

And the jerk said, “Thank you, babe,” before his face contorted.

“You’re welcome,” I said.

“Now, put on your clothes,” he said. “We can still make it to the wedding chapel.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve just said yes to my proposal multiple times.”

“I did?” I giggled.

Shit. That was so stupid. Did he really take my orgasm screams for an answer to his proposal?

I shake Tristan. “I remember how it happened.”

His eyes fly open, and he grins. “Me too.”

I’m speechless. True, he sort of conned me into marrying him, but I let him, didn’t I? I wasn’t even that drunk, now that I think of it. I remember him asking Max to be our witness. I can’t really blame him. Besides, I can’t deny my attraction to him.

Maybe I’m still a bit resentful of the silver spoon the man’s born with, but I also know his successful music career has nothing to do with his family. He’s worked hard to earn his achievements. Neither can I deny the man is sweet and caring and isn’t just a spoiled rich kid who shouts. What he told us about his childhood brought us even closer. My feeling for him isn’t just lust, I think, but also sympathy and admiration.

Wait a minute. I’m not supposed to let this go on. I might like the guy, but not enough to be his wife!

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m responsible too. Let’s just think about how to annul it.”

He pauses. “Is it really necessary?”

“What? We don’t know each other well enough to be married!” I say.

“But we like each other.”

He pulls me to him. His hand slides down to my bottom, and I shiver.

My body certainly likes his.

“But Tristan,” I argue. “We haven’t even dated. It’s just physical pleasure between us. I’m afraid it’s a mistake that we’ll both regret later.”

He stops stroking me, sits up, and sighs. “You’re right. Let me ask a lawyer later.”

“Later? What about now?” I ask.

“I need a shower first. I can’t think,” he says. “Would you like to join me?”

My jaw falls. How could he make such a suggestion at a time like this? And why do my thighs tingle? “No,” I say. “I’ve had one earlier.”

“Okay,” he says with a wink. “Join me if you change your mind.”

I sigh as I gaze at his broad shoulders from behind as he enters the bathroom. And then I walk toward the door. “I’m going to my room,” I say to him.