The Marriage Mistake_A Billionaire Hangover Romance

by Natalie Knight

  “Sammi, stop. Just stop.”

  She doesn’t.

  I run up in front of her. My hands reach out and grab her shoulders.

  “Fuck off, Lock. I can’t handle this right now.”

  She tries to push me away. I stand my ground.

  I can’t let her go now. I just can’t.

  I’ve had enough of it all. It’s time for this cycle to end. And not only just for my sake, but for Sammi’s, too.

  “Well, boohoo for you, Sams. No more running.”

  “I am not running.”

  I laugh in her face. It’s the first thing my mind thinks to do, and she needs to know that she’s bullshitting me.

  “All you do is run, Sammi. Every. Fucking. Time. You run.”

  This is not going to be a pretty scene, but if I don’t lay it out now and be brutally honest, she’s never going to let herself be happy. If it makes her hate me, so be it. But she needs this.

  “You know what your problem is, Sammi? You’re a fucking a coward.”

  She gives me a look, as though I just slapped her across the face with a baseball bat. She looks hurt, but it’s a look that only lasts for a second. Her eyes get wide, and I’m pretty sure she’s wishing she had a bat to hit me with.

  Calling her out in public like this really wasn’t the plan, but it just happened that way. Preferably, I’d like it to have been behind closed doors or somewhere with far less people around to gawk and stare. But then again, nothing about these last few hours has been ideal at all.

  All I can do is focus on her and me and us. That’s it.

  I’ll admit that it isn’t easy with a crowd of onlookers watching us. We’ve got tourists from probably four different countries watching, a horde of locals in the middle of shopping, and even a couple uniformed cops are looking on.

  I’m pretty sure they’re all waiting to see how badly she kicks my Aussie arse.

  “I am not a fucking coward.” She looks like she’s going to hit me again after she says it.

  Just to be safe, I take a step back.

  She hits harder than you’d think.

  “That’s bullshit. The only time you ever live your life and have fun is when you get drinking. But sober you? She runs to the hills the second life gets even remotely complicated.” I pause for a moment to let her think on that. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you love me, Sams. Do it. I dare you.”

  I know she won’t do it. And she knows that I know. But that’s the point.

  Sober Sammi is just damn afraid to live her life.

  You can swim with sharks or giant stingrays or battle poachers every day of the week. That kind of thing doesn’t make you brave. It doesn’t save you from being called a coward.

  If you can’t admit to loving someone unless you’re drunk, or if you aren’t able to go out and live the life you want unless you’re drinking, well, bad news, mate: you’re a coward.

  “You can’t, can you?” I don’t give her the time to answer. “But if you were drunk? Oh, well, then this would be a whole different story then, wouldn’t it?”

  We’re both really wound up at this point. It’s a flood of emotions—from anger to frustration to affection.

  I know that she loves me, just as I know I love her. I’ve seen it. I’ve experienced it.

  Fuck, I’ve held it in my hands like it’s something physical and tangible.

  We’ve come so far that, at this point, it’s too far gone to turn back now.

  “You’re an asshole, Lock,” she hisses with tears pooling in her eyes.

  “You’re right, Sam. I am an asshole. But I’m a sober asshole who’s standing here right now, telling you that he loves you. I live my life how I want—without having to find courage at the bottom of some bottle to do it.”

  Okay, that was a bit of a low blow. But, Sams, you need to hear this. It’s all for your own good.

  “I do not need booze to be happy and live my life how I want,” she insists.

  I roll my eyes at her. It’s better than laughing at her, but not by much.

  “Oh please. If you were drinking right now, you’d be confessing your undying love for me. You’d be telling me about how much we have together. You’d be all over me and telling me how badly you want me.

  “Fuck, you would have me take you right here. Right now. In front of all these people.” I turn and make a grand gesture toward everyone watching. I’m pretty sure the crowd has nearly doubled in size too from when this all started. “Oh, that’s right, Sams. You’d be all over me. You know I’m right. Hell, I wouldn’t be all that surprised if the thought of it turns you on. You’d love it if I bent you over right now and—”

  Did I mention she’s fast? Because she is. Like sneaky ninja fast at that.

  One second, I’m telling her how she’d have me bend her over. And now I feel myself falling backward over a rope into the nasty river below.

  Now when I say nasty, I mean nasty. The river is one of the filthiest in the world. Most of it in this part of the country is wastewater dumped from households and businesses. Even fish can’t survive in it.

  And I’m now submerged in it. I’ve never felt dirtier in my life.

  I’m crawling up out the water as quickly as I can. Some people are nice enough to help me, but the smell coming off me is strong enough that they may pass out first.

  Sammi has decided to storm off again. Once more, she’s on the run from dealing with me and her emotions.

  “Hey, Sammi. Be sure to call when you remember our wedding ceremony,” I yell as I step over the rope barrier.

  I just hope that if—or when—she does call that I’ve had the time to shower enough times to get the smell of the river off me.

  Chapter 32

  Sammi

  4:10 PM SATURDAY

  I’m the kind of woman who makes plans and sticks to them. Lists, flow charts, calendar entries—the lot.

  That’s me. That’s the Sammi Brighton way. My five-year plan is a five-decade plan, and my schedule is usually booked down to the fucking minute.

  So, if you opened up my day planner right now, it would tell you that at 4:00 p.m. on Saturday, I was meant to have my hair done by one of Bangkok’s premier stylists. Simple braid, according to my entry in my wedding plan binder. Crown of lilies, no veil.

  I ought to call the stylist and tell her that the appointment is off. Scratch that—the entire wedding is off.

  But I just don’t have the heart.

  What I do have is the bottle of tequila. I take a long, hard swig of it before I pass it to Percy.

  “I just don’t know where I went wrong,” I say, blinking. I feel fucking shell-shocked. This is the kind of shit that happens to Becky. Or Percy. Or Mysti May. Not to me. “I planned everything. It was calculated, dammit!”

  “It’s feelings, Sammi,” Liam says, taking the bottle from Percy. He has his arm around Becky and passes her the bottle next after taking his own swig. “You can count cards and stars and data sets—but not love.”

  “Maybe it’ll end up okay,” Becky says, ever fucking chipper. “It did for us, anyway.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’d call that an anomaly at best, Becks.”

  “Maybe.” She shrugs, then turns to Liam and nuzzles him, nose tip to nose tip. “But there are like, a trillion people in the world, Sams. And people meet the loves of their lives every day, anyways. It’s like the anomalies are stacked in our favor.”

  “They’re stacked against mine,” I groan. “I was supposed to be getting married in a few hours. Now, I’m not getting married at all.”

  Percy hiccups as the bottle gets back to her. “That’s not totally true,” she corrects me. “You probably got married last night. To sexier Chris Hemsworth. Remember?”

  “Not yet, I don’t.” I shake my head and take another swig of tequila. At this point, I’m not sure if I’m drinking to remember…or drinking to further forget. “Lock and I don’t even belong together, Perce. We’re like gunpowder…and more gunpowder
.”

  “And when the sparks fly between you, you both explode?” Percy winks.

  Becky makes a drunken little explosion noise, and Liam looks at his wife like he wants to put a baby in her.

  Christ. They’re way too much right now.

  Instead, I reach out and smooth a lock of Percy’s bubblegum pink hair behind her ear. “You’re one to talk. Why don’t you just let Silver Fox wife you already?”

  “Warner?” Percy laughs, trying to grab the bottle back. I have to make a quick pass to Liam just to avoid her greedy little fists. “Silver Fox is a different story entirely. I’m not like you and Becks—when I settle down, it’s all fucking over for me. No more international sugar daddies. No more wild weekends or crazy fun.”

  Becky shrugs. “I dunno, Perce. I feel like I’ve had even more fun since I got married.”

  Liam hands her the bottle and grins. “That’s because we’re made for each other, love.”

  They look like they’re going to make out again, which makes me groan. Liam shoots me a sympathetic look.

  “Sammi, don’t be fucking ridiculous,” he says. “You’re hung up over a man who spent a critical portion of last night calling you boring and taking cock up his ass. Meanwhile, there’s been a perfectly good bloke chasing you all over the city today like a lovesick puppydog. He’s in love with you. It’s obvious. And from what we remember from last night…”

  “I’m in love with him too,” I grumble. “I know, I know. But I don’t want to be, dammit! I want my calculated, synergized, artfully planned life back!”

  “Yeah, well, I want my hair to stop looking like I’m a main character in a Japanese cartoon show.” Percy reclaims the bottle and shoves it into my chest. “Sober Sammi gets whatever hand Drunk Sammi dealt her. It’s time to nut up and just fucking roll with it, babe.”

  “Worked for us,” Becky coos. Her eyelashes flutter up at Liam so hard I think I get motion sickness just watching them.

  “Sometimes the decisions you make when you’re pissed are just the ones you’re too afraid to make when you’re sober,” Liam agrees.

  Then the suite door swings open, and we hear the sound of two sets of stiletto heels clomping down the hall.

  “Hey, y’all!” Mysti May calls out. “Guess who I found waiting for me down at the bar!”

  A group-wide eye roll commences.

  “Unless you’re Mysti May,” Percy stipulates beneath her breath.

  “Silly bird could use a few sober decisions to balance the scales a bit,” Liam agrees.

  “I think she missed me,” Mysti May coos, trekking in with her arm around Ladyboy Celine Dion.

  But Ladyboy Celine Dion is looking a little worse for wear right now. In fact, Ladyboy Celine Dion doesn’t seem to be having a very good time at all.

  “I left my drugs here,” Ladyboy Celine Dion tells us all, looking somewhat apologetic.

  “Check the bathroom,” I suggest, and she clomps off to search for whatever illicit substances she decided to stash in our toilet or beneath our sink last night.

  “Isn’t she great?” Mysti May coos, watching Ladyboy Celine Dion leave.

  We all share a look.

  “Myst, we’ve gotta talk about your love life, hun.”

  “This isn’t healthy,” Percy agrees.

  “We just want what’s best for you,” Becky says sweetly.

  “And you might need to stop falling in love with any tart who asks to see your tits,” Liam adds. Like he’s trying to crack an eggshell with a jackhammer.

  “You…fuck you, guys.” Mysti May blinks…then scowls. “All y’all get to make drunken decisions, and they turn out fucking perfectly, then all mine end up being trash? This ain’t fair!”

  It looks like I’m not the only one on the verge of a breakdown. It’s only just hitting me now…but this trip has been pretty fucking awful for Mysti May, too. Becky and Liam might just need a tetanus shot or two, and Percy definitely needs a hairdresser…but I really do feel for Mysti May.

  Or at least, I’m starting to, when I hear a sharp, shrill yelp come from the bathroom. A shaggy brown blur comes flying out through the bathroom door and hits the wall, then takes off running through the hotel suite.

  It takes me a second to sort out what’s going on.

  Percy gets there first.

  “The monkey’s got the drugs!” she yells, diving across the floor at the renegade primate.

  It kicks her in the face before leaping onto Liam’s head. Becky sees a quick solution there, grabbing her purse and swinging it at the furry little face-hugger…but a moment too late.

  Instead, she just ends up hitting Liam in the face with her Louis Vuitton while the monkey scrambles into the kitchen with a massive bag of weed, Mysti May in hot pursuit.

  It’s fucking chaos, is what it is. I don’t even bother dealing with it—instead, I just tip the bottle of tequila back against my lips and finish off what’s left of it. Might as well, right? I’ve already ruined my life this weekend—can one more drink really hurt?

  And that’s when it happens.

  That’s when I remember marrying Lachlan fucking Williams.

  Chapter 33

  Sammi

  12:01 AM SATURDAY

  I have candles all around me, white lilies in my hair, and a hunky Australian between my legs.

  “Have I ruined your life yet?” Lock asks. He lifts one of my calves over his shoulder and pushes my back against the golden wall of the temple so hard, the flames of the candles tremble.

  “Oh, definitely.” I balance on tiptoe and trust my cunt at his face. “Ruin it harder!”

  It’s insane, what we just did.

  Hell, it’s insane, what we’re about to do.

  Whatever blessing that monk put on our tattoos earlier probably didn’t come with the instruction to fornicate in a sacred temple at midnight.

  Then again, I guess it might have. We’ll never know.

  We don’t speak Thai.

  “And what other bad decisions would you like to make tonight, darl?” Lock says in between kisses to my inner thigh. “We’ve already made enemies of the Thai mafia…stolen a sacred artifact…kidnapped a ladyboy…”

  “Ladyboy Celine Dion is here of her own free will,” I remind him—and then I grab his hair and make him lick my pussy.

  “Mmph” is all that Lock says back.

  Damn right.

  His tongue slides up and down my pussy lips, making my hips buck against him. I want more. I need more.

  And if he won’t fucking give it to me, I’ll take it for myself.

  It’s probably a sin by the standards of one religion or another, the way that I want Lock right now. More likely than not, it goes directly against the teachings of several.

  The Buddhists have their detachment. The Hindus have karma.

  But right now, my only religion is Lock’s tongue between my thighs, and I’m praising it accordingly.

  “Oh god,” I moan. “Oh god—oh GOD—”

  “Is that what you’re calling me now, darl?” Lock asks.

  I glower down at him.

  “Ah, well. Don’t stop. It’s flattering.” He shrugs, shooting me that billion-dollar grin before he goes back to work.

  “Oh…oh god,” I continue as his tongue finds my clit.

  I was raised Catholic, so I’m sure I’ll feel accordingly guilty in the morning.

  Not for long, though.

  This is our last little sin before we become husband and wife.

  I try to keep it all straight in my head, the unlikely chain of events that have led up to this point.

  Eggs’ infidelity, which I’m realizing smarts only slightly less than his assessment that I’m too boring to be anything more than a wife.

  Beneath the table at the Ladyboy Caberet and the alleyway outside.

  Magical tattoos and monastery’s curse.

  A gambling den and squirting in the face of a mafia don.

  Making love beneath a waterfall and
orgasming in Lock’s arms.

  And now…this.

  First comes tequila, then comes love, then comes marriage.

  But before that…I guess I ought to come, too.

  It’s only par for the course that I should squeeze one last orgasm in before we become man and wife.

  And I come hard, humping Lock’s face in desperation and losing control. He wraps his arms around me, pulling my cunt flush with his lips and tongue and teeth. I find myself cradled in his arms, fully supported by his strength, while the candles flicker golden all around us.

  My body twitches and spasms and takes every wave of pleasure that Lock doles out, just like always…

  But it’s different this time.

  It’s more.

  “Fuck,” I swear. My chest is heaving, and my body feels full of the same light that surrounds us. Now, the world is glowing on the outside and glowing from within, too. “Lock…”

  He smiles up at me, lips glistening with my honey. “Yes, my bride?”

  “I want to suck your cock real, real bad right now, handsome.”

  “Mm. Beautiful.”

  He slides a hand up my stomach, stroking the bodice of my wedding gown. It’s gorgeous, inlaid with crystals and pearls. When I asked Ladyboy Celine Dion where she got it, she put her finger to her lips and poured me another shot.

  I didn’t ask again.

  “Please, Lock.” I can feel my mouth watering just at the prospect of having his cock between my lips again before he makes me his wife. “I can be quick about it.”

  A devilish gleam appears in Lock’s eyes.

  “Who said anything about being quick?” he asks me, and suddenly my world’s spinning.

  Before I know it, it’s Lock who’s got his back against the temple wall.

  He’s not wearing anything fancy, but I don’t mind. Somehow, it’s difficult for me to imagine Lock in a suit or a tie. His white button-down is buttoned down just a little too far, and his tan slacks are just a little too tight.

  He’s perfect, is what he is. And the tightness in his pants…well, that’s gotta be at least 25% bulging hard-on.

  We’ll see if they don’t accommodate him a little better once I’m done draining his balls.