Get Lucky

C
opyright
© 2016 by Lila Monroe

Cover design: Jenn Watson at Social Butterfly PR

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

D
edicated
to the lovers and dreamers. And hardheaded lawyers, of course. 

M
y reader group
is where all the cool kids are.

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W
aking
up in Vegas was always a treat. But for Lola Sinclair, industrial saboteur and sexual adventurer, waking up with a rock-hard arm around her stomach and a rising erection against her back was the only way to start the day in Sin City. She was still lingering in the delicious aftereffects of a dream as his fingers trailed down her stomach to flit gently across her pussy.

Hmm. Flit gently. Not sure it’s the best word choice, but whatever. I can always edit later.

Lola smiled, her lips parting as Archer rolled his thumb around her clit. His finger pushed inside of her, and she was instantly wet. Hopefully, his rock-hard cock would soon follow.

Yeah. That’s good. Maybe we could have something more descriptive, like a simile? “She was instantly wet, like a St. Tropez beach at high tide.”

Eh, maybe not.

Lola groaned deep in her throat as he fingered her, his other hand tracing delicate patterns across her naked back. “Damn,” she thought, “I am going to hate to wake up from this dream. I—”

Wait a minute.

My eyes snap open. Lola Sinclair’s not the one in Vegas; I am. She’s not the one with someone waking her by saying good morning to her clit; I am. Lola Sinclair, BDSM sexpert and awesome international spy, doesn’t even exist; I just write books about her. And it’s not Archer Valmont, sadistic billionaire and champion badminton player, with his rock-hard arm around my stomach and his rising erection flush against my . . . .

What the flying fuck? Who the hell am I in bed with?

I turn to find a stubbled, ruggedly handsome face on the other pillow. The man wakes up slowly, bedroom eyes dreamy. His dark hair is tousled from what must have been an athletic night. The smile stretched across his face slowly collapses as he takes me in, and his eyes widen with shock.

Oh God. Where the fuck am I, and who the fuck is this?

“What the hell?” the mystery man grunts.

I try to roll away from him, but I’m too tangled in the sheets.

So, tangled and rolling, I fall out of bed and hit the floor.

L
ogic is my friend
.

Whenever I’m on the phone with a client, guiding him or her through the trauma of a contentious divorce, I remember I’m supposed to be the one with the level head and the ironclad plan. Whenever people sit across from me, blubbing into a packet of Kleenex while going on about how it’s over, how
can
it be over, I’m the man with a pitcher of ice cold drinking water and a detailed list of why they should be fucking
glad
it’s over.
He cheated on you. She’s looking to take full custody and half your annual salary. Why would you want to put yourself through this hell one more day?
Calm, orderly thoughts lead to calm, orderly lives. No surprises means no surprising fuck-ups.

So when I wake up slowly from a dream about having a round, sexy ass pressed up against my morning wood, I’m happy to languish. What man wouldn’t? It’d felt so real.

Turns out it felt real because it
was
real. And when I snap back to consciousness and find myself face to face with a pair of enormous blue eyes and a tangled mane of strawberry blonde hair, I realize I don’t know where the hell I am or who the hell I’m with.

Focus, Nate. And do it fast, because she looks like she’s about to start screaming.

First part comes back easy. I’m in the Bellagio hotel, Las Vegas, in a damn sweet, well, suite. Top floor, corner penthouse, killer view of the Strip at night. No, I’m not rolling in money, though I’m certainly not hurting for cash. I’ve guided enough high profile billionaires through painless divorce settlements that it gets me a few perks. Like free Vegas hotels whenever I feel like it.

Okay. We’re in the hotel. That’s clear to me.

But the strawberry blonde with the increasingly terrified blue eyes? That one’s not so clear. And I don’t like it when I don’t know the answer to a very important question.

So take it easy, Nate. Proceed with caution. Maybe start with—

“What the hell?”

Okay, not the most eloquent, but can you fucking blame me?

The woman twists around and falls off the bed. Shit. I sit up at once and discover that I’m completely naked. Great. So is she.

“Are you okay?” I ask, leaning over the bed. She looks up at me, blinking herself awake, and pushes her curls out of her face.

“What am I doing here?” she snaps, clutching the sheets to cover her (ample) breasts as she gets up off the floor. Which leads to question three.

“Why are you naked?” I say.

“Why are
you
naked?”

“It’s my bed.”
Yes!
Pwned by logic. I’m doing pretty good so far, considering my erection is still at half mast.

I rub my eyes and fish around for my pants. Where the fuck
are
my pants? I spot them flung across the room, decorating the lampshade. My aim last night was either awesome or for shit.

“Okay, hold on. I remember you,” I grumble, running a hand through my hair. It’s coming back to me, slowly and in a blur. I snap my fingers. “Jenny!”

“Julia,” she corrects. She sighs, loses her sense of modesty, and drops the sheet. And as freaked out as I am right now, I appreciate the view.

She runs around the room collecting her clothes. What do I do? Look away, not look away? What’s the best option here? I think I should avert my eyes, though when she bends over, I find it hard to tear my gaze away from that fantastic ass. Hell, I’m only human. And there’s something drawing my attention—oh shit. My eyebrows shoot up.

“You got a tattoo,” I say.

“Huh?” She cranes her neck to look over her shoulder, but she can’t glimpse what I’m seeing: a weird looking blue box, planted right on the small of her back.

“What is that thing?” I ask as she runs to the closet door mirror and turns around.

She sees it now, and curses. The ink looks fresh, and there’s a plastic wrap pasted to her skin that’s halfway falling off. She must’ve gotten it last night. I can’t help grinning. People make shitty choices in Vegas.

“I did it. I actually got the TARDIS on my ass,” she whispers, looking horrified.

Tortoise? What?

“A TARD-ASS, if you will.” She giggles a little. Then the woman—Julia—stops and looks at me quizzically. “Wait. Get up and turn around.”

My smile evaporates.
Oh, shit.
I wondered what that tingling feeling on my lower back was. I get out of bed—treating her to a full show—and check myself in the bathroom door’s mirror.

Fuck me. Some weird black symbol, right above my ass.

“What is it?” I grunt. “Chinese?”

She scoffs at my ignorance. “No, doofus. It’s the rebel alliance symbol from
Star Wars
.”

Holy shit. I’ve been branded a nerd.

Okay, keep calm. You can still make partner with this. At least it’s not on your forehead. Oh my God.

“What the hell did we do last night?” I say.

Be calm. I need to be calm right now, because Julia seems to be starting to hyperventilate with laughter at my tattoo. God, that’s annoying.

There it is, a twinge of recognition—this woman annoys me.

“You want to knock it off?” I say. She puts her hands up and gets herself under control.

“Okay, last night. All I know is there were shots. Shots everywhere. On everything.” She groans and rubs her face. “Probably mostly tequila. My mouth tastes like a whorehouse in Tijuana. Speaking of, do you have any more shots?”

“Of what?” I grunt. She shrugs in response.

“Of booze? I think a little hair of the dog would help right now. Or maybe the whole damn dog.” She blinks and screws up her face. “I’ve had some hangovers in my time, but Jesus.”

She’s not wrong. My own head feels like someone’s pounding to be let out. Like they left their keys outside my skull, and they need to get them right the fuck now.

“Check the kitchen. There should be a bottle of champagne at all times. Like I ordered.” I take a deep breath. This is fine. Mostly. I’m just naked with a stranger, sporting an ass tattoo, and my maybe-probably hook-up is a morning drinker.

Vegas does shitty things to you.

“Ooh, constant champagne? Fancy. Dom Perignon? I don’t settle for anything else.” She bats her eyelashes at me, over-the-top flirtatious.

And I can’t help it. I laugh. And that gives me a fucking migraine.

“If I were you, I’d settle for a cup of coffee and some Excedrin,” I say, rubbing my head.

“Breakfast of champions. Do you always treat your dates this way?” she drawls, finally wriggling into her black lace panties. I try not to watch that little dance, because my cock is perking up and I don’t need this right now.

“You’re not my date.” I think my skull is about to start melting. I haven’t been hungover like this since sophomore year.

She juts her chin out. “You know, you are definitely the type of guy to completely fuck up an easy score. I mean, a naked woman in your bed? Most guys would be turning on the charm like—” Then she snaps her fingers, a wild light in her eyes. “I got it! Nate! That’s your name.”

“You win the door prize.” I grab my pants from off the lamp.

I can’t help but notice that Julia’s eyes track down my body. She thoughtfully bites her lip—maybe she likes what she sees. I’m a little tempted to turn around, give her a full frontal show. Again, my cock’s at the ready.
Fucking stop it, dude.
But curvy redheads were always one of my weaknesses. Even when they’re insulting me.

“So. We both must have been crazy bombed last night, right?” Julia says. Her cheeks tinge pink. “Because I’m not really the type of person to wake up all
The Lost Weekend
, you know?”

“Don’t worry about it. As far as either of us is concerned, this never happened.” Whatever
did
happen, that is. I kind of want to ask if she remembers, but I also don’t really want to find out.

“Fine. Great.”

Is she being short with me? Was my response not flattering enough for her?

“Well, as they say in old Hollywood, don’t call us. We’ll lose your number and pretend you never existed,” she says.

“They didn’t say that. Did I give you my number?” I grab my phone and flip through the contacts, but nope. Nothing.

Julia rolls her eyes. “Relax, O Anxious One. You shall remain unmolested. At least, you won’t be molested further.” She wrinkles her nose. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the Grey Havens.”

She pulls her shirt on over her purple lacy bra. I’m a little sad to see that go, even as I want to get her out the door.

“Grey Havens. Is that the hotel café?” I ask.

She starts laughing hysterically. She has to lean against the wall, her face flushing pink with exertion. Apparently I’m amusing.

“Oh, I needed that. Humor keeps us all from going insane, you know? See you around, Nate.” She blows an air kiss, and then slips into some impractically tall heels.

We head to the front door, and she spins around, striking a dramatic pose. “Tell me you’ll never forget me,” she says, her head tilted back and one hand flung into the air.

“Bye,” I say, ushering her out and closing the door after her.

I lean my forehead against that door for a second, taking a deep breath.
All right. Calm. Under control.
First I need to head for the bathroom, to shower and clean off the smell of cheap booze and sweat.

There’s a knock at the door. Shit, she probably forgot something. I open up to find a valet holding an extraordinary bouquet of flowers. And when I say extraordinary, I mean tacky beyond all reason. Brightly colored roses, explosions of baby’s breath, pink and orange tiger lilies sprayed with glitter and rearing up out of the back of the arrangement. There are even miniature blown-glass flowers, bright yellow and neon blue. I rub my eyes and shake my head.

“The wedding venue’s the pavilion. Take it down—”

“Wedding?” The valet blinks at me. Maybe if I close the door on him, it’ll send a message.

“Yeah, Kaufman-Rosenbaum wedding.”

“Nate Wexler?” the kid asks. Oh, fuck. “Delivery. You ordered these last night.”

Of course I did. I stare at the monstrous bouquet, wanting to punch it in its flowery face. “You don’t remember any other spectacularly ridiculous things I did last night, do you?” I grumble as I stand aside and let him in. The valet trots into the living room and deposits the bouquet on the coffee table. He blinks again, a hotel-employed deer in the headlights.

“I just deliver flowers,” he mumbles. I grab my wallet, tip him, and he leaves while I stare at the gargantuan floral display. There’s a card, at least. I grab it and read it.

Julia,

I can’t believe we did that. You’re so fucking sexy.

I actually ordered a floral arrangement and had the florist put
that
on the card. But that’s not even the worst part. “I can’t believe we did that”? Well, what the flying fuck did we do?

As I stumble into the bathroom, turn on the shower and get in, my mind races. Did we actually fuck? Where did we go last night, and what did we do? Will this pounding headache ever go away?

When the hell did I get a tattoo?

What did we do that I couldn’t believe?

Seriously. What the fuck happened yesterday?