Marrying Mr. Wrong

I didn’t want to be somebody’s tonight. Not even his. I wanted to be someone’s tomorrow.

Maybe it was a good thing I’d gone commando in that dress. Because, who knows, if I’d been wearing panties, maybe none of the rest of it would have happened.

Beneath the dress, I wore a pair of white flats—comfortable, and I was much less likely to trip in them than if I wore heels. Okay, so I still might trip. This was me we were talking about.

Getting married in Vegas hadn’t been a mistake—even though it had been after too much whiskey and to the man who’d pulled my pigtails as a child. Of course, it figured that things would start out as a big mess. This was me we were talking about.

I loved the way he looked at me. He’d never once made me feel self-conscious about my curves. In fact, I’d never felt sexier.

It was one thing if a woman wanted your dick in her face. Quite another if she didn’t.