Trey wakes up married to a stranger. No matter what he does, he can’t get her to go away. But then he meets protective brother, London. He can only fight these feelings away. Soon he realizes the marriage isn’t what meets the eye, and London is in on the deception...
Be Warned: m/m sex
“Hey,” Bee said, her voice slurred and slow. She pressed her leg against his, then the next thing he knew, she was straddling him.
Even the Pillsbury Dough Boy in a thong was more appealing. As she pressed her soft, supple breasts against his chest, he swallowed as their eyes locked. Her eyes were just like London’s. Suddenly a warm tingle spread through his core, but he was already pushing her away.
“Oh, baby,” she said, drawing out the syllables. “I want you.”
Then her lips were on his, foreign despite it all. He could smell the whiskey like Chanel, the scent making his stomach churn. She broke free only long enough to strip off her shirt, purple bra cupping her pale tits.
But the nausea bug must have been catching.
One second she swayed drunkenly from side to side, the next, he was soaked with regurgitated whiskey. His own bile crawled up his throat as he gagged, but he choked it down faster than her putrid spaghetti. He jumped to his feet, groaning.
“Oops,” was all Bee said.
No apology. Just “oops.”
Even though he’d just had a vomit shower, she grabbed her pants, attempting to drag them down her legs. Somehow, her jeans were tangled around her legs. Now he’d seen a guy drunkenly shit on his boss’s desk, but he’d never seen someone screw up stepping out of pants.
She let out a nervous giggle before flopping down drunkenly on the couch. Great, now he had an unconscious half-naked girl on the couch and he was dripping Jack Daniel’s.
There wouldn’t be a worse shit show at a laxative factory.
****
The lock turned just as Trey attempted to wipe up the mess on the floor with paper towels, feeling a bit like he was trying to win the Kentucky Derby on a concussed narwhal. London padded inside, jeans hanging low on his slim hips.
“What the hell?” London said, taking in the vomit and his comatose sister on the couch.
“We were having a stellar date.” Somehow he still managed a smile. “I think this marriage is going to work out.”
“You look like you were in a fight with a bottle of Smirnoff.”
“Close.” He grabbed the empty whiskey bottle. “Whiskey.”
Apprehensive, Trey tugged at his sodden shirt, wishing he was somewhere else. Like a shack in Africa. Though he wasn’t sure what to expect of London, the guy offered a half smile.
“Do you want to shower and borrow some clothes?” London asked, extending kindness he didn’t expect.
“Hell, yeah.”
“This way.” London led him to the shower and then disappeared.
As much as he loved being basted in vomit, he was eager to escape these clothes. He yanked his shirt over his head and dropped it to the navy tile floor. He was just in the middle of losing his pants with much more success than Bee when London opened the door.
“I forgot to give you a tow—”
The man had a slate grey bath towel in his hand, but it fell to the floor when London caught sight of him. His lips pressed together and he suddenly became aware of every body part, every inch of exposed skin. Somehow this felt different than all the locker rooms he’d been inside.
But just as fast as London arrived, he retreated. London slammed the door shut, leaving him to wonder about the strange zoo inside his stomach. Damn, he needed a drink. And maybe a brain transplant.
