“Gia?” It’s raining. Why am I so dry?
“Gia?”
A flash of lightning makes me see silver. Then she’s right in front of me, only it’s not her. It’s my goddess, with large cat eyes and cherry-stained lips. She’s in the silver bubble with me.
“Rhys.”
I need to get out. She’s crying and I lift my hand to catch a tear.
“You need to protect us…” she pleads. “Open the bubble. Something will happen to us if we stay in.”
I reach out to claw it open, but I can’t. It’s like I’ve been weighted down with sand and I can’t move.
I’m dreaming.
Gia.
No, this is not Gia. Gia is a girl with braces and wild, unbrushed hair. This is my goddess. With long, silky brown hair and legs that never end.
“Rhys…” She’s moving yet I can’t. I reach for her but again, my arms are weighted down. The bubble breaks in two and she starts to float away. I yell for her, fight for her.
“I’m going to marry you…” She scratches at the silver bubble, her red lips tremble, but it’s her eyes that bring me to my knees…
“Fuck.” I bolt up and look around. Rain pelts the windows. The room is gray but not pitch black. It must be morning. I take a breath trying to steady my pounding heart. I glance over at the mass of dark hair on the white pillow next to me. The woman’s back is to me. The covers have slipped down allowing me to see the crack of her ass.
“The fuck is going on?” I take a breath. Feathers rise and twirl. A sliver of sunlight streaks through the black and angry clouds.
I reach for my cigarettes on the expensive nightstand. I need to slow the fuck down. At this pace, I’ll wind up in rehab. Leaning back, I rest against the headboard. My lighter flicks to life, and I let my sluggish brain try to recall the night before.
It’s coming, rolling over me, like the feathers that are dancing around us. I bring the cigarette to my lips.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The nicotine needs to work. I need to stay calm and not overreact. The ominous feeling of doom weighs down on my chest. It’s all there, bitch-slapping me awake.
The concert. We played like shit. That led to the club, cocaine, tequila, and her. I don’t need to roll her over to know. I rub my chest, hoping to find some sort of calm. What has she done?
I look at her back, it’s bronze from the sun and her Italian blood. She shifts slightly, allowing me to see a tease of a tan line. I take one last deep inhale and put the cigarette out as I wake up, cut through the cobwebs, and connect the dots.
My cock is hard. My nostrils twitch at the scent of us, of her. She tasted like fucking honeydew, with the tightest cunt I’ve ever fucked.
It can’t be…
I throw off the white sheet, ignoring the barrage of feathers, and stand, staring down at the bed and my dick. The dried blood on both gives me answers.
A fucking virgin?
I rip the comforter off and my eyes rake over her body. “Brat.” It comes out almost as a caress.
Green eyes blink open and up at me. A small smile graces her puffy lips, which is quickly replaced when she takes in my frown. The play of emotions on her beautiful face is almost laughable… if it wasn’t happening to me.
“Motherfucker.” I cover her mouth as she starts to scream. “Have you lost your fucking mind?” Rage that I didn’t even know I had threatens to take over, and it’s not gonna be pretty.
Gia fucking Fontaine.
The Brat.
In my bed. All grown up.
She stops struggling as if it’s dawned on her that it’s pointless. I have her pinned. Her eyes narrow and she sticks her tongue out to lick my hand.
“Scream again and I won’t be held responsible.” I lift my hand and get off her.
She bolts up, her fantastic tits heaving as she points at me. “You’re the one who’s lost your mind,” she spits out, holding up her hands as if that could stop me from grabbing her if I wanted to. “I’m not the one who can’t remember people.” She looks fierce, yet her voice cracks as if she wants to cry. In a flash, she tries to bolt around me.
“You’re kidding me?” I roar, grabbing her arm and jerking her to my chest. Her small gasp and firm tits make me bite the inside of my cheek.
I don’t need this shit. My head is pounding, and not from booze and drugs. This is a Gia Fontaine headache.
“Take your hands off me. You’ve clearly become every pathetic thing you never wanted to be,” she sneers.
“The fuck?” I stare at her, our breathing harsh. The room is charged with electric energy. I feel it; she feels it.