Mr. and Mrs. Rossi - Chapter #1 - Free To Read

Harley Tomasello’s eyes fluttered open. Ouch, her head pounded. The bright lights made her squint. She’d had too much to drink and was paying the price for it now. She glanced around the bare room, spotting two brown wooden doors across either side of the room. One hopefully was the exit. Nothing. The room lacked the fresh scent of her three wick vanilla candles scattered on practically every surface in the haven of her own bedroom. Instead, a faint musky mixture of mildew and stale beer filtered through the air. Red neon numbers of a small black digital clock flashed zero five-thirty indicating the time span it became unplugged. A pale eggshell lampshade balanced on its rim next to the clock was unfamiliar to her; in fact, she had no idea where she was and couldn’t remember last night at all.

Her left arm lay flat by her face on a smooth cool white sheet. A sparkling gold band on the ring finger of her left hand began to tighten like a vice grip stemming from her wrist to her throat. When did this happen? She wasn’t married before she went out with her friends. The lug she assumed she married lay beside her and snored beneath a pillow like a freight train. Harley lacked the fear gene and she had no need to panic. She had twenty-five different ways to subdue a grown man if the situation arose.

Sporadic flashbacks jolted her. The evening began with lots of shots. Harley stretched and pushed her anger out with a deep exhale, pissed off at her stupid decision. A hand, with a matching shiny gold band, smoothed the length of her arm. What had she been thinking?

Her new husband’s morning wood pressed against her backside, reminding her why she went through with the dare. His huge biceps tightened around her naked frame and his warm breath blew across the back of her neck as he sealed in the darkness with the strands of her dark hair. Harley blinked. The room smelled of stale pretzels, beer, and plenty of sex. Two of the things she didn’t care for.

How many shots did she have?

“What the hell happened last night?” she moaned to herself.

Last night’s clothes, strewn everywhere in the small bedroom, answered the rhetorical question. The crisp white linen brushed against her nipples when Mr. Sleepy rolled over, taking the covers — and her — with him. The quick rollercoaster view of the ceiling and then the other side of the bed nauseated her. In the new position, his forearm lay heavy against her stomach. She rolled to her other side and eyed the bald eagle tattoo on his right bicep. A patriotic bedmate, how ironic, she smirked.

The fancy artwork stopped just at his elbows — a dead giveaway she’d bagged a government-owned man. These days the military allowed visible, tasteful tattoos. His screamed old school and she guessed when fully dressed, well hidden to the naked eye. Younger soldiers entered the service with tats on their necks, hands, and face.

Majority of the time, Harley liked to buck the system but in the tattoo department, her angel wings in the center of her back was as much ink as she wanted to go.

“We got married,” a deep, sexy voice answered from under the pillow.