Sinfully Bound

Accidental Vegas marriage + enemies-to-lovers.

Rival families, forbidden attraction, and possessive tension.

“One night” turns into obsession, secrets, and claiming what’s his.

Burning Rivalry

Enemies-to-lovers in a high-stakes kitchen.

Alpha chef x defiant heroine with explosive chemistry.

Power struggles, control games, and heat that won’t stay contained.

Savage Protector

Protector x target with forced proximity.

Dangerous hero, reluctant obsession, and “I shouldn’t want her” tension.

Slow-burn desire turns primal, possessive, and impossible to resist.

Sinfully Bound
Chapter One

VAUGHN

There is an entire herd of elephants parading around in my skull.

Of all the first things to run through my head the moment I returned to consciousness. I hadn’t opened my eyes yet, and frankly, I was almost afraid to once I identified the pounding in my head and realized I had one hell of a hangover. I knew the result of prying my eyelids open—squeezing them shut again and wishing I hadn’t bothered as light sliced through my eyeballs like a laser. Fucking fantastic.

Excerpt From
Sinfully Bound
Missy Walker
This material may be protected by copyright.

What the hell did I drink last night? Where am I? That was a better question, come to think of it. The bed—my aching, sluggish body rested in—wasn’t mine. I knew that much already, even with my brain running roughly a third of its usual speed.

It hurt too much to think. Going back to sleep and hoping to feel a little more human by the time I woke up again was the most logical conclusion. I wasn’t even sure what pulled me out of unconsciousness in the first place. I only knew a definite glow was filtering through my eyelids. Wherever I was, I slept until morning.

Oh God! Now I’m awake, and it’s all coming back to me.

Vegas.

Dante’s wedding.

Of course.

All right, so that question had been answered.

I’d had much too much to drink while partying downstairs last night, but somehow, I’d managed to stumbled my drunk ass back to the room I’d stayed in all weekend. Glad that memory had finally come back to me—now I can gently adjust my position and let sleep overtake me again.

My friends, Dante and Eleanor, were married now, something I couldn’t quite imagine committing to, but it seemed to make them happy. I wished I could say I was anywhere near as happy, lying perfectly still for fear of my head falling off.

When was the last time I was this hungover after a night out? I thought I left those days behind a long time ago before fate had called upon me to accept responsibility in the form of Dad’s sudden passing. My days of partying until I blacked out were over after the night his heart finally gave out.

My stomach churned, and I closed my eyes tighter, determined to sleep through the worst of this. We were supposed to get together downstairs for a group brunch later in the morning, but the mere concept of putting something in my mouth and forcing myself to swallow ranked right up there with jumping off a building and flying instead of falling. In other words, impossible.

Fuck, this was ridiculous. I had to wonder if any of my friends were feeling the way I was the morning after. We had all done our fair share of partying. Somehow, I had a clearer memory of Aiden than I did of the rest of them. That man was my partner in crime last night, magically refilling my drinks before I thought to go to the bar myself. He was probably in the exact shape I was in—sprawled across the bed, trying like hell not to move, wishing he could sleep through it.

Slowly, I drifted off, succumbing to my body’s exhaustion.

Until a soft snore startled me.

Oh fuck. Because I needed this. Because it wouldn’t have been bad enough waking up feeling like death visited sometime during the night. No, I also needed a stranger in my bed to add a little extra spice to the situation. Who the hell is she? Dammit, thinking was the last thing I needed to do. My head pounded a little harder with every passing second as I gingerly combed through my memories, struggling to piece the night together. Obviously, things went well, or she wouldn’t be here. But how did she get here? Did we have sex?

Frankly, if I were blackout drunk, I couldn’t imagine being able to do much of anything.

What could I do? After a few moments of self-doubt, my options became clear. I could lie here and pretend to be completely unconscious when she eventually woke up. There was a good chance she would be just as surprised as I was, whoever she happened to be. She might take pity on me and sneak out, avoiding any awkwardness. Nobody enjoyed the morning-after conversation when the sudden intimacy that had
flared up and consumed them the night before was barely a dying ember.

Then again, she might also decide to wait around and demand answers. Like who the hell I was and how I thought I could get away with taking advantage of her. Dear God, anything but that. The last thing I wanted was my name spread around the media. I would be named a predator in the court of public opinion—people didn’t care about the truth. They only cared about the latest headline they read. Most of the time, they couldn’t be bothered clicking that headline to read the article. How far humanity had fallen.

It wasn’t long before a second option made itself clear. Not an option but a necessity. My bladder would explode if I spent another minute in this bed, hoping to be delivered from the discomfort of a stranger’s accusations. Having my bladder explode would be a hell of a lot less comfortable, and when I looked at it that way, I was able to pry my body away from the firm yet luxurious mattress, gently pushing back the soft duvet before swinging my legs around so my feet could touch the cool floor.

I was wearing my black boxer briefs—a good sign. We hadn’t stripped down completely. Odds were we both fell into bed too drunk to function. Taking one gentle step after another, I rounded the bed, my eyes half-closed against the brilliant Las Vegas sunshine streaming in. Clearly, we were too drunk to think about closing the blackout drapes before falling asleep. In a way, though, that was good. It allowed me to get a look at my guest.

A mass of dark, tousled hair fanned out across the cream pillow like raven wings on snow. She was on her stomach, one arm raised close to her face, while the thick duvet hid the rest of her. I couldn’t get a good look at her, but I did remember a woman with gorgeous black hair tumbling in waves halfway down her back. That was a good start. She was still out cold, and I wanted to leave her that way for a while, so I continued almost tiptoeing to the bathroom. Not only for her sake, either. If I weren’t careful, my skull would split in two. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this, taking my life in my hands just by crossing a room.

The bathroom light didn’t help matters one damn bit. I squinted against the murderous glare, fumbling with the controls on the wall until I managed to bring the light level down to the point where I could see but didn’t have to cringe away from the thumping inside my skull.

Who is she? What happened between us last night? The questions ran on repeat as I took care of my body’s needs, finally standing at the sink and looking at my reflection while washing my hands. Who was that beaten, haunted man in front of me? The one with circles under his green eyes and a slightly gray color to his skin? My thick, dirty blond hair looked like somebody had taken a weed whacker to it. It stuck out in all directions before I combed it back with my fingers.

Of all things to care about right now, I needed to feel more like myself. There was something deeply unsettling about not remembering what I had done. Back in the day, I could sit around with my friends, comparing notes, putting a timeline together, and laughing throughout it all. Not now. Not when there was an entire casino’s success at stake. Not when the town was full of women just salivating, eager to trap a wealthy man like me. Money solved a lot of problems, and I had plenty of it, but that didn’t mean I was dying to exchange it for silence.

“You look like you’re wondering how you got here.” I’d said that to her, hadn’t I, when I spotted her at the bar, looking around almost like she was confused? Lonely, for sure. She was much too beautiful to be lonely, especially at an event where liquor flowed and people danced in celebration. “Let me guess. Your girlfriends got picked up by idiots who were too stupid to see you were the one they should have chosen.”

At first, she seemed confused, maybe surprised. How was that possible? A woman as gorgeous as she was must have had experience in getting picked up at events like this. I would be surprised if she made it down the street without hearing at least one proposition. Her big, dark eyes and sensuous mouth drew me in like a moth to a flame. But it was the worry in those eyes, the apprehension, that held me in place, even as her head snapped back in disbelief.

“Does that line work on all of the women you approach at weddings?” Her voice was rich, throaty, touched with intelligence and humor. Instead of giggling like a fool, thinking I’d be attracted, she chose skepticism. Intriguing. Until then, I had spent the night avoiding the pitfalls so prevalent at events like this—horny old women hoping to reclaim their lost youth, if only for a few hours. Hungry young women flashing their tits, hoping luck would smile on them in the form of a willing, wealthy partner like we lived in a fairy tale where strangers fell in love during drunken flings. This wasn’t an old Sandra Bullock romantic comedy.

So finding somebody willing to call me out and push back a little on my obvious pick-up attempt caught my imagination. “You tell me,” I’d replied, chuckling when she did. “I’m sure it isn’t a new, original line, but you are much too beautiful to be alone tonight. At least let me get you a drink. The dumbasses who overlooked you will see how stupid they are.”

“Am I giving off a helpless vibe right now?” There was a healthy bit of skepticism behind her big, brown eyes, and I’d be damned if it didn’t intrigue me more than ever. She didn’t jump at the opportunity. She wanted me to work for it.

“A little bit,” I’d replied. “But you are free to tell me to fuck off.”

She didn’t, did she? No! She ended up in my bed. I would have remembered if we had sex. I needed to believe that, or else I had turned a corner I never wanted to approach. Drinking to the point of blacking out with a stranger was asking for trouble. Again, I ran a hand through my hair, pushing my qualms aside. She seemed cool last night. Mature. This didn’t have to be a big issue.

Or so I told myself before looking at the hand I had just raked over my head. There was something different about it—alarmingly different, so different my eyes bulged, and my mouth fell open as the implications became clear. Sure, it felt like my brain was wrapped in cotton, but something about the sight of a cheap gold band on my ring finger had the power to make me forget my hangover.

A wedding band?

I sure as hell wasn’t wearing that before the reception.

Fuck. Everything was starting to come back to me.

“This is completely insane! Are you sure you want to do this?” She was laughing, shaking her head like she couldn’t quite believe it. As for me, I had never been so sure of anything in my life. This was the woman I wanted to be with. It made all the sense in the world.

The Chapel of Love. I saw the blinking neon sign and heard the music piped in through a sound system—the “Wedding March.” I was standing in front of a man in a studded leather jumpsuit and black pompadour wig.

Holding hands with the woman now in my bed, both of us giggling our way through the ceremony or what there was of one. It didn’t last very long, if
memory served. Then again, how did I know? It was still so patchy.

But the ring didn’t lie, nor did the memory of kissing a woman whose name I had already forgotten as an Elvis impersonator wished us a future full of
burning love.

My bloodshot green eyes were wide when they met mine in the mirror above the vanity.

It couldn’t be.

But the ring didn’t lie, and neither did my patchy memories.

It wasn’t the after effect of binge drinking making my stomach churn this time. The sick, icy sweat now coating the back of my neck had nothing to do with having a few too many.

I was married to a complete stranger.