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My mom has always been a bit of a lush. Not sure if she still has mimosas with every breakfast and starts drinking wine at lunch, but most of the wives I knew in the Bratva tended to enjoy their reds, their whites, their blush wines.

I always swore growing up that I wouldn’t become one of those women. I wouldn’t become nothing more than wallpaper in the background, a pretty ornament on my husband’s arm as he tended to business.

Kato agreed with me back then, but last night…

I’m sure there’s a lecture and a loud argument coming after his statement about me speaking on behalf of my Don.

Whatever. He’s notmyDon.

While every inch of my body protests and demands I stay in the horizontal position with the blankets pulled over my head, I lurch forward and drop my legs over the side of the bed.

We have a lot to talk about, and I don’t feel like doing that while my mouth tastes like cocktails, there’s cum drying between my thighs, and I’m sure I stink.

Dropping my gaze, I note the oversized shirt I’d pulled on after all three of my husbands finished inside me. The first part of when we’d gotten home is a little foggy, but I remember teasing Kato, sucking Brixton’s dick while Maddox licked my pussy, I remember taking all three of my men at once.

I remember the absolute satisfaction of facing down my father and letting him see I was alive and well and engaged to his enemy.

I remember my mom’s cutting words, and I remember telling them she should pay right alongside my father.

She was complicit. She was a fucking accomplice in the way I was treated and had been fully aware my father tried to kill me, and that I was struggling to survive with zero support.

Because in her eyes, I’m trash, nothing but a whore. Maybe if she’d bothered to reach out and offer some form of help, I wouldn’t have had to sell the only thing I had any control over simply to eat and keep a roof over my fucking head for four years.

I need a shower, a toothbrush, and the world’s largest cup of coffee. In that order.

It isn’t until I step through my bathroom door that I spot Brix under the spray, his hands on the wall, head dropped, his long hair wet and creating a curtain around his face.

Even hungover and sore, my body heats at the sight of all that glorious, tattooed muscle on full display, his thick, heavy cock hanging between his thighs.

The man is a work of art. I bet I could sell pictures of him online. Shit, I could make a fortune if I set him up with an OF page.

But that would mean sharing him with the rest of the world. No fucking way.

Huh. Maybe that’s part of why they were such assholes in the beginning, because so many strangers saw what belongs to them. Well, that and the lies my father fed them about me being a snake and all that shit.

“Mind if I join?” I say as I shed the borrowed t-shirt and toss it in the hamper.

Brixton starts slightly but raises his head and looks at me through the glass. “Did I wake you up?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Nah. The hangover did,” I tease.

Not really a tease since it’s the truth, but I don’t want him feeling guilty about something that had nothing to do with him.

He reaches around me and turns on the second shower head instead of moving for me to stand under the one he’s using. Does that mean he’s not interested in a shower fuck?

More importantly, could my pussy handle his beast of a dick pummeling into me right now?

Tilting his head back, Brix lets the spray run over his head then pushes his hair out of his face. It’s not as long as mine, reaching just past his shoulders, but fuck it’s so pretty, so soft, so thick and wavy.

When he leans against the wall, his arms hanging loose by his sides and his cock twitching to life as I devour the sight before me with my eyes…

Yeah, the hangover is quickly taking a backseat.

Stepping under my own spray head, I let the water sluice down my hair and body.

Then have a moment where I realize I never washed my makeup off last night. I’m sure I resemble a racoon at the moment. A drowned raccoon at that with the water now creating rivulets of black mascara down my cheeks and my hair hanging limply down my back and shoulders.

“How much do you remember from last night?” he asks.