Page 92 of Bitter Beats

I shift in the soft bedding and wince when I realize I’m naked.

I groan. Did I have sex? With whom?

Maverick’s delectable body flickers through my mind. My hands on his chest, his fingers twisted in my hair. His mouth on my neck. The scent of his cologne in my nostrils.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I had sex with Maverick. Last night.

I breathe a sigh of relief. Okay, it was Mav.

His callused palms on my legs, the nip of his teeth on my earlobe, the strength of his body as he rolled me on top of him, one hand gripping the back of my thigh.

I shudder.

And it was great! I grin at the visual flickering to life in my mind.

Mind-blowing. Life-affirming.

I exhale in relief.

Until a new thought grips me.

What does it mean? Will it change things between us? What does he think of me?

I crack open an eye and do a double take when I spot the gorgeous, very real diamond eternity band on my ring finger. Confusion followed by a streak of panic blazes through me.

“No fucking way,” I murmur, splaying out my hand.

My mind spins but no thoughts appear. The last thing I recall is riding Maverick, one hand—with no ring—splayed in the center of his chest, the other gripping the headboard for leverage.

Fuck.

“Hey, good, you’re awake.” Mav strolls into the bedroom. He tilts his head as he studies me, his expression confused. “You okay?”

“Hey,” I reply automatically, still staring at my ring. It’s beautiful. Perfect clarity and must have cost a fortune. My gaze travels to Maverick.

He’s frowning now. His gaze bores into mine intensely. His eyebrows pull together. I note the tightness in his jaw. The way his fingers tap out a beat against his thigh like he does when he’s nervous—or annoyed.

Shit. Fuck. What the hell did I do?

Does he hate me? Does he regret everything?

Do I?

My stomach clenches again and my head spins.

“Maverick,” I say, using his full name. My voice is hoarse. I try to sit up and clutch the bedsheet tighter against my bare chest. “Mav,” I murmur. “Did we... Are we…”

“Yes,” he admits, sitting on the side of the bed. “We got married, Mckenna.”

His words, coupled with the dip in the mattress from him plopping down, send me over the edge. I toss myself over theside of the bed, pulling the bedsheet with me, as I run to the bathroom.

The tiles are cold on my bare feet and the room spins as I shoulder check my way past the door and drop to my knees.

I barely make it in time to spill the contents of my stomach—all alcohol—before tears smart the corners of my eyes and stream down my cheeks. My throat burns and my fingers tremble.

I wring the sheet in my hands as I gulp large breaths of oxygen.

What the hell was I thinking?

What the hell did I do?

I married a goddamn rockstar!

I married Maverick Tate.