Well, of course she trusted him. Even though her instincts were screaming out that this was a bad idea, she put her arms around his neck as he shifted his weight on top of her. “Of course I trust you,” she said softly. “I love you, Asher. I always have. I’ve just been waiting for you to notice me.”
“I noticed you tonight,” he told her as his weight settled between her legs.
Then, he pushed inside her. Surprised, she froze. He was going straight to penetration? No more foreplay? No more rubbing or kisses? She’d been expecting . . . I don’t know, a bit more than this? Greer bit her lip as he pushed into her again.
“Mmm. You’re so beautiful, Greer.” He pumped into her once more, then collapsed on top of her with a groan. His cock slid out of her and she felt wetness slide down her thighs.
Wait.
That was it?
That was all she got?
“Asher?”
He groaned against her again but didn’t move.
Seriously?
After years of lusting after the man? After being his friend through thick and thin? After being there for him when Donna left him? After spending hours dressing all slinky so he couldn’t resist her? She got two thrusts and no condom? She got the worst sex possible? On a bench? In a garden?
Two pumps and he was done?
Greer shoved at his chest. All her feelings of love and acceptance of Asher’s behavior evaporated in a flash. Hurt and outrage were now the only thing she felt. “Get off me.”
He groaned again and slowly sat up, tucking his dick into his pants. She shimmied away, nearly tripping on the panties still around her ankle. Dear lord, what had she just done? “What the fuck, Asher?”
“Don’t worry. I’m clean.” He rubbed a hand over his face and then patted his coat pocket and pulled out a flask.
“You’re drunk.” And she was an idiot.
“Yes, I am.” He took a swig.
“You came inside me! No condom!” She couldn’t stop the hurt from rising up in her throat, and the words came out squeaked around a knot of emotion. “Asher, how could you?”
He didn’t answer her, just stared down at the flask in his hands. Hot tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. Tonight she’d thought she was going to win Asher over. Tonight she was going to make him see that she’d been right under his nose all along, waiting for him.
God, she was a fucking idiot, wasn’t she?
She pinched the bridge of her nose and willed herself not to cry. She wouldn’t. She refused to. She was just a naïve idiot. Show Asher her love? She should show him a boot to the ass.
He was a selfish asshole. Why had she wasted so many years pining after him?
Greer pulled her panties up and winced when something trickled further down her bare thigh. God. Tonight was just a train wreck. She looked over at him and considered asking if he had a handkerchief. Then, she realized . . . he hadn’t asked her a thing. Hadn’t asked her if she was enjoying herself, or if she wanted him to use a condom, anything. Why should she treat him better than he had her? Stewing, she peered at the front of his tuxedo jacket, saw a brighter patch of color, and snatched it.
“What was that for?”
“None of your business!” Like she was going to tell him that she needed to mop up. Like she wasn’t humiliated enough?
Asher just rolled his eyes and took another swig from his flask, turning to look up at the house. She used that time to clean up as best she could, but she was absolutely leaving this party as soon as she got out of this horrible situation.
“I can’t believe you,” she told him, shoving his handkerchief into a hedge to hide it. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
She’d wanted sex. That? That was not sex. That was a mockery of sex.
“Hey, you weren’t saying no,” he slurred at her.
She stared at him in disgust. This was her friend. This was the man she’d loved. “What happened to the Asher I used to know? The guy that was always laughing? The smart, loyal, trustworthy guy?” The guy I wanted to marry?
“He died,” Asher said in a cold voice. “He fucking died and there’s no resurrecting him.”
“That’s a shame.” And it was, because she hated the new Asher. Greer straightened her dress and then opened her discarded purse and took out her glasses. Because, well, she didn’t care if Asher thought she looked nerdy. Not now.
For the first time since she’d met Asher Sutton, she was pretty well done with him. It didn’t matter that he mumbled something that sounded like a drunken apology or that he put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her against him as they headed back to the house. Because not two minutes later, they ran into Magnus and Edie, both in the bridal party. And Asher slapped her ass in front of both of them. She was almost glad when Magnus and Asher got into an argument and Asher got punched in the face.
He was right about one thing; the old Asher was dead.
And Greer really hated the new guy.
Chapter 2
Asher woke up the next morning with his head pounding and fuzzy. Light trickled in through the slats of a nearby window. He rolled over to hide his face from the light—
And promptly rolled off the couch and onto the floor, busting his nose.
That woke a guy up.
Holding his throbbing, bleeding nose, Asher peered blearily around him. Where the fuck was he? The room he was in looked like it had been furnished by a grandma. Stuffed antique chairs with a floral print were posed near a fireplace, and on a shelf across the room, old books and curiosities were strategically placed to draw the eye. It made his head hurt, almost as much as the busy Persian rug that he was currently lying on did.
How much had he drank last night? And where was his damn handkerchief? He couldn’t find it no matter how much he patted down the front of his rumpled, ruined tux, so he just ripped off his jacket and wadded a sleeve under his nose to stop the bleeding.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Gretchen bellowed as she entered the room with a tray of food.
He winced and recoiled, putting a hand to his throbbing temples. “Is this hell? Is that where I am?”
“Very funny,” Gretchen replied in a singsong tone. It was clear she had no “inside” voice . . . or she just didn’t care that he was hungover. “You’re at Hunter’s house because you were totally shitfaced last night and I didn’t want you driving home. Your Aston Martin is in the garage, I brought you some coffee and toast, and now you can pretend to be human again.” She gave him a beaming smile.
He rubbed a hand down his face. Fuck, he’d been piss-drunk from the moment the party started. He wasn’t an alcoholic—at least, not yet, his liver joked—but something about the wedding festivities really fucking got to him. Maybe it was because every time he saw Gretchen, he pictured Donna.