F*ck Me (Modern Cliches, #2)

The Wake-up Call

In which I wake up with the cruellest thing a woman can endure: a hangover from hell and no clue about the wicked sex she must have had the night before. I can honestly say, that fucking sucks!

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You know that feeling when you wake up in the morning and know that you did something you aught not have in a drunken haze of Jägermeister and vodka? That feeling of 'fuck, what have I done?' Before you lay there contemplating your life choices up to that moment.

I woke up to that feeling as I felt like I had ate raw cotton and had a drummer playing a wicked horrible solo in my head. I gave a heavy groan as I cracked open my eyes. I had drank too much, way too much. But wasn't that the game everyone played with themselves the morning after a heavy night of drinking? The hatefulness of 'I am never drinking again' as you feel like you wanted to throw up and you were sore right down to your core?

Hold on!

Back up one moment there.

I blinked rapidly as shifted my legs and winced at the hardcore ache my lady bits had, not to mention how sticky my inner thighs felt. I swallowed, my face paling as I slowly rolled over to see who the hell I brought home with me. His back was to me, sheets at his waist but I could see various strange rune like tattoos across his skin and holy shit did he have muscles. I blinked rapidly as I looked at him in the muted light that came through my curtains.

He was... holy fucking shit.

How did I manage to land that into my bed?

I greedily took in his form, biting my lip. How did a guy get so jacked like that but didn't look like a roided out jock? I gave a hum of appreciation, wondering just how much fun we had before I groaned when I realized that I had brought him home and could remember literally nothing about what happened afterwards. I got the after feeling of having sex but couldn't actually remember the sex.

What type of fucking twisted ass shit was that?

I finally lose my virginity to a guy that, by all rights, seemed far too sexy for me and I couldn't even remember the fucking deed. Some deity fucking hated me.

I scowled darkly, pressing my palms to my eyes as I let out a heavy groan, rolling onto my back. It was just my fucking luck. I had been too drunk to really remember the deed. I just hoped it was decent but if it hadn't been then perhaps it was a good thing I couldn't remember. I pursed my lips and my pouting was interrupted by the faint sound of my cellphone. I wanted to ignore it, bury my head into my pillow and ignore it but I couldn't, no matter how much my head ached. The sound was just too insidious and intrusive.

I shifted out of bed, wincing as I tried not to hurt myself anymore than Sir Too-Sexy-For-A-Shirt had done to me. My poor little self. I felt bruised, like he had pummelled me. My sex-addled brain sent me all sorts of sordid images that involved just that scenario from my mental repertoire of hardcore porn that I had definitely not looked up... or watched.

I felt my cheek heat up substantially as I hastily grabbed my phone from where it had been discarded in a pile of clothes. I crept quickly out of my room before I answered the shrill machine. "What?" I winced at how terrible my mouth tasted now that the dryness was gone. I rubbed my forehead, heading straight for my bathroom and the medicine cabinet. The ever glorious drugs that I knew would mute the pain that was rampaging through my head.

"Where were you last night? We waited for a good hour." Sasha sounded irritated and slightly hurt as I pulled open the cabinet and grabbed my bottle of ibuprofen.