Filthy English

“You’re something.”

But the back and forth banter stopped when he tilted my chin up, his eyes low as they landed on my mouth. Air, textured and heavy, settled over us.

“I’m going all in, Remi.”

What?

I yanked my chin away. “What does that even mean? This is supposed to be a pretend kiss, but you just said you’re all in, and the Dax I know is never all in. He’s casually indifferent to women, a player who goes through women like . . . like a bird goes through worms. You’re a man-slut.”

“You mean man-whore?”

“I like you too much to use that word.”

“Indeed,” he murmured, biting his lip. “I like you too, angel.”

My heart ached, and I dipped my eyes so he couldn’t see how devastated I was by his nonchalant endearment. He didn’t mean it. Not really. He called lots of girls angel. I’d heard him.

All the old feelings and darkness I’d struggled with for three years came roaring to the forefront of my mind, and I took a step back.

“I—I can’t kiss you,” I breathed, my hands fisting.

“It’s easy. You pucker up and it’s done. I don’t see the problem. We’ve done it a thousand times,” he added, pulling me back against him. “Kiss me, Remi.”

I shivered, feeling our undeniable pull. “You make me so crazy, I want to scream.”

“Hallelujah?”

I shook my head. “No. I’m—I’m scared.”

Scared he would bury my heart alive and walk away. Again.

“Kiss me. Please.”

My breath caught at the way he begged me. “We can just tell them we did.”

A long exhale came out. “Goddammit, Remi, just kiss me.” His voice was hoarse, his need apparent.

My mouth parted and his crashed down, fusing with mine. Our tongues met and I attempted to keep it light, but he didn’t allow it, his hands digging into my scalp as he groaned and deepened the pressure. Heat licked up my spine.

God. I pulled back.

“Let go, Remi,” he whispered. “Feel what’s between us. Just one kiss. I promise.”

But . . .

It wouldn’t be just one.

The smell of him, like summer rain and sunshine, hit me, and my arms curled around his hips, my fingers slipping under his shirt and digging into the muscles of his back.

He kissed me, owning my lips with lust and passion, and slowly, ever so softly, I went down the rabbit hole with him, where the entire world whispered yes, him.

He pulled back too soon, and my lips chased after his; I whimpered until he kissed me again, shorter ones, slowing us down. His hands bunched in my hair and he tugged, making me gasp.

“This is crazy,” he breathed. “I—I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t stop myself . . .”

My heart fluttered like moth wings, papery and breathless as if I might disintegrate. “Dax.” I swallowed. “This feels . . .”

“Good?”

“Yes.”

“Is it the best kiss you ever had?” His tongue licked my upper lip. Lightning bolts of heat struck my body.

A reluctant moan came from me. “Yes . . .”

“I won’t let him have you,” he murmured.

I didn’t have to ask who him was.

His lips captured mine again. Demanding. Pillaging.

My entire body thundered with need. I wanted him more than donuts and birds—more than I’d wanted Hartford. I wanted him to take me hard and fast, then slow and soft. I wanted to tell him the burden I carried, the horrible thing I’d kept from him.

He. Will. Destroy. You.

I snapped away from his hold and rubbed my arms, trying to make them warm at the sudden chill.

He watched me as I snatched the bottle of tequila, twisted open the cap, and took a giant swig. I passed it over to him with numb fingers. “Drink.”

He grabbed the bottle and took a swig, wiping his face with his hand. “If that’s what you want—but it’s not. You want me.”

Stop!

“Don’t—don’t make this hard for me,” I said.

He cracked his neck. Exhaled. Emotion spread over his face, but to define it would have been impossible. Where his eyes had once been soft with heat, they were hard. “Fine. What do you want to do?”

“Right now? I want a tattoo. What comes after that is still up in the air.”

He took another sip. “Alright, let’s bloody well do this then,” he muttered and led the way to the right side of the church where the tattoo stations were.

Blaring sunlight from between the blinds of my hotel window was the first thing I noticed as I cracked my eyes open.

The second was the jackhammer going to town inside my head. No more tequila. Ever, I swore to myself.

I groaned, flipped over to my other side away from the sun, and closed my eyes. It was too early to get up.

But . . .

A niggling started in my brain.

My eyes popped open, and I warily studied the hotel nightstand, the pile of clothes on the floor, my shoes. All seemed well—until a muscled forearm curved around my waist and hugged my hip.

Holy British Shenanigans. What had happened last night?

First fact: I was naked.

Second fact: So was the person behind me.

Third fact: My eyes went back to the nightstand. No condoms. My entire body froze.

A loud snore came from the other pillow. With a quick turn of my head, I peeked over my shoulder and made out dark hair against white hotel sheets.