Of course it was Dax. He was the last person I remember seeing.

And then it dawned. Dax Blay was naked in my bed!

My hands shook. Okay, okay, I can handle this. Just work through the night. Figure out where you went ape-shit and had sex with the one person you said you’d never sleep with again.

Tequila. Check.

Running through the rain. Check.

Some talk about Romeo and Juliet. A pretend wedding at the church. Check, check.

Okay, so far so good . . .

Tattoo-time. We looked at some designs and drank. Yes, I sat down in the chair to get my ink and . . . the memories blurred together.

More tequila.

Holding hands with Dax.

Giggling at my tattoo.

Cab ride back to the hotel, clothes falling off me then him . . .

Nothing.

With tentative fingers, I propped myself up on my pillow and slowly peeled back the white gauze bandage on my chest. I gasped. A heart-shaped red, white, and blue Union Jack flag about the size of a half-a-dollar coin sat above my breast. DAX was written in black ink across the middle. I must have read it wrong—why on earth would I get Dax’s name on my body?

I read it again. Shit. Maybe it was one of those rub-on deals?

I scratched at the tender skin around the area. “Ouch,” I whimpered as my fingers grazed the reddened skin.

My mouth dried. This wasn’t a dream.

I’d been branded.

I inhaled a great gulp of air and turned to the sleeping head next to me. “Dax!”

“What—what is it?” Dax said sleepily, both eyes opening, his long black lashes fluttering. And that got me riled up too. Why were his lashes prettier and more extravagant than mine? Ugh. He stirred around on the bed and gazed at me, hair falling around his handsome face. I noticed a small crease on his cheek from the pillow, and I forced my hands to stay clenched and not reach out to trace it. Carnal lips tilted up in a knowing smile; a smile that screamed we just had sex. “Morning, love. Sleep well?”

I slapped his leg with my pillow. “First off, you have no right to look this good in the morning, and second why did you let me get a Union Jack on my boob?”

“I didn’t let you do anything.” He rubbed his temples and winced. “Damn. It’s too early for a pillow fight. I need water and a hot shower first.” His eyes traced the crest of my boobs under the sheet. “Wanna join me, wifey?”

“Don’t call me that,” I said, covering myself better. “We need to talk about the sex we had that I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?” He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. “Now that is a bloody shame.” He crossed his arms behind his head and considered me, amusement on his face. “You weren’t this much of a grouch in the mornings the last time we slept together.”

I scowled. “That was three years ago. Things change. Just tell me what happened.”

He smirked and took his sweet time, sitting up slowly, fluffing his pillow and propping himself against the headboard.

He was torturing me. On purpose.

Finally, he found a good spot and his eyes found mine, but they weren’t happy. “Would you be upset if we shagged?”

“Yes.”

His face tightened, a shadow in his eyes. “Fine. We didn’t.”

Oh. I felt deflated, as if all the energy had fled from the room.

“Besides, don’t you think you’d remember a night with me?”

“So you slept next to me all night without trying to have sex? While we were both naked?”

His lips flattened. “I’m not like that, Remi. And you took off my clothes, not the other way around.”

What?

“Yes. You insisted we sleep skin-to-skin.”

My face flamed. What had gotten into me?

Come on, Remi. You can’t be too surprised. He’s your drug of choice. Always.

I shoved those thoughts away.

“You do that often?” I sputtered. “Sleep with a girl and not have sex?”

“Never,” he said curtly. “You’re the first. You should feel special.”

“I don’t,” I snapped. “I feel confused.” And disappointed?

Scooting over to his side of the bed, he stood, the pristine sheets sliding away from his tan skin revealing hard muscles in his back and an ass so magnificent that someone should definitely write a sonnet for it. “Ode to Dax’s Butt” would work.

He walked around the foot of the bed, and my eyes flitted over his chest, down to the six-pack and the deep V at his hips—which led my eyes to his . . . his shaft as it grew right in front of me.

“I see you noticed Mr. Argentine Duck is awake.”

I flicked my eyes up to his and held them there. Don’t look down. “He appears quite happy.”

He shrugged. “Morning wood. Happens to everyone. Don’t take it personally.”

“Thanks,” I snipped back. “I don’t need reminders that you get hard for all girls.”

“No problem.” A muscle clenched in his jaw.

Why was he so ticked?

For the first time, I noticed the patch of white on his chest. “Your tattoo. Let me see what you got.” It was much bigger than mine.

He peeled back the gauze until the hand-sized design above his chest was clearly visible.

“What’s that?” I squinted.

He stared down at his chest. “Looks like an American flag and an eagle with your name on it. Since you don’t recall, we got matching tattoos—or friendship ink as you called it. It was your idea, and judging by the horror on your face, you regret it.”