Filthy English (9 page)

Lips brushed the top of my hair. “Remi . . . look at me,” he said, his voice raspy.

If you look up, you’re going to kiss him . . .

I tilted my head up and his mouth fused with mine in an instant.

Insistent.

Wild.

Hot.

Yes! This is what I needed.

Desire that had been on hold since our kiss at the bar surged through my body, weaving into every atom. I groaned, and my hands rushed to his shoulders and dug in.

He was wrong—terribly wrong—for me, but it felt so right.

I felt wonderfully alive, revved up, as if I could crush a car with my bare hands, or push Dax against the wall and fuck him senseless. I recognized the feeling for what it was—an I almost-died-and-now-I-want-to-experience-life feeling.

“Wait,” he breathed as I ran my hand under his shirt. “It’s adrenaline. You’ve been through a trauma. You don’t really want this—”

“Shhh.” I lifted his shirt and kissed his chest, my tongue flicking over his nipple. “You taste like every good thing I’ve ever wanted.”

His taut restraint snapped, and he swayed into me. “God, I can’t tell you no.”

“Then don’t.” My hand pushed against the hard length in his jeans. Stroked. “I remember how hot we were—how you loved to make me say your name. Don’t you want that again?”

His eyes blazed. “Yes,” he growled and took my mouth again, devouring me as I worked the zipper of his jeans down and slipped my hand inside. Of course he was commando.

We were frantic, our hands rushing, touching places we’d missed over the years. The press of his hands. His kisses. I wanted it all.

Finally
, my body seemed to say. This. Me. Him. Fate.
Meant to be.

His hand slipped down the neck of my dress and cupped my lace bra, teasing my nipple. I arched into him. All he’d have to do is touch me once in the right place and I’d detonate.

I cupped his shaft and stroked him from base to tip, ghosting my fingers over the tip, knowing exactly where he liked to be touched.

“Remi—you’re killing me,” he gasped out, laying his head back against the brick. “So many times I thought about this—”

“Remi?”
A shrill voice belted out from behind us. “What the heck is going on? Our British guys ran off, and now you’re out here with
Dax
? I’m confused.”

Lulu.

“Yeah. What she said,” Spider added in a dry tone. “Although to me it looks like you two are flossing each other’s teeth.”

And now everyone was here.
Just peachy.

My body shook from denied need as I leaned my head on Dax’s chest, trying to get my breathing under control as he discreetly zipped his pants up and straightened my dress.

Mortification warmed my cheeks.

One minute I was telling him I couldn’t be his friend and the next I was jamming my tongue down his throat.

God, I didn’t know who I was when I was with him.

Dax cupped my face, his face worried as he searched my eyes. “Adrenaline, love. Don’t be sorry and don’t blame yourself.”

I closed my eyes.

How did he have this ability to read my mind?

I nodded and we turned to face them.

I RAN THROUGH
the details of what had happened with Spider and Lulu, describing how I’d found Remi fighting off Chad on the ground.

I should have come out sooner.

You aren’t her keeper,
my brain said.

I reached for Remi’s hand and laced our fingers together. She tightened her grasp, and I pulled her against me as she responded to their questions, her voice low and weak, but her composure calm—better than I’d expected from someone who’d been attacked.

But then she’d always projected
control.

Over the years, I’d listened in on conversations about her, just to know what she was up to. The times when I’d seen her at a campus-wide frat party and we’d come face to face, you’d never have known she knew me. With a frozen smile, she’d meet my gaze—and keep walking.

Like I was a piece of fucking furniture.

Granted, I usually had a couple of girls hanging on me.

I watched her more than I should have considering she was the girlfriend of one of my rivals. It was understood that we didn’t poach the Omega girls and vice versa unless we wanted to end up in a tangle on the quad. Not that I’d ever cared. If I wanted a girl, I took her, although I never went after attached ones, especially those as close as Remi and Hartford.

Plus, I’d had my chance with her,
and I hadn’t wanted it.

I came back to the present as sirens wailed in the distance.

At least someone had called the police.

Two beefy guys who I knew to be bouncers for the club flew out the metal door and scanned the area, pausing on our huddled foursome near the dumpster.

They headed toward us. “Everything okay out here?” one of them asked us.

Renewed anger hit and my fists tightened. “It is now,” I said tersely, straightening to eye them. “If you have a back door, it would be a damn good idea to keep security—especially near an alley. My friend was mugged and nearly killed by one of
your
patrons.”

“I’m fine,” Remi said, smoothing it over. “Thanks to you.”

I glanced down at her face. She smiled, albeit a weak one, and I felt a
small
bit of peace.

She was safe. She was fine.

But I couldn’t completely relax.

A few minutes later, we gave statements about the incident to the officers and assured them we’d come back down the next day if we remembered anything else. Apparently, there’d been a rash of similar muggings in the area—one or two white men who hit on victims they’d met in bars and clubs. Both of the guys Lulu had picked up fit their general description. They took jewelry, money, bags, phones, even clothes. The police had told the local pawnshops to be on alert if they came in with specific stolen goods, but so far they hadn’t had any hits.

Remi looked crushed when they told her they had no leads.

After the police left, Spider and Lulu went to grab us some waters at the bar while we found ourselves in the staff restroom that the manager of Masquerade had generously offered us, along with an offer of free admission and drinks for the rest of the week.

Remi had small cuts on her hands from the gravel and several fingerprint bruises on her neck that she insisted she could cover up with make-up the next day. Thankfully, the club had a small first aid kit with witch hazel and alcohol wipes. Of course, the police had checked her out and taken a few pictures, but she’d adamantly refused to go to a hospital.

She sat on a stool and I cleaned her feet off, careful to get the little bits of dirt out. It was as if we’d overcome a hurdle. We were friends. Sort of.

We hadn’t actually
said
that, but I felt the connection between us.

Later, I leaned against the sink as she dabbed my swelling eye with a cold compress someone had brought us from the kitchen. One of the bartenders had also scrounged around in the employees’ stock room and found her a pair of old flip-flops and an oversized, long t-shirt with the words
I LOVE NIGHTS AT MASQUERADE
. She wore her dress underneath it.

I chuckled at her shirt. “That’s ironic.”

Her lips quirked up. “At least I saw you here tonight.” A pause. “I’m glad.”

“Me too.”

She nodded. “About what happened . . . with my hands down your pants . . .” A blush started at her neck and worked its way to her forehead. “I went a little nuts.” She giggled. “No pun intended.”

“We’re good. No need to explain.” I willed the bulge in my pants to go down.

“So no harm, no foul?”

“Yep, we’re buddies now.”

“Hmmm,” she murmured softly, a smile on her face as she gazed at me, her eyes luminous with emotion. “You’re definitely a hero. I owe you.”

My breath hitched at the way she looked, her face truly happy for the first time tonight, and for a moment I got a glimpse of what my future might have been like if I’d allowed myself to . . .

Stop, Dax.

A few minutes went by as she checked me for other injuries, making me take my shirt off in case I had bruises. He hadn’t hit me
that
hard, I insisted, but she still ran her fingers over every inch of my skin where I’d said I’d been hit. She wanted to see for herself, and I knew it wasn’t a sexual thing, but true concern. A little furrow formed on her forehead as she poked at my ribs to make sure they weren’t broken.

I tossed my head back and let out a belly laugh.

She jumped back. “I’d forgotten you’re ticklish!”

I laughed and pushed at her hands.

She grinned, her fingers on my bicep, tracing the outline of the dragonfly wings—almost absentmindedly.

“I love this. The colors, the design, the pure emotion. This tattoo means something to you. What is it?” Her eyes flicked back up to mine. “I feel sad when I look at it. Weird, to get a feeling when you see something—as if we have a sixth sense about things.” She smiled. “Whatever. I’m rambling, but I do want my own tattoo.”

Her hand never left my bicep; she stroked the wings, making the same swirls and marks that were in my design. Tingles—no, sparks—were going off left and right.

This isn’t about sex, Dax.

This is the real her. The real you.

Talking. Sharing. Having a moment when she’s peeking into your soul.

Will you let her in?

Absolutely not.

I wasn’t good enough for her, and I didn’t need her in my life, jacking with my emotions and making me want something I could never have.

But her touch.

Then pull away from her, arsehole!

I swayed, leaning into her.

Hypnotic.

Mesmerizing.

So fucking perfect that I wanted to curl up with her on a soft bed, stroke her hair, and tell her everything about the meaning behind that tattoo . . .

But I couldn’t.

I didn’t share that.

On the surface, people saw the cocky, funny guy, but underneath was a mess of feelings—especially since the anniversary of Mum’s death had just passed—and no matter how hard I wanted to explain the meaning to my dragonfly, I didn’t think I could get through the ordeal without getting clogged up in my throat.

So I did what I do best. I pushed her away.

I put some space between us, letting her hand fall to her side. I changed the topic. “Dude. I want to be there when you get a tattoo.”

She blinked, her face losing its glow, obviously sensing my inward retreat. “Oh. Okay. Sure. We’ll have to do that.” She tossed me my shirt. “I guess you need to put that back on.”

I slipped it over my head. “You ready to go home?” I asked, stalking to the door and opening it for her.

Her cobalt-blue eyes met mine. “Not really. I still feel all tingly from the adrenaline. Do—do you want to go somewhere?”

“You wanna go back inside the club?” My voice was incredulous.

“God no.” She nibbled on her nail, looking indecisive and incredibly lost. “I kinda want to eat something—although I’m not even sure I can swallow. At least get a soda.”

“You should probably go back to your hotel and get some rest, Remi.”

“To an empty hotel room? No thanks.” A defiant look grew in her eyes and then just as quickly deflated. “I—I don’t want to be alone, okay?”

I pushed down the bolt of need that fired through me at her words. “Alright, love. Let’s go then. I have just the place.”