Filthy English (English #2)(6)

by Ilsa Madden-Mills

Did I notice that his face was nearly in my cleavage?

Yes, and I really didn’t care.

Did I notice that his male scent made me want to rub against him like a cat?

Yes, pet me, please. Make me purr.

“Can you slide it off?” he asked.

I willed my pulse to slow down. “No, the clasp is the part that’s stuck to the material and it’s too tight to slide off. Trust me, I spent a while trying to get it undone.” I blew out a breath. “It’s been a crazy evening.”

“Hmmm.” His lips puckered in a cute way as he leaned in closer, and I swallowed, feeling shy all over again.

He was so not my type: muscled physique, a tattoo, cocky.

But tonight I wanted revenge sex.

And here he was—Mr. Beautiful—delivered on a silver platter.

It would be a travesty to not take advantage of the opportunity, right?

Absolutely, the tequila said.

He sent me a rueful grin. “This is going to sound like a cheesy pick-up line, but if you let me put my hand down the front of your dress, I’d be able to detach the bracelet without ripping the fabric. I won’t grab your tit on purpose.” He winked boyishly. “Wanna give it a go?”

Touch the tit! Touch the tit! I cleared my throat. “Sure, that would be nice.”

With a finesse that surprised me—as if he were used to sticking his hands into ladies’ clothing—he reached down the neckline of my dress, the back of his hand pressing against my lace bra. My nipple hardened—of course—and my face grew redder. Praying the darkness of the club hid my embarrassment, I avoided his eyes and studied the dragonfly on his arm. A few tense moments later, he found where the metal was snagged and gently maneuvered it through the fabric.

“Free at last,” he murmured as I shook my arm out in relief. I didn’t even see a hole in the dress.

“You’re quite the handyman. My bracelet means the world to me, and this dress—let’s just say it cost more than my car payment. Thank you. Seriously.” Impulsively, I gave him a quick hug and pulled back. “Um, can I buy you a drink to show my appreciation?”

His fingers traced down my spine. “Let’s start with a thank-you kiss.” His voice grew husky. “I’d love to kiss a real angel.”

An explosion of heat detonated in my body.

The blue-haired guy next to him snorted, probably at the total pick-up line Mr. Beautiful was dishing out. But I liked his lines. A lot.

“Ignore him,” Mr. Beautiful said, indicating his friend. “He’s jealous you fell in my lap and not his. Now about that kiss . . .”

“Right here in the club?”

“I like to imagine people watching us. Don’t you?” he whispered in my ear.

I shivered. Maybe. The idea did sound deliciously sexy.

His lips brushed my earlobe. “Besides, doesn’t a prince deserve his spoils? I caught you—you could have died right here on the floor.”

“I fell from the stool. It’s not like it was a building or something.” But my head was already leaning toward his.

“But it could happen,” he said, fingers tracing my lips, his face inches from mine.

Butterflies did somersaults in my stomach.

“I suppose there’s a slight chance I could be headed to the hospital on a gurney right now.”

“Indeed.”

Maybe it was the tequila, maybe it was the anonymity of the mask, maybe it was the fact that he’d asked so sweetly, or damn, maybe it was just him, but his reasoning made perfect sense. I nodded.

His hand tilted my chin back for a better angle as his full lips fit perfectly over mine. He deepened the kiss slowly, soft as silk, with the skill of a guy who knew exactly how to stoke fires. My hands threaded through his hair as heat raced up my spine, and when he groaned his appreciation, I melted into him.

The graze of his teeth, a soft nip on my bottom lip, and I clung to him.

Hot. Slow. Mind-blowing. Kisses.

Until it ended abruptly.

He jerked back as if stung, and even though I couldn’t read his expression behind the mask, I saw a deep furrow on his brow. He rubbed a quick hand across his jaw and cursed under his breath.

Had I done something wrong? Bitten his tongue?

“What happened?” I breathed, my pulse hammering. Now that I’d had a taste, I wanted more of him. I was committed to following through, and I was smart enough to know that the electricity between us wasn’t the usual.

He opened his mouth as if to say something but then slammed it shut, his eyes studying me as if he were considering something serious.

“Do I suck at kissing?” I asked.

“No.”

“Tequila breath?” I grimaced.

“No, no, you kiss great. Bloody incredible. That’s the problem.” He raked a hand through his hair, his face tightening.

He seemed like a completely different person.

What was going on?

“Are you married? Dating someone?” I asked.

“I’m the Lone Ranger.”

“Why? Are you a selfish asshole who only cares about himself?”

He paused. “Yeah.”

“Well, you’re in luck. That suits me just fine. So shut up and kiss me.”

A few beats of silence went by as his eyes bored into mine.

I stiffened. “Fine. I can take a hint. You aren’t interested. Welcome to the club.” I shifted in his lap as if to get up, and his hands tightened around my waist.

“Wait,” he said, his demeanor softening. “I am interested. Trust me.” He bit his lip in a hot way that was completely manly. “It’s just—when you’re angry later, will you remember that you wanted me to kiss you?”

“Of course. We’re just having fun.”

“Are you begging me to kiss you then?” His voice was husky, tinged with a note of familiarity.

My hands brushed the hair off his forehead, my nails trailing along his cheek. “Is that what you want?”

“I can’t remember what I want,” he murmured, and his mouth swooped down to capture mine again.

The sounds of the club faded away and all that mattered were his lips on mine, our tongues tangling. Lingering small kisses as we paused to breathe, then longer ones. His tongue licked my top lip and then he sucked it between his teeth. He owned me, and I lost myself, consumed by the fire that started in my bones and made its way through every part of my body.