British Bad Boys: Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  “I hope you know what you’re doing!” she called over the downpour.

  I took off at a fast walking pace toward the church, dodging sudden puddles and a few cars as I weaved through traffic.

  We reached the building and entered the vestibule, where I sat her down on the marble tile to dry out before we went inside the sanctuary.

  “That was incredible, the best thing I’ve done in London,” she said, pushing wet hair off her face. “I thought you might drop me though. I’m no lightweight.”

  My eyes roved over her, lingering on her full breasts, skating down to the curves of her hips. Perfection. My gaze ended on her wet lips.

  Stop it, Dax.

  “Wait a minute . . .” She did a complete circle in the small area. “It just dawned on me that the owner’s name is Friar Laurence.” She giggled. “Holy Shakespeare, it’s like Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Not following,” I said, brushing water off my forearms.

  “Don’t you see? Romeo and Juliet fell in love at a masquerade party and were married the next day in secret by a Friar Laurence—in an old church. Of course it was set in Verona, but still . . . weird, right?”

  An idea struck and I ran with it. Grinning, I hooked my arm through hers. “Let’s get married here then. Right now. You get your wedding fix, and I get to tell Spider we got hitched and watch him piss his pants.”

  “What?” Her face whitened.

  “As a joke, Remi.”

  “Oh.” She blinked. “Yeah, of course. Sure.”

  “Dammit. We need rings though,” I said, thinking, my eyes going around the vestibule entry. There was nothing here to use. I pulled out my wallet and fingered a fiver. “I can fold a couple of these and make them?”

  Her lips twitched. “I have a couple of hair ties in my bag. Let’s use those.”

  She pulled out a wad of colored rubber bands, and between us we selected our “rings.” I picked out the brown one and she picked a blue one, wrapping them around our respective index fingers to make them smaller.

  I bent down on one knee and held up the “sapphire ring.”

  “Remi, will you be my good lady wife?”

  A slow blush started at her neck and covered her face. She bit her lip.

  “Don’t you fancy me, love?” I clutched my heart, using all the dramatic acting skill I possessed, which wasn’t much. “Am I not enough for you?”

  She barked out a laugh and then sobered. “Since the moment we met,” she said softly, her eyes darker than usual, an indigo-blue.

  I rolled my eyes. “Good one.” She smiled. “Will you marry me?”

  “Yes,” she murmured.

  I slid the band on her finger and stood. She stared down at it, her brows drawn in and lines around her eyes.

  My shoulders slumped. “Remi? Shit, I’m sorry. We can stop if this isn’t fun—”

  She swallowed. “No, no. Just give me a minute.”

  “Are you thinking about Hartford?” I asked. “I’m being insensitive. Of course—”

  “No, I’m not actually.” She looked from the ring to me, a thoughtful expression on her face. Our eyes locked, and she smiled tentatively, seeming to come to a decision. “Come on, my new fiancé, we just got engaged. Let’s go talk to the friar.”

  I grabbed the tequila from the floor where I’d set it when we came inside, and we headed back inside the sanctuary.

  11

  My heart clenched when Dax got on one knee and for half a second, it had felt real.

  But it wasn’t.

  Girls were a game to Dax, and I had to keep that front and center.

  We went inside the sanctuary and found Friar Laurence. He grinned as Dax explained what we wanted, and he was more than happy to fake-wed us. Apparently it wasn’t the strangest thing he’d been asked to do inside the shop.

  We gathered next to one of the tattoo stations, and with the sounds of machines running and a girl screaming over getting her nipple pierced, we prepared to exchange vows.

  Not exactly the First United Methodist Church of Raleigh.

  I slipped the “topaz” band on Dax’s finger. My eyes met his.

  “I need some vows to really get into this,” he said with a wicked grin. “You go first.”

  I laughed, surprisingly willing to go along with his carefree attitude. Dax had always had the uncanny ability to make me feel easy about almost anything—except breaking my heart.

  “Fine. I take you, Dax, my friend, as my pretend-husband. I promise to drink tequila with you forever, but if you need me, I will write goals for you, make spreadsheets, flowcharts, and contracts.” I grinned. “If you insist, I will also eat with you at Panera.”

  He considered me, his eyes the color of morning mist.

  “Well?”

  He cleared his throat, a suddenly serious expression on his face as he slid the blue band on my finger. “Dearest Remi, I take you as my pretend-wife. I promise to be your protector and never leave the toilet seat up. I’ll kill all the spiders, and I’ll attempt to not freak out when you compare my body parts to birds or make me sign contracts.” He sent me a heated look. “I promise to cherish you until my last breath.”

  My mouth parted. I exhaled.

  Give that boy an Academy Award.

  “I now pronounce you man and wife,” Friar Laurence said with a solemnity that made me nervous.

  “Wait. This isn’t real is it?” I asked the monk.

  He chuckled and shrugged. “I am an ordained minister.”

  “He’s teasing,” Dax said, pulling my attention back to him.

  Oh.

  “Now what?” I asked, looking from the Friar and back to Dax. “Don’t we kiss or something?”

  The Friar smiled, eyeing us both dubiously. “Do whatever you want. I’ve done my job here, and I have a client waiting.” He pointed to another station where a lanky guy was busy tattooing a customer. “That’s Zack. He’ll be doing your art today in about an hour. Just go on over when you’re ready.”

  He walked away, and we turned back toward each other.

  Dax took my hand and laced our fingers together.

  Were we going to kiss?

  My eyes went to his mouth, taking in the plump curve of his sculpted lower lip, the indentation.

  “You’re looking at me like you want to kiss me,” he said with a naughty chuckle.

  “Maybe. It is the final step in a marriage ceremony.”

  “Just don’t fall back in love with me,” he teased.

  “Pffft—who said I ever did? Plus, I’ll think of England the entire time.”

  “You’ll think only about me because I kiss that good.”

  “You’re a cocky bastard,” I said, smiling.

  Another chuckle. “True. Do we need to tear up our contract?”

  I thought about it. Shrugged. “No. This is pretend.”

  A knowing gleam lit his eyes. “Admit it, I’m irresistible.”

  “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.

  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 yo
u 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.”

  My mouth opened. “I haven’t had time to process it!” I groaned and flopped back against the pillows. “I mean how am I going to explain your name on my body to people?”