The Brit

He moves so fast, it’s all a blur, and then I’m swiftly in front of him, my ass pressed up against the glass panel, Danny caging me in.

“It is?” he says, taking the bottom of the shirt I’m wearing and pulling it up to my waist. “Oh dear.”

I purse my lips and peek over my shoulder. It’s silly. If there was anyone in the garden below, Danny wouldn’t be exposing my ass to them. Not now. Returning my attention to him, I shrug and he wrinkles his nose, rubbing it with mine. Everything—the jet ski incident, Watson, last night, now, it’s all building a pile of rightness, telling me that what I’m doing is the best thing. “Can we have dinner tonight?” I ask. I’ll tell him then. It’ll give me the day to figure out where to begin and how I’ll explain bit by bit.

Pulling away, he cocks a questioning head. “Dinner? Like a date?”

What is that heat in my cheeks? “If you want to call it that.”

His lips twist, as he clearly tries to wrap his morbid mind around the concept of a normal date. I suddenly feel stupid and for a brief moment I waver on the edge of uncertainty. “A date,” he muses.

“It’s easy,” I explain. “Do what you’ve done the past two times you’ve taken me for dinner, just don’t kill or threaten anyone during,” I quip, trying to make light of what he clearly thinks is an odd suggestion.

“Okay.” He starts bending his arms against the rail behind me, bringing his face down to my neck. He presses a kiss on my throat before straightening them again, pushing away from me. Then he bends again, dropping down and placing another kiss on my chest before straightening his arms.

“What are you doing?” I ask, as he continues to bend and straighten his arms, like he’s doing push-ups against the railings, me trapped between his muscled limbs. Another kiss, this time on my cheek.

“I missed the gym this morning because of you.” He drifts away and my eyes fall to his biceps bulging. They are truly sigh-worthy, and an appreciative wisp of air leaves me.

“I think three sets of twenty will do.” I pout as I stroke down the length of his swelling arm, happy to admire him while he has a quick workout.

“You gonna count?”

“One,” I start as he slowly lowers toward me again, looking me in the eye as his lips land on my chest.

“Open the shirt,” he orders, pushing himself up straight again. I do as I’m bid and expose my front to his eyes as he slowly descends again. This time, he goes lower, kissing me between my breasts.

“Two,” I breathe, resting my arms on the metal railing and leaning back, making the distance between us greater. Not that it fazes him. With each press, he kisses a different part of my body, and with each flex of his toned arms, his muscles swell more, the blood pumping in more than one place. I’m so lost in the mesmerizing sight of him before me, I lose count, my mind only willing to focus on his mouth meeting my skin. By the time Danny finishes, there’s not an inch of my torso or neck that doesn’t have his lips imprinted on them.

His final descent brings his mouth down onto my forearm. My dressing is gone—Esther said the wound needs air—and he brushes a delicate kiss across the cut. Regret captures me again, and my eyes fall to Danny’s arm, where a bandage still covers his wounds. Not just one cut, but many cuts, all much deeper than my single slice. I swallow and lay my hand over the white dressing. “Why did you do that?” He pulls his mouth away from my arm and looks up at me, searching my eyes.

“Why did you?”

“Release of pressure. Something I can control.” My admission surprises me more than it surprises Danny, his face remaining straight. “And because sometimes I hate myself.”

He swallows. “I did it because it was me or you.”

“What?”

“Enough people in your life have damaged you, Rose.” He eyes me closely, and I swallow. He has no idea. “I didn’t want you on the list of people I want to kill.”

He wants to kill everyone who’s ever hurt me? That list is a long, long list. And my hope just soared, yet I can only manage a meek smile.

Danny circles my nose with his. Pushes his lips to mine. “After our date, where I promise not to kill anyone, will you join me in bed again?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m done with pushups.” He slips an arm around my waist and hauls my breathless body into his arms. “Ready for some thigh work?”

“You or me?”

He smiles mildly and carries me to the bed, sitting me on the end and shoving my legs apart. “You.” His rough voice could make me come all by itself. “Squeeze,” he demands, and I strain to close my legs. They don’t move a millimeter, not with his palms keeping them where they are. “Harder, Rose.”