The walk back to my cabin takes approximately eight thousand years. It’s partly that we stop every ten feet so Kevin can sniff something.
It’s mostly that I’m dragging my feet, buying time to decide exactly how much to tell Bradley about Dante.
Dan, I remind myself, willing to concede it’s an appropriate nickname. If he wants to blend in, that’s a start.
Then again, blending in doesn’t involve following me around a luxury resort like some predatory cat that’s been shaved and dosed with steroids. What exactly is he doing here? I have my suspicions, but until I know, I need to be careful.
“Let me take your coat.” I nudge the door shut behind Bradley and shift into hostess mode. “Can I get you some tea or maybe cocoa? Or what about dinner—it’s almost dinner time.”
He eyes me oddly as he peels off his coat and hooks it on the coatrack beside the door. “I’m okay.”
I twist my hands together, feeling awkward and a little useless. “I have marshmallows for the cocoa. I tried to buy some at the grocery store, but Sean pointed out the sugar content, which isn’t great for someone with a transplanted kidney.” I’m definitely babbling but can’t seem to stop myself. Even Kevin’s watching me warily, though it might be the marshmallow comment.
“Sean makes his own marshmallows from scratch, and he doesn’t use gelatin,” I continue for Kevin’s benefit, “so there’s no pork product whatsoever. They’re for resort guests to make s’mores, but he made a special batch for me with all my dietary restrictions taken into account and—”
“Cocoa sounds good, thank you.” Bradley’s blue eyes hold mine for a few beats before he tilts his chin toward my dining room table. “Want to sit there, or on the sofa?”
This feels like a test, one I’m probably doomed to fail. “Sofa,” I decide. “It’s easier. More casual.”
Two things I fear this conversation won’t be. Bradley must have the same sense because he nods stiffly and makes his way to the couch. I’m still holding Kevin’s leash, so I lead him into the kitchen and get down the bowl I found at the feed store. I wanted to be prepared, so I already bought a bag of special pig chow. Also, fresh diced mango, since I read that’s a special treat for pigs. Tropical fruits interact poorly with the immunosuppressant drugs I’m required to take, so I’m delighted someone in this house can enjoy it on my behalf. I drop some diced bits into Kevin’s bowl, keeping the portion small so I don’t spoil his appetite for dinner. Then I wash my hands and get to work making the cocoa.
I consider informing Bradley about the low sugar content of my cocoa mix. Another gift from my chef brother, it’s made with my dietary precautions in mind. For some reason, I want Bradley to know I’m a model transplant recipient. That I can do this one thing right, at least.
When I glance up, I see he’s not sitting. He’s back at the cluster of photos, studying one near the back.
“This is him, right?” He turns, holding the image from my mother’s sixtieth birthday party. “The bald guy, Dan. I thought I recognized him in this photo.”
Dammit to hell. I should have known better than to put that in a frame. But how was I supposed to know Dante would show up here?
Instead of answering, I finish mixing the cocoa and drop in the marshmallows. I’ll answer the question, but not until we’re properly seated. Kevin’s done eating and has wandered over to the pet bed I bought just for him. As he flops onto the overstuffed surface and gives a grunt of satisfaction, I have the joy of knowing one thing has turned out the way I hoped it would.
When I look back at Bradley, he’s still holding the photo. I sigh, square my shoulders, and stride toward him. “Yes,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “If you’ll have a seat, I’ll explain.”
“All right.” He sets down the photo and ambles to the couch. His posture seems overly rigid, and I wonder what he thinks I’m going to tell him as I hand him a mug, then sit down next to him and take a deep breath.
“Dante is a hitman.”
Bradley blinks. “What?”
I frown and flip through my mental Dovlanese to English dictionary. “Maybe that’s not the right word. He protects my family from those who might harm us.” It sounds simple when I phrase it that way, so I cross my legs and continue. “Occasionally, if someone does something very bad, that person might just…disappear.” I hesitate. “It’s sort of understood Dante’s the one who makes them disappear, though my family never actually speaks of it. Perhaps hitman isn’t the right term for that?”
Bradley stares at me. “Uh, yeah. Hitman would be the word you want.”
I gesture to the bowl of marshmallows resting on the tray. “If you’d like more—”
“Wait, no.” He shakes his head and sets his mug down on the coffee table. “I’m sorry, but I have questions.”
“I thought you might.” And here’s where I’ll have to tread very carefully with answers.
“This is…legal in your country?”
I glance down into my mug and choose my words with care. “Self-defense is certainly legal. Beyond that…” I trail off, deciding how to phrase it as I meet his eyes again. “Well, are there things in America that aren’t precisely legal, but for those who hold a high political office, perhaps the rules are…well…different?”
Bradley stares at me. “I want to say no, of course not, but—” He rakes a hand through his hair. “Okay, yeah, I get your point.”
“And it’s not like I have absolute confirmation that Dante performs any duties beyond basic protection.”
He lifts one eyebrow. “But you have a good reason to suspect?”
Lifting my mug, I avert my eyes from his. “There was an occasion the Duke’s political rival was found to be conducting himself inappropriately with underage girls. One victim was a cousin of mine.”
I still recall the fury in my mother’s eyes when she learned about it. Heaven help any man who assaults a woman in my family, but especially a thirteen-year-old child. “The man, my father’s rival—he avoided prison time because of money and political power. After the trial, he attempted to resume contact with one of the young girls.”
My blood starts boiling as I speak of this. I’m so tired of men who think they can lay claim to anything they want because of money or power or both.
“Yeah, that sort of thing happens in America, too.” The anger in Bradley’s eyes reminds me this is a man who went to great lengths to protect his sister. I shouldn’t find that attractive, but I do.
“So, what happened?” he prompts.
“Well, I overheard part of a conversation between Dante and the Duke. A private conversation.”
Bradley arches one dark brow. “What did they say?”
“I didn’t actually hear everything.” Enough. I heard enough to have suspicions. “Anyway, two days later, the brakes failed in the man’s sports car. It could have been a coincidence, I suppose.”
“But it wasn’t.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t bother pretending it is. I look down into my cocoa mug and choose my words with caution. “The Duke was always careful to shield me from details. If it helps, I believe Dante’s skills were only deployed in situations where the justice system failed. Where someone was being hurt or mistreated or abused by people or systems the Duke found…disagreeable.”
“So you’re saying what?” Bradley frowns. “He’s a hitman with a heart of gold?”
The idea of Dante having a heart of any kind is enough to make me laugh. Since laughter isn’t the right response in this situation, I settle for sipping my cocoa. “I don’t fear him, if that’s a concern.” Maybe I should, but I don’t. Not the way Bradley’s thinking, anyway. “I don’t believe Dante—Dan—would harm me.”
He studies my face a moment. “That doesn’t sound entirely convincing.”
“It’s the truth.” Not all of it, but some.
Naturally, Bradley has more questions. “Why is he here?”
“I don’t honestly know.” Another kernel of truth, thank heavens. “The Duke is very protective. Perhaps he’s worried about me?”
It’s possible Bradley hears the dubious note in my voice. “A father who’s worried about his adult daughter comes to visit,” he says slowly. “He doesn’t send a killer to follow her around like a rabid puppy.”
Heat fills my cheeks as I look down into my mug. “I told you last year the Duke isn’t able to get a visa. And my mother—”
“Iz, that’s not what I meant.” The gentleness in his voice makes me look up, and the pity in his eyes makes my eyes well. “I know they had legitimate reasons they couldn’t visit when you had your transplant. All I meant is that it seems a little odd they’d send an armed thug to watch over you.”
“Is it, though?” I glance toward the window that faces Mark’s cabin. “It’s not as though it’s unprecedented for family members to protect other members of the family through whatever means necessary.”
He gives a sharp nod, perhaps thinking about his own sister. “Point taken.”
This feels like a bigger victory than it is. “I’ve been trying to reach my mother on the phone,” I tell him. “I’m planning to ask point blank why Dante is here or what he’s been tasked with. In the meantime, I’m trying not to be too alarmed.”
Trying, but not succeeding. Again, Bradley’s blue eyes bore into me in a way that suggests he knows I’m not wholly truthful.
But he doesn’t know for sure. I don’t know for sure.
And until I do, I need to keep my cards clutched tightly to my chest.
“Any more questions?” I cross my fingers he’ll let it drop. That we can move on and pretend this isn’t a big deal. Maybe it isn’t.
Bradley lifts a brow. “Should I be concerned I’ve invited a professional killer to poker night?”
I watch his face, unsure if the moment calls for gravity or levity. “Only if you cheat.” I smile to let him know I’m kidding, which I absolutely am. “Maybe we shouldn’t use the word hitman. I’m thinking bodyguard might be a more accurate translation?”
He gives me a dubious look. “Is this wishful thinking on your part?”
If only he knew how deep my wishful thinking goes.
“I’m fairly sure ‘bodyguard’ is an accurate translation of his job title,” I point out. “Besides, if he’d wanted to harm anyone here, he’d have done it already.”
“That’s mildly reassuring.” He leans back against the couch. “All right. I do think you should tell your siblings.”
“Tell them what?”
“That one of their resort guests isn’t just here for the golf.”
I nod and try to picture that conversation in my mind. Then I push those thoughts away because I’d rather not deal with it. Just one more reminder that I’m not like them, that I don’t really belong here. “I’ll try to clear things up.”
Studying my face, he shakes his head. “You sure this guy isn’t unhinged?”
“Positive.” Mostly. “I’m sure he’ll be a nice addition to poker night. And he’s an excellent cook.”
“Elk stew made by a hitman.” He shakes his head. “Now I’ve heard everything.”
“Bodyguard.” Why did I ever use that word?
My stomach chooses that moment to growl. Probably all this talk of Dante’s elk stew. As my belly rumbles again, Bradley regards me curiously. “Need me to go?” he asks. “I know it’s kinda crucial you stick to a schedule for meals.”
I hesitate. I could usher him out the door now. Just be done with this conversation and all the awkward landmines it entails. Bradley might be curious, but he’s a doctor and a gentleman, and right now, those traits win out.
I swallow hard. “Stay. Please.”
“What?”
“For dinner. Please stay for dinner.” I jump off the couch, already kicking myself for my unwillingness to say goodbye to Bradley. I know that’s what’s best, but my foolish heart won’t listen. “Besides, I have dinner for Kevin. I’d like to see if the pig feed I bought is to his liking.”
Bradley stands, eyeing me oddly. “This is your way of ending the conversation without kicking me out?”
I consider denying it, but what’s the point? “I’m sorry, but there are some things I can’t share.” I swallow hard, holding his gaze. “But corndogs aren’t one of those things.”
“Corndogs?” He cocks his head. “Somehow, that’s not what I thought a member of a royal family would make for dinner.”
“Would you prefer tea and crumpets?” I laugh as I stretch up to grab the cornmeal, then the low-sodium salt I’ve been using. “I’m certain that could be arranged.”
“No, corndogs sound great.” He follows me into the kitchen with a bemused expression. “Haven’t had a corndog for years.”
“I assure you I make quite delicious corndogs.”
“Wait, you mean you’re making these from scratch?” Now he really looks impressed. “Okay, this I’ve gotta see.”
He slips past me in the kitchen, moving to the sink to wash his hands. I try not to let it affect me, his heated proximity or the sight of those long, sexy fingers moving with graceful efficiency. I know I should force myself not to stare, but there’s this American expression about doctors having a good bedside manner.
Doc Bradley has good bedside manner in the kitchen. And the living room. And, presumably, the bedroom. Why is it hot in here?
Tearing my eyes off him, I focus on getting out my mixing bowls and measuring cups. “They’re quite simple to make, though I don’t do it often.”
He dries his hands on a towel and watches as I dump vegetable oil into my favorite saucepan. “How did I never know you’re a corndog connoisseur?”
“I didn’t know.” I pull the milk out of the fridge, along with a carton of eggs. “I’d never even heard of corndogs until Jon and Blanka took me to a carnival not long after our surgery.”
I still recall the thrill of being part of the family, doing normal, American things. “I saw the corndogs and they looked so interesting,” I continue, “but clearly they’re not a good nutritional choice for someone watching sodium and taking anti-rejection medication.”
“That’s the bummer with a kidney transplant.” He braces both hands on my counter and I get distracted for a moment looking at them. “So many things you have to give up.”
I swallow hard and tear my gaze off his hands. “Yes, well, not corndogs, apparently. I wanted one so much that Sean worked with a dietician to develop a recipe more suited to my limitations. Once he perfected it, he taught me to make them at home.”
How easily the word “home” slips out, even though I know I can’t think that way. Also, my face is flaming from staring at Bradley’s hands and pretending I’m not. I turn and reach into the freezer and pull out the container of specially made hot dogs, prying the lid off to make sure I have plenty.
“Wait—are those homemade, too?” Bradley peers into the container, which thankfully, contains a dozen or more thick wieners that look much nicer than the ones I’ve seen in stores. “Hot dogs from scratch?”
“Yes, Sean makes them just for me.” A coil of family fondness wraps itself around my heart. How wonderful the Bracelyn family has been from the very moment I arrived. The debt of gratitude I owe them is immense.
But the other debt, the one to my family in Dovlano—
“I’m impressed.” Bradley inspects the tidy row of pink hot dogs. “Am I remembering right that Jon’s a corndog junkie, too?”
“Yes, we’ve remarked on that before. About studies where organ donors have passed along their culinary tastes to transplant recipients. Cases where someone previously detested tomatoes, but craves them after getting bone marrow from someone else who likes them.”
“That’s fascinating.” Bradley shakes his head. “Not nearly as fascinating as everything that’s gone into creating special Iz-friendly corndogs. How can I help?”
I point to the bag of kebab skewers I’ve set out on the counter. “You can thread those through the hot dogs. Don’t worry, they’re all-natural, organic beef.” I glance over to where Kevin lies snoozing on the pet bed. “No pork products whatsoever. Not even the casings.”
“Impressive.” Bradley picks up the bag of skewers and shakes a few onto the counter. “How many are we making?”
“I can eat two or three,” I tell him. “I have healthy coleslaw in the fridge to go with them, plus all the usual condiments.”
Bradley’s frowning down at the hot dogs, an odd look on his face. He’s holding a skewer in one hand and looking just a touch uncomfortable.
I take a step closer. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, sorry.” He shakes his head. “Just a weird moment of déjà vu.”
“What do you mean?”
He grimaces. “I probably shouldn’t say it.”
“You must.” Not like I have any room to talk when it comes to keeping secrets, but surely this one doesn’t have the same gravity. “Is something wrong?”
“Uh, well, there’s this procedure called cystoscopy,” he says slowly, still gripping one of the skewers. “It’s an endoscopic procedure where a physician inserts a tube into the urethra through the tip of the penis.”
“Oh,” I say, recognition dawning. “Oh, my.”
“Yeah, that’s why I didn’t want to say anything.” He flashes a self-deprecating smile. “You can’t get wigged out too easily when you’re a doctor, but that’s the one procedure that gives me the willies.” He winces. “No pun intended.”
I laugh, delighted to get the joke. Besides educating me about slang terms for birth control, Lily took it upon herself to regale me over lunch with copious slang for male genitalia. I was especially delighted by the term “willie,” along with “dingholer” and “flesh twinkie” and “meat stick” and—
“That’s a great smile.” Bradley grins, hot dog still gripped in his hand. “Does that mean I didn’t totally ruin this meal for you?”
“What? Oh, no—of course not.”
My mother would be appalled by my mental catalogue of penis euphemisms. The very notion of calling human genitalia by anything other than clinical terms would be gauche, in her eyes. As a child, I understood this was part of being sophisticated. That people like us—refined, cultured people—didn’t use irreverent language for body parts or sex acts.
As Bradley gets busy skewering hot dogs, I struggle not to let my brain dip down dark corridors. Not to dwell on rules I grew up with, the expectations for me as a young lady of royal birth. Not to think about any of it.
My brain obliges gleefully by supplying another round of penis terms.
Pecker.
Snot sausage.
Wanker spanker.
Stop it!
I pick up the recipe card and stare at the blur of words. Something about dry ingredients and wet ingredients and why the hell was my mother so hung up on illicit sex terminology, anyway?
Her rules against using that language ran counter to her actions. That’s evidenced by my existence, by the fact that her affair with Cort Bracelyn led to my conception and the Duke raising a daughter who wasn’t his. I’ve spent a lifetime striving to be a good member of the royal family, a perfect lady to make them proud.
Goo bazooka.
Yogurt gun.
Dicksicle.
Baloney pony.
Oh, dear.
Now that it’s been triggered, I can’t switch off the branch of my brain that catalogued all the penis words. Thank God Bradley Parker is a doctor and not a mind reader or I’d be in trouble.
I fight to paste on my serious expression, to concentrate on sifting and stirring and cracking an egg so hard the yolk runs down my wrist.
“Everything okay?” Bradley’s voice is a low rumble, but I can’t look at him. Can’t stop the chipper litany of filthy words running through my brain.
Crotch cobra.
Bacon rod.
Wrinklebeast.
“Fine!” I practically shout. “Everything’s great. I almost have the batter ready.”
Dear Lord, make it stop. I glance at Bradley, then wish I hadn’t. He’s gripping a hot dog in one hand, concentrating with medical precision on threading the skewer through the end of the plump pink cylinder.
I drop my gaze quickly, studying the polished edge of the granite counter. Instantly, I recognize my mistake. The fly of his jeans rests precisely at that level, and now I’m staring right at his—
Hooded warrior.
Flesh trumpet.
Groinstalk.
“Dear God, stop.”
Bradley looks up with alarm. “Am I doing it wrong?”
“What? No.” I can’t believe I said that out loud. “I’m sorry, you’re fine. Please, continue.”
I turn away, determined to focus on preparing the meal. I stir the flour and cornmeal, adding a little low-sodium salt. My big purple whisk makes sloppy, slurpy sounds as I whip it through the mix of egg and milk and—
“So what happens next?” Bradley’s voice snaps my attention back to him. He’s holding up one skewered hot dog, and suddenly, my palms go clammy. “We stick these in the batter and then the oil?”
I swallow back my own mortification. Can he tell I’ve morphed into a filthy-minded vixen who can’t stop thinking about penises?
Of course not. Surely three decades of practice allows me to hide my innermost thoughts behind a mask of royal propriety.
But seriously, how did I never notice the entire process of making corndogs is wrought with sexual symbolism? The flex of Bradley’s biceps isn’t helping, and neither is the muscular plane of his chest.
“Um, first we rub each hot dog with cornstarch so the batter adheres properly.” I pluck the skewered frankfurter from his hand and force myself to demonstrate. “Like this, so all the flesh gets covered.”
Flesh? Is that even the right word? I can’t think straight as I stand here stroking the hot dog with a fistful of cornstarch while the hottest man I know watches. I dare a glance at Bradley’s face and wish I hadn’t. He’s staring at me with his mouth agape, eyes darting back and forth as I slide the hot dog through the tunnel of my curled fingers.
“That’s, uh—pretty thorough.”
“What? Oh, yes.” I gulp. “That’s enough of that.”
Cheeks blazing, I reach for the batter bowl and promptly pour the wet ingredients into the dry. I’m mixing and beating and doing my best to get my brain back on track. To focus on the recipe, on the culinary craft of—
Love lollipop.
Uncle spunky.
Bonercoaster.
“Okay!” I practically shout it like a maniac as I set the mixing bowl on the counter. “Now we pour the batter into a tall drinking glass.” My voice sounds high and shaky and I’m certain Bradley can hear my raunchy inner thoughts. That he knows, deep down, I’m not a duchess but a twelve-year-old boy.
“A drinking glass?” He watches as I carefully pour the batter. “What’s that for?”
“It’s the perfect shape to ensure even coverage and the least amount of batter waste.”
“Makes sense.” He picks up a cornstarch-dusted hot dog and holds it above the glass. “Like this?”
I open my mouth to reply as he plunges it in, dunking the dog deeply into the milky liquid. I nod because I can’t find any words. None that aren’t penis euphemisms, anyway. For goodness sake, how many times is he planning to thrust that hot dog into the glass?
“Um, that should be good.” I clear my throat, pretty sure I’ve forgotten a step somewhere.
“The oil!” I spin around and stalk to the stove. Flicking on the burner, I set the temperature to medium-high. “This can get a bit messy,” I continue as I bend down to find the mesh splatter screen Sean gave me. I know it’s in here somewhere. Maybe behind the cookie sheet or wedged between two cutting boards. “If you’re not careful, the hot oil spurts all over the place and—ah-ha!”
I stand up triumphantly, splatter screen in one hand. Bradley blinks, gaze snapping to mine about a half-second too late. That’s when I realize he was checking out my ass.
Or maybe he’s staring because of what I said about spurting and splattering and—
“Dear God.” I set the mesh screen down on the counter and close my eyes, defeated. “Please tell me I’m not the only one having terrible thoughts.”
“Terrible?” The sexy rumble of Bradley’s voice has me opening my eyes again. That’s when I see he’s taken a step closer, that there’s a heat in his eyes I’m sure wasn’t there before.
Or maybe it was. Maybe I failed to notice.
“Terrible,” I repeat, no longer convinced that’s the right word. “Between you putting penis thoughts in my head and—”
“I put penis thoughts in your head?” Bradley quirks an eyebrow. “This from the woman who just gave a handy to a frankfurter?”
“A hand—oh, a hand job?”
He blinks, then smiles. “So I wasn’t imagining it?”
“I didn’t do it on purpose.” I smack my palm on the counter, frustrated by my own lack of self-control. “All I wanted was a simple meal with a nice, upstanding gentleman, but I can’t stop thinking about sex!”
I shout that last word a whole lot louder than I meant to. I’m braced for Bradley to laugh, or maybe suggest we switch to some other entrée. There’s nothing dirty about tacos, right?
Instead, he steps closer. “Isabella?”
With another deep breath, I force myself to look up at him. “Yes?”
“I’m not such a nice, upstanding gentleman.”
“Oh?” I’m not positive what he means by that, but there’s an odd, hopeful note in the syllable that just escaped my lips.
Bradley steps closer again. “If it makes you feel better, my mind’s in the same place.” His voice is low, suggestive, and I feel it in the pulse between my legs. “Right there in the gutter with yours.”
“Um, okay.” Since my brain is filled with thoughts of penises, I doubt that’s entirely true.
“This process is turning out to be entirely too phallic,” he murmurs as his palm cups my elbow and he draws me up against his chest. “Maybe we could tilt the scales toward a more feminine variation?”
I’m not certain what he means, but I feel myself nodding, going up on tiptoe to brush my lips against his. “Kiss me,” I whisper, though I’m already making it happen.
My fingers slip around the back of his neck, pulling him down to me as I press against the hardness of his body. Bradley kisses me back, and this time, there’s a familiarity to it. A hot, hungry possession that wasn’t there before.
Maybe that’s what makes me bold. Letting go of him, I reach over and flick off the burner. Then I turn and boost myself up on the counter. I hesitate, heart thudding so hard I’m sure he can hear it. With a deep breath, I reach down and grab the hem of the sexy red sweater Lily urged me to buy.
That’s it, blame the sweater.
This absurd thought flits through my brain as I peel the soft cashmere over my head and toss it aside, leaving me perched on my kitchen counter in my new red brassiere.
“Holy Christ.” He blinks, and the reverence in his voice, in his eyes, is enough to send ripples of lust wiggling through me. “Izzy, you’re stunning.”
I haven’t felt stunning with my top off since the day doctors carved me up to stick an unfamiliar organ in my body. My scars, the toll taken on my body by the procedure, the weight gain from steroids I’ll need to take for the rest of my life—none of it’s pretty.
But the way Bradley’s looking at me now, I almost believe him. The bra is La Perla, satiny and sheer with just a hint of lace. I don’t think it’s the garment capturing his attention. As he steps between my thighs, he draws both big hands up to cup the contents of my bra. “You’re so soft.” His mouth finds my neck and I shiver, twining my fingers behind his neck again. “So fucking perfect.”
It’s the expletive that gets me, even more than his touch. Have I ever been the source of such desire? The kind of woman who drives a man to profanity, to groping her between a pot of oil and a tepid glass of corndog batter?
I know it’s wrong to want this. That I can’t have more than just a few stolen moments, but maybe it’s enough. He knows I’m leaving, so perhaps we’re on the same page. This doesn’t have to mean something.
Closing my eyes, I lean into the sensation of his hands on my breasts, the woodsy smell of his jawline as it scrapes the soft hollow beneath my chin. I’ve never felt so desired, so utterly ravished by a man. Especially not a man like Bradley, hardened with muscle from the military, or maybe lifting weights at the gym. I draw my hands down the rigid lines of his back, savoring every coiled flex, every heated ripple of flesh.
His tongue flicks the soft spot behind my ear, and I moan, wrapping my thighs around him. I know there’s some reason I shouldn’t be doing this, but is it so wrong to want to seize some small slice of pleasure before…before…
“Izzy?” Bradley draws back to look at me. His eyes are hooded but also wary. “You okay?”
“Of course.” I blink up at him, conscious of the liquid heat between my thighs, the hardness between his.
“You tensed up all of a sudden.”
“I did?” Dammit. I lick my lips and drag my hands down his chest. “I don’t know why.”
Lie. That’s a great big lie, and I feel so awful about it that I grip the front of his shirt and pull him down for another kiss.
He kisses back, but it’s slower this time. More tentative. When he draws back, there’s a question in his eyes. “You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to—”
“Okay.” My heart’s pounding in my chest, and I recognize it’s more than lust. I don’t know what he’s going to ask, but there’s a good chance I can’t answer. Shouldn’t answer.
You shouldn’t do any of this, but here you are.
Bradley lifts one hand and brushes the hair back from my face. “Izzy, are you—have you been intimate with someone before?”
“Intimate?” I blink as the translation sinks in. “Oh, are you asking if I’m a virgin?” I laugh because the question is much less scary than I expected.
“I guess that’s what I’m asking.” Bradley looks vaguely embarrassed. “It’s fine if you are. I just—I’m trying to be respectful, since you’ve made it clear this can only be a temporary thing for you.”
Relief washes through me. Not just that we’re on the same page, but that his question is simple to answer.
“No, I’m not a virgin. Don’t worry. Wait.” I frown, recalling something I read about American men having hang-ups about wanting to date virgins. “I mean, yes, I’ve had sex before. If that’s a problem for you, I’m sorry, but I won’t apologize for—”
“No, no!” He holds up his hands like I’ve pointed a pistol at him. “Not an issue at all. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t rushing you or anything. Different cultures have different values around sex, and I didn’t want to put you in an awkward situation.”
My gaze flicks to the skewered hot dog plunged to its hilt in the glass of batter. “Because this isn’t awkward?”
He laughs and drags a hand down his face. “I can fix that.”
“Oh?”
I’ve barely squeaked out the word before he’s scooping me off the counter and cradling me in his arms like I weigh nothing at all. “Between Kevin watching us and the fact that Dan could turn up at any moment, I’m not super pumped about fooling around on your kitchen counter with the blinds wide open.”
Craning my neck to see the front window, I’m aghast to realize anyone could have looked in and seen me sitting here in my bra. That’s how lust-dazed I am that it never even occurred to me.
“Where are we going?” I twine my fingers around his neck, well aware we’re headed for the bedroom.
Also well aware of what’s going to happen there. Am I ready for that? Would it be crossing some line I’m not supposed to cross?
I’m still wondering about that as Bradley kisses me and steps through my bedroom door. He lays me back slowly on my queen-sized mattress, easing down on top of me.
The rumpled white coverlet gives away the guilty fact that I forgot to make my bed this morning. It’s clearly not enough of a turnoff to break Bradley’s stride. His hand is back on my breast, and he’s laying a path of kisses down the center of my body, making me squirm beneath him.
Clutching the back of his head, I gasp and arch up against him. He rests a palm on my belly and looks up at me with heat-filled eyes.
“I urgently, desperately, want to fuck you.”
I gasp, but not because I’m shocked. That’s the single hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me, and I wish I’d known it was coming so I could record those words and play them over and over until the day I die.
“I want that, too.” I lick my lips, so hungry for him I’m on the brink of drooling.
But as I start to pull him on top of me again, Bradley slides one hand to my hip and anchors me in place. “But let’s slow down just a little,” he says. “Okay?”
I blink, wondering what I missed. “I swear I’m not a virgin,” I sputter. “If you’re worried about deflowering me or some misguided notion of respect, I assure you we’re not about to cross some line I haven’t crossed before.”
My mother made sure of that, thank goodness.
“Isabella.” She patted the edge of the buttery chaise in my bedroom the night before I left for boarding school. “Let’s sit and talk about why you absolutely, positively should not save yourself for marriage.” Her smile grew haughty as I eased down beside her. “Take it from me, dear. Have as much sex as possible—discretely, of course—before settling down.”
I laugh, which makes Bradley blink. I should not be thinking about my mother now, or anything to do with my home country.
Because if I think about that…
“It’s not that,” he says, and for one startled moment, I think he’s read my mind. But as he draws a hand over my ribcage, gently tracing each thin bone, my body fizzes with desire that overrides my anxiety. “It’s just—I’ve had a few friends-with-benefits arrangements. They’re fun, don’t get me wrong, but that’s not what I’m after right now.”
“You want to be enemies?” I’m being flip, but mostly because I’m not sure what he means. “Or you’re saying we shouldn’t have sex because you slept with Lily before she and James got together?”
He barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “You always surprise me, Iz.” He dots a kiss along my jaw, then starts moving down, lips grazing my shoulder, my collarbone, the top of my right breast. “But I’m glad you brought that up. I don’t want there to be any big secrets between us.”
I close my eyes, arching into the pleasure of his mouth on my nipple, even as guilt flutters through me. “I don’t have a problem with it,” I assure him. “Lily mentioned it when we were shopping.”
She broke it to me gently, worried I might not take the news well.
“How was he in bed?” I asked, struggling not to sound too eager as she plucked a purple sweater off the rack.
“Outstanding.” She grinned and held the sweater up against me, adjusting the daring V-neck. “We weren’t in love, so it wasn’t next-level amazing the way it is with James, but men who’ve studied anatomy—well, they tend to know their way around the female body.”
I shiver now as Bradley kisses his way down my torso, demonstrating an enviable knowledge of every nerve ending in my body. “I want to go slowly,” he says, planting a kiss near my navel. “But I also desperately, urgently want to get you off.” Another kiss, this one right above the waistband of my jeans. “So what do you propose we do about that?”
There’s a teasing note in his voice as he moves lower, pressing his mouth against the heat between my legs. Layers of denim and satin separate us, but I arch up like he’s just circled my clit with his tongue.
“Bradley, please.”
I don’t realize I’ve twined my fingers into his hair until he looks up, smiling, his dark locks rumpled and stupid-sexy. “Please what?” He grins wider. “I’m realizing Lady Isabella has a filthy mind. Let’s see if your mouth matches.”
I look him dead in the eye and take a deep breath. “Fuck me with your mouth.” I pause. “Please.”
He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. The bulge in his jeans is ample evidence he’s ready for much more.
But his eyes lock with mine and he gives a devilish smile I feel deep in my core. “Yes, ma’am.”
With that, he unhooks my jeans and slides them slowly down my thighs.