Free Filthy English by Ilsa Madden-Mills Page A

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