Page 51 of Dare to Love Me

I take the soaking fabric from her, trying—failing—not to notice the way the cold water has hardened her nipples against that scrap of a bikini.

“I can’t believe you lot aren’t getting in.” She sighs, rolling onto her back in the water with a slow, lazy movement that makes my blood run hot. “It’s absolutely divine.”

“Ugh, gross. No,” Imogen sneers. “It must be filthy.”

Not nearly as filthy as the thoughts I’m trying to drown.

“It’s really relaxing,” Daisy purrs, stretching her arms above her head.

Water cascades off her skin as she floats there, sunlight catching every droplet, making her glisten like some sort of water nymph designed specifically to test my sanity. Her breasts rise and fall with each breath, barely contained by that ridiculous excuse for swimwear.

She knows the effect she has on men. Daisy Wilson has a body made for sin, designed to destroy men’s carefully constructed control, and she’s always wielded her sexuality like a weapon. Those curves, that mouth, the way she looks up through her long lashes—it’s all calculated to leave chaos in her wake.

“Daisy,” Hugo calls out, swimming closer. “Fancy making this more fun? A skinny-dip?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” I snap, and they both look up, startled.

The mere thought of her stripping down in this lake, that flimsy white bikini gone, bare skin slick with water—no.

She needs to keep that bikini exactly where it is.

“No one is skinny-dipping,” I bite out, eyes locked on her. “And you shouldn’t be swimming after that much wine. It’s hardly safe.”

Daisy tips her head back, eyes glinting. “Relax, Daddy.”

I go still.

She needs to stop calling me that.

“I’m sure if I get in trouble, one of you big strong men will save me,” she continues, floating effortlessly. “Anyway, I’m fine. Stop being such a killjoy.”

I focus on rowing. The lake suddenly feels the size of a bloody teacup.

Focus on something else. Your tax return.

Do not think about how easy it would be to haul her into this boat and teach her exactly why she shouldn’t call me daddy in that tone.

My body, however, has other ideas. My cock hardens against my will, straining against my shorts like I’m some hormone-driven teenager who’s never seen a woman before.

I shift against the wooden seat, grateful for what little concealment it provides. This is absolutely not happening. I’m a grown man, a successful surgeon. I do not get hard just because Daisy Wilson is in a bikini.

It’s too late. My body’s betrayal is mortifyingly obvious, straining against my shorts. One wrong movement and everyone will witness exactly how thoroughly Daisy Wilson dismantles my control. In front of my sister and her fiancé, no less. Christ.

“Edward,” Imogen says primly behind me, “you’re going to break those oars.”

They’re not the only thing in danger of breaking if certain parts of my anatomy don’t stand down immediately.

“Perhaps I do need a swim,” I say, voice tight with strain. Preferably somewhere in the Arctic.

I fumble with my shirt, peeling it off, rolling my shoulders.

“Edward!” Imogen gasps as the boat wobbles from my movements. “You’ve splashed water all over—” Her words cut off abruptly.

I glance up just in time to catch her, mouth slightly open, staring at my groin.

“You’ll live,” I snark back.

Without further thought—because thinking has become dangerous—I dive into the lake. The cold water shocks my system but does nothing to extinguish the fire burning under my skin.