Full Throttle (Black Knights Inc. #7)(10)

In a bleary, unconcerned kind of way, she realized the online chatter picked up by the NSA about the threat of kidnapping was real. It was happening right this very minute. To her, not to Caroline, as the reports had suggested. And there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop it…

Nothing she necessarily wanted to do to stop it, come to think of it, her detachment from herself so entirely complete. Was she breathing? She couldn’t feel her lungs moving, couldn’t feel her chest cavity filling with delicious, live-giving oxygen. Was her heart still beating? There was no telltale rush of blood between her ears, no reassuring lub-dub of muscle behind her breastbone.

Perhaps she was dying. Or…dead. Maybe she wasn’t being abducted but had been murdered. And this was an out-of-body experience. How strange… She’d never really believed in such things. But if this was death, then—

“Do not worry,” the shadow man whispered in her ear, his English clipped and heavily accented. “We will not kill you. You would lose your value.”

So…not dead, then.

Huh. She should be happy about that. She knew she should. But the gray…it was calling to her, beckoning and enticing her to give in. And give in she would. Why shouldn’t I? She could think of no good reason. And quite honestly, giving in felt…good.

*

Dan’s heart pounded until he felt it in his fingertips…and lower. Because the delectable Agent Penni DePaul had shoved him against the door of his hotel room the second he booted it closed. And now her agile tongue was introducing itself—well, hey there—to his in the most mind-numbing fashion.

Soft…that’s what she was. Even though she was tall and lean, she was soft in all the right places. In her lovely, flaring hips held tight between his hands. And in her small, round breasts pressed firmly against his chest.

Fresh-smelling…she was that, too. Light and airy and altogether scrumptious, her scent made him harder, hornier than he’d been in…well…a long time. And when he kissed her neck, just below her ear, the taste of her skin was rosewater.

Basically, she was everything he’d been denying himself for the past twenty-two months. She was…woman.

A drunk woman? Was it possible he was taking advantage of her?

“How many of those froufrou drinks did you have?” he whispered in her ear.

“Just enough,” she giggled, reaching around to grab his ass in order to better rub herself against his hardened length. When he could uncross his eyes, he lifted his head, staring down at her.

Her stance was steady. Her smile was warm. And her pupils were…dilated? He cocked his head and studied her more closely.

“I’m not drunk, Dan,” she assured him.

“No?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m pleasantly buzzed. But a far cry from drunk. So stop being a skootch”—Skootch?—“and keep doing exactly what you’re doing.” Fisting her hand in his hair, she guided his lips back to the junction of her shoulder and throat. Roger that. He opened his mouth to taste her gorgeous flesh.

“Mmm,” she murmured, and because he took her at her word—and also because he knew drunk, he’d lived drunk, and one look told him Penni DePaul was not drunk—there was nothing to stop him from lifting his hand to her soft, warm breast. Nothing to stop him from running his thumb over the crest until her little nipple hardened. He started to whisper her name, but in that instant his earlier prophecy came true. He forgot what to call her. Poised on the tip of his tongue was…Patti…

He jerked back and let his head fall against the door. It landed with a muted thud.

I can’t do this. Regardless of what Ozzie and Steady claimed to the contrary, it was too soon. The memories of his murdered wife were still clearly written across his mind like chalk on a blackboard, and without the hooch to use as an eraser, he couldn’t escape them.

“Dan?” Penni’s voice was husky. “Is there…are you okay?”

Ha! Okay? No. He wasn’t okay. In fact, he’d probably never be okay again…

He glanced down at the lovely little Secret Service agent. Her smile was soft and hesitant, yet warm…like a low winter sun rising over Lake St. Clair on the east side of Detroit. It made his stomach flip. Hell’s bells, she deserved more than this, better than him. He told her as much.

A little crease formed between her sleek, arching eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not worth your time,” he elaborated. “I’m still too f*cked up.”

“Fucked up about what?” Her big brown eyes were curious…kind. And it was her eyes that’d been doing a number on him since the moment they met, when it was blammo! Instant connection. He’d never felt anything like it. Not even with Patti. And, yeah, that made it so much worse.

“You don’t know?” How could she not? He thought the word widower was stamped across his forehead right beneath the word alcoholic.

“No.” She shook her head, her eyes softening further, melting into him. Melting him.

She really didn’t know. And it was a relief, in a way. He hated being pitied. On the other hand, it was that much more embarrassing to be standing here, a real-life walking, talking erectile dysfunction commercial.

The thought God, I need a drink was immediately followed up by One day at a time. And that was progress, he supposed.