Full Throttle (Black Knights Inc. #7)(15)
Downy dryer sheets and Palmer’s cocoa butter lotion…
Steady remembered thinking back at Georgetown that a young woman whose father was running for the lofty position of president of the United States should smell expensive and untouchable, like French lace and Chanel No. 5. But to the delight of his libido, Abby’s clean, fresh scent had always made her seem eminently touchable…the girl next door who shopped at the local Walmart, not Barney’s.
In nearly a decade? nothing had changed…
And how the hell would he know that, you ask? Well, because, stupid culo that he was, earlier today when he was sitting beside her on the sofa in her hotel room, going over the last sit-rep—situation report—with four of her Secret Service agents, he’d leaned close to brush a lock of honey-blond hair behind her ear. He’d wanted to reassure himself that she hadn’t removed the transmitters he’d given her now that the conference was officially over. Only instead of scrutinizing her earrings, bam! He got hit with a noseful of Downy dryer sheets and Palmer’s cocoa butter lotion. All the blood in his brain double-timed it down to his dick, and he could do nothing but blink at her, his mouth hanging open like a guppy, his entire being infused with…awareness.
“Carlos?” She turned to him with a pixie’s smile, her brilliant, celadon-colored eyes tilted up at the corners. “Did you swallow a bug or something?” She started pounding him on the back. “Why are you looking at me that way? What is it?”
What is it? Lust, he thought. And yearning and longing and…too many memories. He had to shake himself, clear his throat, and nod at her to leave off already with the…uh…helpful back beating. “Just, um…just checking to make sure you’re still wearing the earrings.”
She touched one of the studs glinting in her ear, her delicate wrist and long, slim fingers mesmerizing him. “Of course I’m still wearing them. I quite enjoy looking like 50 Cent.” She wiggled her eyebrows, then frowned. “Only next time, try adding a big gold chain, will ya? That’ll complete the look and—”
“Just don’t take them off,” he interrupted before she really got on a roll. The woman was too witty for her own good sometimes.
“I won’t,” she assured him, her expression turning serious. “You told me to wear them, so I will.”
What else would you do if I told you to? Sí, it was official. He was a lowdown, dirty-minded horndog. He adjusted his position on the couch, lifting his foot to rest his right ankle on his opposite knee. It was either that or give everybody in the whole damn room a good long gander at the massive stiffy he’d sprung. Dios! Talk about a hard time in Steadyville. Pun intended.
And speaking of…
It was back. His dick was as engorged now as it’d been then. Which really wasn’t any surprise considering he’d paused in front of her room an hour ago on his way to bed and that familiar, sweet scent of hers had seeped under the door only to tunnel up his nose. He thought he’d heard a murmur, or a soft scuffle coming from inside her room, so he’d stood there, head cocked, listening, breathing her in. But when no other noise sounded from behind the door, he’d been forced to move on. To carry her scent with him down the hall and into his own hotel room, into his own bed. Where visions of her soft, pink lips; long, slim legs; and lovely little breasts just big enough to fill his palms had kept him hard enough to cut glass.
“Hijo de puta!” he cursed—sonofabitch—before reaching beneath the bed sheet and the waistband of his boxers to wrap his fist around his aching erection. Staring into the darkness, watching the faint city lights dance across the ceiling as they spilled in through the gap in the drapes, he stroked himself. Softly at first, and then more forcefully. He stroked himself until his toes curled, his hips arched, and he strained for completion.
How many times over the years had he done this? Jerked himself off while fantasizing that it was Abby’s small hands wrapped around him? Abby’s hot mouth sucking the head of him—
BOOOOMMM!
An explosion rocked the building, thundering and quaking and rattling the headboard against the wall. Steady felt the percussive effects in his chest. His ears popped. A dozen memories of similar detonations—those he’d lived through as a soldier and operator, and the one that’d killed his beloved sister—buzzed through his brain. But they didn’t stop him from hopping out of the bed in an instant and jumping into a pair of jeans. Damnit! And neither did they do anything to abate the boner he was still sporting. It was funny what adrenaline did to a man’s body. Not so funny was how a hard-on and denim went together about as well as oil and water. Gritting his teeth, he yanked up his zipper and hoped he didn’t catch skin in the process. A second later, he nearly wrenched the door from its frame.
Chaos…
He took it in with a glance. Thin smoke filled the hall in a gray film. The overhead lights flickered and failed, plunging the space into momentary darkness before they lit once again. An artistic photo, once displayed on the hallway wall, now lay decimated on the floor, its frame splintered and glass shattered.
“For Chrissakes!” Dan bellowed, and Steady glanced over to find him standing in the doorway of his hotel room wearing nothing but a pair of black Saxx boxer briefs. Besides Abby and her security detail, the Knights were the only other guests on this floor—though technically, and according to the hotel manifest, the three BKI boys were officially booked in rooms one floor below—which was a good thing since Steady had no desire to deal with civilians right now. All he cared about was getting to Abby and getting her the hell out of Dodge. “What the f*ck is happening?” Dan yelled.