Full Throttle (Black Knights Inc. #7)(97)

She pushed back from him, her face a soggy, beautiful mess. “Did you also know that my Secret Service agents had warned me about sending specifics in my text messages?” she demanded. “And that I just…forgot and did it anyway?”

He cupped her jaw in both hands and used his thumbs to brush the tears from her soft cheeks. “You were a busy college student doing what every busy college student does. It wasn’t your fault, Abby. It just wasn’t.”

“How can you say that?” she implored on a harsh whisper. “If only I’d—”

Poor little ne?a. Poor little wrong-headed ne?a. “Do you blame your father for speaking out so harshly against extremism?” he interrupted.

She swallowed, drawing his attention to the lovely length of her neck. Even red and splotchy, it still tempted him, made his lips itch to bend down and taste her sweet flesh. “N-no,” she said. “Of course not.”

“Do you blame Rosa for not catching the fact that you’d forgotten about not sending out personal info by text?” he asked, moving his hands along her jaw until he could softly massage the back of her neck with the tips of his fingers. She was wound tight as the tough little stainless steel springs used in craniofacial reconstruction surgery. “Your security detail debriefed her, debriefed us both, about what protocols to use when corresponding with you. So…is it her fault?”

“No.” She shook her head jerkily, her voice barely a whisper. Then, more forcefully, she said, “No. Of course it wasn’t Rosa’s fault. How could you—”

“Then whose fault was it?” he asked gently, still holding her lovely jaw in his hands. “Where does the buck stop, Abby? Who is ultimately responsible for Rosa’s death that day?”

Something happened then. Her eyes widened and she stopped breathing. Some people liked to call it an “aha” moment. Steady leaned more toward the phrase “lightbulbing it.”

“Who killed Rosa?” he prompted again.

“Th-the…” She stopped to lick her lips, and the pink dart of her tongue worked on him the way the smell of a frying T-bone worked on a hound. Suddenly, he was ravenous. But instead of bending down to claim her unconscious offering, he simply adjusted his stance to better accommodate the erection now straining against his fly. “The terrorists,” she finally managed, her lower lip quivering.

“Sí.” He smiled down at the comprehension in her eyes, at the hesitant joy as the guilt she’d been misguidedly carrying around all those years lifted away. “Just like the blame for those deaths in Malaysia falls squarely on the JI’s shoulders. You, Abby…” He used his thumbs to brush away the remnants of her tears. “You are innocent.”

She sucked in a breath, shaking her head as if she were struggling with the revelation. But struggle or no, she did understand. Finally. And now that they’d worked through that, he had a very important…the most important…question to ask her.

With his heart full of love, and hope no doubt shining in his eyes, he laid it all on the line. “Do you love me, mi vida?”

*

Overwhelmed. Elated. Hesitant. Dizzy…

Abby felt all those things as her heart beat wildly and her thoughts spun crazily. But the moment Carlos asked that question, the question, everything inside her screeched to a stop. Seriously, it was as if every single one of her cells applied the brakes at once and trillions of tiny errrts sounded between her ears.

Did she love him? Did she love him? What was he? Crazy? Of course she loved him!

But when she searched his face, his uncertainty was shining like a neon sign. “Oh, Carlos.” She tightened her arms around his waist. Was that…? Yep. The man was fully, beautifully, largely erect. Bless him. A surge of warmth bloomed in her womb, and her nipples tightened as a result. “I’ve always loved you. Since the first day I met you and every day since. You’re the one. You’ve always been the one. Don’t you know that?”

And she wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, but Carlos’s firm jaw trembled and one lone tear leaked from the corner of his left eye. She knew in that moment that whoever coined the phrase and the truth shall set you free had only gotten it half right. Because it was the truth and love that had finally broken the bonds of doubt, guilt, and sorrow shackling her heart.

“That’s good,” he said choking a little on emotion and quickly dashing away the teardrop. Then his expression turned devilish. And when he smiled, the sight of his dimple, his beloved dimple, instantly had her blood running hot. “Now”—he put his hands on her waist and pulled her close until there was no mistaking the insistent throbbing of his erection—“show me your tongue…”