In Rides Trouble (Black Knights Inc. #2)(29)

“You are the most impossible man,” she whispered hoarsely, because at some point she’d inadvertently swallowed the Titanic.

“I’ve been called worse.”

“Whatever,” she tried to growl with her usual level of sarcasm, but the word just came out all low and husky.

“You know,” he said, opening his eyes, the color was dark and turbulent, like Lake Michigan after a nor’easter, “I’ve missed your sharp little tongue.”

The way he said the word tongue made her own feel as if it was weighed down by an anvil.

And the way he was staring at her? Man, she was either dreaming or imagining things, because this just couldn’t be real.

“You’ve missed my sharp tongue?” she managed, panting as he brought her hand to his whisker-covered cheek. He rubbed his face on her palm like a cat seeking comfort. “Now why is that, Frank? Is nobody stepping up to the plate and poking holes in your ego on a…” she licked her lips again, “on a regular basis? Is your swelled head st…starting to hurt?”

“Mmm,” he grinned, his big square teeth blazing as white as the bandage on his head, “maybe.” He lazily snaked his hand around the back of her neck and slowly started pulling her down.

If she’d been the fainting type, she’d have gone lights-out right then and there, but she was not that type of girl. And thank God she wasn’t, or she’d have missed the feel of his hot breath brushing across her tingling lips.

“Frank,” she whispered his name, her heart threatening to come crashing through her breastbone.

He groaned, the sound intoxicatingly fierce and darkly yearning, and then he was kissing her.

Frank Knight was kissing her.

Her. Rebecca Reichert, the thorn in his side, the professed bane of his existence, and his full male lips were so warm and surprisingly smooth as they brushed over hers.

She was instantly caught in a storm of his making when he angled her head with the gentle pressure of his thumb along her jaw, licking lazily at the seam of her lips. Opening to him wasn’t an option; it was automatic. And when he dove inside, she melted against his chest. That wasn’t an option either since her knees folded under her like wet noodles.

Oh, she finally understood what it meant to be tempest-tossed. But what she couldn’t understand was whether Frank was the storm or the shelter from the storm. She only knew that she wanted it to go on forever. The devouring plunge of his tongue into her mouth, the smell of him so warm and male, the feeling of his heavy chest cushioning the sensitive weight of her breasts, the deep sounds of hunger and triumph he made at the back of his throat, and the answering groans of desire and surrender at the back of her own.

This is wrong. This is so wrong!

She recognized that voice. It was reason, and it occasionally screeched at her, but she chose to ignore it because what they were doing felt so, so right.

She thought perhaps she’d have crawled on top of him, damn the impropriety of having full-out monkey sex in the middle of sick bay and the certain moral contemptuousness of taking advantage of a man who was obviously out of his mind, if the sound of a throat being cleared hadn’t had her jumping away like a teenager caught necking in the park.

She lifted a hand to her trembling lips and tried to still the thundering of her heart as she glanced at Angel standing in the doorway.

Embarrassment or contempt.

She’d have easily expected to see either of those emotions in his handsome face…but the pity caught her off guard.

“I—”

He lifted a hand to halt whatever explanations or excuses she was going to sputter. “Do not, Becky.”

She swallowed and lowered her eyes, embarrassed, ashamed. Not at having kissed Frank—she’d wanted to do that for what seemed like a zillion years and boy-oh-boy, her fantasies hadn’t held a candle to the real thing—but she was horrified at having allowed the moment to happen when Frank didn’t have a clue what in the hell he was doing.

Dear God, Becky, you’re a complete reprobate.

Angel advanced into the room, his quiet steps and still tongue were so much more terrible than if he’d harshly admonished her or made a joke of the whole thing. She was used to both from Billy and the rest of the boys…from Frank even. She could’ve fallen back on her usual quick temper or come back with a quip of her own, something about having a weakness for semi-conscious men. But she had nothing to handle or combat Angel’s silent…judgment. It was as if St. Peter himself was measuring her worth and finding her lacking.

When he reached her side, she dared a quick peek at his ethereally beautiful face, but surprisingly, she didn’t find any judgment there, only a sort of sad sympathy.

So the judgment had been all in her head. Dang. For some reason that was worse, and she suddenly felt the urge to bawl her heart out.

“You’re…what is it you call it?…playing with fire. You realize that, yes?” he asked quietly.

“It’s not what you think,” she assured him, then realized how ridiculous that sounded.

“It’s not?” He tilted his head, lifting one sleek, black brow. “So you’re not in love with him?”

Sucking in a horrified breath, she glanced at Frank only to discover, to her utter humiliation, he was dead asleep, his carpenter’s square of a jaw slack, his thick chest rising and falling like the tide.