In Rides Trouble (Black Knights Inc. #2)(52)
She was completely, totally flummoxed. There was some sort of strange undercurrent swirling around her, but no matter how hard she tried or how many times she glanced between Angel and Frank, she couldn’t seem to determine its cause.
Men, ya can’t live with ’em, and ya just can’t kill ’em. Sheesh.
***
Frank gingerly mounted up behind Becky, careful to position himself as far back on the double seat as possible—which wasn’t nearly far enough.
His big thighs still touched her slim hips, the warmth of her skin still seeped through the thick denim of his jeans, instantly igniting a burning sensation deep in his belly. Ah man, and the smell of her. The smell of sugary candy, acrylic paint, skin lotion…and under it all, the hint of warm lace and healthy, vibrant woman.
This was so not going to work.
He edged back farther, only to stop when she turned to glare at him. “You scoot back another inch, and you’ll be sitting on the back fender.” The back fender that was painted with the phrase, “I Ride My Own.”
Sweet Mother Mary, the woman just slayed him. Everything about her, from her spunky, take-no-guff attitude, to her unbelievable talent, to her tight little body.
“I promise I won’t molest you should you deign to wrap your arm around my waist,” she added, lush pink lips twisted in irritation.
Yeah, but could he promise the same?
For the first time in his life, he could honestly admit he wasn’t sure. The dark specter of what lay in store for him the next day was playing havoc with his emotions, his will, and…hell, let’s be honest, it was royally screwing with his head.
Grinding his jaw, he slid forward until her hips were cradled against his tightening groin. Winding his uninjured arm around her waist, he pressed his chest to her back and realized she was in his arms…again.
It was heaven…and hell.
The sweetest, most erotic thing he’d ever felt. Especially when she fired up General Lee, and the bike started grumbling with barely leashed power.
Holy hell. It was like the two of them were sitting atop a giant vibrator.
And…wow, he’d have never guessed her little cafe-style chopper, with its bright orange and black paint job in tribute to the Dodge Charger made famous by the Dukes of Hazzard, would be so flippin’, blow-your-hair-back tough.
Although why he’d ever entertained the notion that Becky would ride something less than totally badass was beyond him. The woman lived and breathed motorcycles; of course hers would be a mean machine raised to the power of ten. Just because it was small, didn’t mean it couldn’t pack one helluva wallop.
Kinda like the woman herself.
So yessir, with the bike grumbling beneath him and Becky’s slim form against his front, he was in heaven.
He was also in hell.
Because in order to keep from springing a boner the size of the flagpole they kept out in the courtyard, he had to picture the razed villages of Herzegovina after they’d been shelled by the VRS.
Okay, that worked.
Well, it worked until she revved the engine. Then all he could think of was the long list of don’ts he’d compiled in his head before climbing on the back of her bike. Like don’t bury his nose in the soft curve of her fragrant shoulder, and don’t run his tongue up the side of her graceful neck, and don’t subtly lift his hand until his thumb caressed the gentle undercurve of her breast.
Like don’t dwell on the fact that but for a few layers of clothes, he’d be inside her, spreading the sweet, warm globes of her ass to push into something much sweeter and much warmer and—
Damnit.
What an * he’d turned out to be. And a stupid * at that, because he was here, now, living through this torture, simply to give Angel—that prick—a giant middle finger.
He was just about to swing off the bike—he couldn’t do this; it was too much—when Bill gave the thumbs up and the group took off, prowling behind Christian and his Porsche like a pride of steel lions as they exited the shop’s side door.
They were accompanied by the sound of rolling thunder.
Usually he reveled in that loud, blood-pumping racket, relished the raw power of a V-twin engine in perfect, growling condition.
But not right now.
Because right now that sound meant he was stuck exactly where he was for the amount of time it would take to get to Red Delilah’s—approximately ten minutes, depending on traffic. And those ten minutes promised to be the longest, most agonizing of his life.
Chapter Thirteen
Becky licked the last bit of celery salt from her fingers after having wolfed down a hot dog and frowned toward the end of the bar where Frank was trying and failing not to stare into the Grand Canyon of Delilah’s cleavage.
She liked the bar’s proprietress and namesake; she really did.
Delilah was clever and fun, and she could double pour a Guinness so it formed the perfect frothy head—a real talent in Becky’s book. She was warm and welcoming, always there with a sympathetic ear when a girl had one too many and started lamenting aloud the pathetic path of her love life—or the lack thereof. She had a nearly encyclopedic knowledge of classic rock bands, could diffuse a bar fight with only a high-pitched whistle, and wrangle an uncooperative drunk into a taxi cab…
She also just happened to be built like a living number eight, with a set of curves that defied humanity. And even though Becky generally liked Delilah, right now she was envious as hell of those curves and the nearly hypnotic effect they seemed to have on Frank.