Rev It Up (Black Knights Inc. #3)(42)

“When can I get tattoos?” Franklin asked, his big gray eyes, so much like his mother’s, staring up at Jake hopefully.

“When you’re eighteen,” Jake replied, hoping that was the right answer.

Where’s Shell when I need her?

Franklin sighed heavily and made a face that said Jake might as well have told him he’d have to wait until he was 150. Then he turned back, frustration worrying his little brow, as he attempted to refine the colorful Play-Doh serpent.

So…why was Shell upstairs putting on lipstick? Was she primping for him?

The idea had warmth settling in his belly along with a heavy dose of satisfaction.

She might claim to have no feelings left for him, she might say things were finished between them. But they weren’t. Not by a long shot.

And she knew it, too. Why else would she be upstairs putting on makeup? A woman didn’t apply lipstick unless she was trying to impress a man, right?

Right.

Okay, so this is good. This is very, very good.

And why should he be surprised, especially after last night?

Yo, mama! He should’ve been surprised if she wasn’t primping. Because, it was obvious the fire that’d raged between them four years ago had turned into a freakin’ inferno. And no human on the face of the planet, not even Miss Self-Possessed Michelle Carter, could resist the allure of that kind of heat. Like moths to the flame, humans were irresistibly drawn. It was biological. Some sort of throwback. A compulsion wired into everyone’s lizard brains to ensure survival of the species or something.

And you better believe he was grateful for it.

“I’m gonna go check on her,” he told Franklin, pushing up from the sofa just as the boy grabbed his round little belly, his nose wrinkling. “What’s up, buddy?” he asked, instantly concerned.

“I think I ate too much pssscetti for lunch,” Franklin said and, dude, Jake could believe it. The rug rat had Hoovered two plates of spaghetti and two adult-sized breadsticks. He highly suspected the kid was in possession of a hollow leg.

“Do you need to take a growler, little man?”

Franklin glanced up at him in confusion, his brow wrinkling. “What’s a growler?”

“It’s a…” he hesitated and rethought his response. “Taking a growler is another way of saying you’re going to the restroom.”

Franklin giggled. “No.” He shook his head. “I don’t need to take a growler.”

Oh hell. Way to go Sommers. Shell’s gonna kill you.

“Are you sure?” he pressed.

“Yes.” Franklin nodded earnestly. “It’s gone now.”

“Okay, then I’m gonna go see what your mom’s up to.”

“Okay.” The kid said, then set about beating the hell out of the snake he’d just finished perfecting.

Little boys. Ya just gotta love ’em…

Jake quietly climbed the stairs and followed the sound of soft music to Shell’s open bedroom door. Leaning against the jamb, he tilted his head and watched as she sat at her vanity in the same pink robe she’d been wearing last night, brushing her long, lustrous hair.

He remembered what it was like to run his fingers through all that living silk, what it was like to pull the fastener from her ponytail and let it spill into his hands. He had a very vivid fantasy about holding on to all that luscious, dark hair with both fists while she was on her knees in front of him, her gorgeous mouth—

Fuck a duck! Get your head in the game, Sommers! And remember the promise you made just last night.

“You don’t have to go to all this trouble for me and Franklin,” he finally managed, not surprised when his voice sounded like he’d been swallowing glass, all rough and breathless.

She leaned in to swipe mascara over her long, curled lashes, doing that whole open-mouth thing that women do. The one guaranteed to drive every hetero man in the world absolutely batty. The one that once more had him envisioning her down on her knees…

Dude, and now he had to adjust his stance or do himself harm.

“I’m not doing this for you and Franklin,” she told him. “I’m doing this for Chris.”

Everything inside him stilled, the warm glow he’d been feeling chilled in an instant and the wood he’d been sporting shriveled like a popped birthday balloon.

“Who the fu—” he caught himself before he let loose with the granddaddy of curse words. Franklin had ears like a cat. Taking a breath, he tried again, “Who the heck is Chris?”

“Dr. Christopher Drummond. He’s my date tonight.”

Okay, and the f*cker, yes f*cker—f*ck, f*ck, f*ck!—obviously had a death wish.

“You said you weren’t seeing anyone,” he growled.

“No.” She spun on her stool and stood, hands on hips, three-inch pumps making her look like a Amazonian goddess in a thin satin robe. All that was missing was a strand of pearls around her neck, a metal breast plate, and a spear for each hand. And when she loosened the belt and started walking toward him? Good grief, he nearly swallowed his tongue. “That’s what you said. I just said it was none of your business.”

Fortunately, she was dressed under that robe. He might’ve had a coronary on the spot if she wasn’t. Quite a few of his favorite daydreams involved her in a pair of heels…and nothing else.