Thrill Ride (Black Knights Inc. #4)(38)
What mattered was that she loved him. Loved him with everything she had and, because of that, she was going to help him whether he thought he needed it or not. And if there was one thing she was sure of beyond a shadow of a doubt, it was that he stood a better chance with the Black Knights than without them.
When they came out of the curve, she scooted forward, pressing her thighs more tightly around his hips, pushing her bound breasts into his back, and tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to ignore the hot stab of excitement that exploded between her legs just by being this close to him with ol’ Rusty vibrating away beneath her. It helped when she felt Rock stiffen in response to her sudden shift in proximity.
Step one complete. Now, step two…
Flattening one palm against his washboard belly, she made sure her pinky finger lay no more than a centi-meter away from his penis, and the ache between her own legs throbbed like a bad tooth. But, as anticipated, Rock sucked in a hard breath that allowed her to keep her focus.
And…step two complete. Step three?
While he was distracted, she surreptitiously moved her other hand to his hip and carefully slipped her cell phone from his pocket, stealthily transferring it into her own.
Mission accomplished.
Hastily, she scooted back, shifted her hand, and felt him relax.
And, holy smokes, he wasn’t the only one. Because the feel of him pressed all along her front, so hard and warm and completely, utterly male was making her ridiculously lightheaded. And he was certainly right about one thing: she was hot-to-trot where he was concerned. One touch, one look, and she was ready to toss off her panties and ride him like a amusement park rollercoaster.
Of course, if he’d been unwilling to humor her in that endeavor before, he’d be even more adamant about keeping her at arm’s length here in about half an hour. A little morsel of remorse lodged in the pit of her stomach for what she was about to do, but she ignored it.
This is what’s right, she told herself, though there was an annoying voice inside her head whispering how Rock may never forgive her for what she was contemplating doing.
Well, if that’s the case, so be it. I’d rather Rock hate me and be alive, than like me and be dead…
The little voice pointed out the idiocy of the thought, because, really, how could Rock like her if he was dead? And it was at this juncture in her internal debate that she told the perturbing little voice to f*ck off.
Hardening her resolve, she started wiggling in her seat like maybe she’d contracted a severe case of jungle ass-rot. And just as she’d hoped, a couple of seconds later, Rock glanced over his shoulder concernedly.
“What’s gotten into you?” he yelled above the engine’s sickly, earsplitting whine. “You’re squirmin’ around back there like you’ve got a whole colony of leaf-cutter ants in your pants.”
She pasted on an expression of embarrassment and chagrin. “Sorry!” she hollered, then she added, “It’s nothing!”
He turned back to the road, but only after sliding her a long look of disbelief from the corner of his eye.
Vanessa bit her lip and writhed around on the torn-up leather seat, wincing only slightly when the maneuver made the bruises on her butt start barking like a pack of wild dogs.
Rock swung back around, his dark brows pulled down in deep V. “Okay, that’s it! What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“I gotta pee!” she blurted, making sure to wince convincingly.
“You can’t hold it?”
She shook her head, and he sighed heavily before turning to scan the narrow expanse of roadway in front of them. After about a mile, an old dirt path appeared on their right, and Rock throttled down. Pulling the rusty bike onto the track, he motored up a short distance, until the mountain forest pressed in on them from either side. Then he stopped and cut the engine.
Sweet, blessed relief. Vanessa’s ears started celebrating, and she was surprised she didn’t feel them happy dancing on either side of her head.
“I’ll be quick,” she promised him as she hopped from the bike.
“Here,” he said, digging into his pack, pulling out a couple of packs of antiseptic wipes and handing them to her.
“Seriously?” She lifted a brow. “That’ll probably burn like crazy.”
“Mais, non. They’re not for…” he looked down at her crotch and then glanced away quickly. Was that an actual blush she saw staining his cheeks? “…for that,” he finished, clearing his throat. And, yes, that was a blush.
Huh. Will wonders never cease?
The devil in her couldn’t help but press him. “Then what are they for?”
“They’re for,” he turned back to her, his hazel eyes roaming over her muddy face, “cleaning up a bit. Not that you need to. You’re fine. You’re always fine. You could be covered in cow manure and you’d still be fine. You could be wallowin’ in pig slop and you’d still be fine. I just thought that—”
He suddenly stopped, obviously realizing he was babbling. Vanessa couldn’t help herself; she was grinning from ear to ear. “Never mind,” he groused, reaching forward to snatch the wipes from her hand, but she held them out of his grasp.
“No, no,” she told him. “I’ll definitely take them.” Because, truth of the matter was, the thought of scrubbing some of the dirt from her face and hands sounded divine. “And you might think of doing the same.” She looked pointedly down at the wide, dirty palm extended in her direction. “I’ve seen cleaner fingers on a diesel mechanic.”