Too Hard to Handle (Black Knights Inc. #8)(60)

But the question was, were they connected on something more than the physical level? She certainly felt like they were. In fact, she knew they were. But that didn’t mean Dan would agree with—

“I am well-trained in the ways of you women,” he continued, pulling her from her introspection.

“Ways of women?” She lifted a brow. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”

He’d finally managed to get around her to sit on the toilet lid. To combat the aching loss of not having him pressed against her length, she busied herself pulling the door closed. Then she dug some antiseptic wipes from the first-aid kit and stepped toward her patient.

“That whole It will make me feel better shtick is the oldest trick in the Women’s Guidebook to Men,” he explained. “Get us to do whatever is it you want by appealing to our chivalrous natures.”

“What two-bit, traitorous hussy gave you a copy of the guidebook?” she demanded. When she planted her hands on her hips, her left elbow slammed into the wall and her right elbow smacked the tissue dispenser bolted above the sink. “Ouch!” She rubbed at her funny bones, feeling laughter welling inside her again.

The whole situation was veering toward the ridiculous. The ridiculous and the strangely…comfortable. She’d never been as natural, as much herself around any man as she was around Dan. It was like they had been old friends, maybe old lovers in another lifetime. Which brought her to the last thing this situation was, which was hot. Being in a confined space with Dan was always sensual and provocative and filled with a sort of suffocating sultriness. Like he was taking up all the air as well as all the space. Like the heat from his body was turning the wetness clinging to his clothes to steam.

She imagined herself ripping off his sweater and jeans so she could run her tongue over every stray drop of water that clung to his firm, tanned skin.

Mercy.

She refrained from fanning herself by bending forward. “This may sting a little,” she warned, not surprised to hear her voice was not her own. It was much lower, huskier…dare she say sexier? Carefully, her hands still shaking—now with unrequited lust instead of shock—she swiped the antiseptic towelette over the blood near his cut.

“You never did answer my question,” he said.

“Which question was that?”

“The one about what you’re gonna do now that you’ve quit the Service.”

“Oh.” She tossed the soiled wipe into the little trash bin and grabbed a new one. “As soon as I sell my condo in DC, I’m moving back to Brooklyn.” Unless you think there’s a reason I shouldn’t? The question was right there. On the tip of her tongue. But she bit it back because she didn’t want to scare the crap out of him. “My uncle, the one I told you about, the recovering alcoholic, runs a security firm. He’s already said I could work for him. It’ll be nice. A regular ol’ nine-to-five.”

“Is he your dad’s brother?” he asked as she used the new wipe to wash away some of the blood that had crusted near his hairline.

“Yeah.” She frowned down at him. “Why?”

“Just wondered if it ran in the blood,” he said.

“What?”

“The need to protect people.”

“Oh.” She furrowed her brow, considering. Her uncle ran a security firm. Her dad had been a cop. And she had been with the Secret Service. “Huh. I’ve never really thought about it that way. Yeah. I guess you’re right. Must be in the blood. And speaking of blood… I’ve cleaned up all the dried blood around your wound. Now I need to clean the wound itself. Brace yourself.”

Dan didn’t utter a word, didn’t suck in his breath, didn’t hiss when the big, crusty scab came away to reveal the angry, slowly seeping laceration beneath. His stoic silence was the very opposite of Winterfield’s overblown theatrics.

When Penni ducked her chin, she discovered the reason for his reticence. The front of her V-neck sweater was gaping open, and he was staring at her boobs with a hungry intensity that stole her breath. She played it off with a teasing snort, shaking her head even as her nipples twanged with sensation. It was like his heated gaze was a physical caress, the movement of his eyes over the lace-covered peaks the equivalent of a warm, wet tongue.

“See something you like, sailor?”

“Roger that.” He licked his lips, not even pretending to repent for having been caught ogling her goodies. “Helps keep my mind off the…oh…ow…owy…pain.” He added a blatant whine to his tone in an effort to gain her sympathy.

“Oh, and now who’s using the oldest trick in the Men’s Guidebook to Women? Appealing to the Florence Nightingale in my nature?”

His eyes flashed up to her, sparkling devilishly, his hands sneaking up to grip her hips. God, he’s hot. Both metaphorically and literally. “And here I was hoping I was being subtle,” he said.

“If there’s a subtle bone in your body,” she told him—was it her imagination, or had the temperature inside the little room jumped ten degrees in the last ten seconds?—“I’ll eat that tissue dispenser.” She gestured over her shoulder.

“Is that a bad thing?” he asked, his thumbs rubbing circles on her hip bones. She imagined those thumbs rubbing in the same circular motion on a totally different part of her body. Heat bloomed over her skin, under her skin, coalescing low in her belly. She turned to grab another wipe. It was either that or she was going to find a way to join that Mile High Club, and damn the pulled muscles and sprained joints that would inevitably follow!