Too Hard to Handle (Black Knights Inc. #8)(68)

“Checking you for fever,” she told him, removing her hand and curling her fingers around her palm, trying to hold in the feel of his skin. “You’re not yourself tonight.”

He fixed on her a dark glance. “Am I usually that much of an *?”

She lifted a brow, sticking her tongue in her cheek. “Not an * per se, so much as buttmunch and pain in the ass. Subtle but very important distinctions.”

One corner of his mouth twitched. Come on. Come on. Show me that smile. But he simply shook his head and said, “So what did Morales have to say about you wanting to make sure smelly van guy was reimbursed?”

“He said he’d take care of it,” she told him. “That along with sending someone to pick up the drone, the rest of our gear, and the bags Penni left behind. Oh”—she snapped her fingers—“and Kozlov. Morales said he’d have someone go release the poor guy before tomorrow’s construction crew arrives to work on the building and finds a cantankerous, hog-tied Russian in the midst of the rubble.”

“Poor guy?” Z shot her an incredulous look. “You know it might have been him trying to give us all a few fatal doses of lead poisoning back at the square, right?”

“Maybe,” she allowed, her brow furrowed. “But I don’t think so. I think it was that Mystery Man in the truck.”

“Yeah,” Z admitted. “You’re probably right.” Then he added, “Sounds like you’ve got it all worked—”

He was cut off when turbulence grabbed hold of the plane and shook it like a child brandishing a toy rattle. Chelsea’s hands became claws digging into the edge of the seat as Z quickly slipped on his headset, grabbed the yoke, and checked the instruments. He started jabbering to someone on the radio, requesting they be allowed to descend into more stable air.

She thought about snatching the headset hooked over the bracket on the side of her chair so she could listen in to what air traffic control was saying, but she didn’t dare release her hold on the seat.

“Roger that,” Z said, drawing out the R sound. “We will maintain our current speed and position until the airspace clears up. But let us know when it does. It’s getting pretty choppy up here. Over.”

As if to prove his point, the plane rattled and shook and plunged a short distance before the wings gripped the air and stabilized. I hate flying. I hate flying. Oh, how I hate flying.

“Go tell Dan to get his ass up here,” Z said. “And then you buckle up. It’ll be bumpy for a while.” It took Herculean effort to peel her fingers away from the edge of the seat. “And, Chels?” Z said after she’d stood to brace herself in the open door of the cockpit.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t worry. Between Dan and me, we could pilot this sucker through a hurricane.”

She swallowed, but her spit got stuck around her lungs and heart, which had migrated up into her throat. “Great,” she said. “But let’s not try that, okay?”

“If you insist.” He grinned. And winked. This time there was no mistaking it for something in his eye.

Holy crap! I really have entered the twilight zone…





Chapter Sixteen


El Dorado International Airport, Bogotá, Colombia

Saturday, 3:45 a.m.

The night was as dark and warm as the desire still rushing through Dan’s veins. He stood on the dimly lit tarmac, waiting to board the small private jet el Jefe had chartered to take them back stateside—they could have made it in the Beechcraft, but it would have required two more stops for fuel and taken a hell of a long time compared to the jet—and he couldn’t stop thinking about what happened in that tiny lavatory…

“Your turn,” she said, licking her lips and grinning down at him as he sat on the toilet lid. The taste of her was still on his tongue, his fingers still damp from her passion. “Stand up.”

“Penni, I—”

She pressed a finger to his mouth, then softened the rebuke by rubbing along his bottom lip as if testing its texture, feeling the plumpness caused by her kisses.

“So soft,” she whispered. “I think this is the softest part on your whole body.”

“Currently?” He grinned. “I’d hafta agree with you.”

She glanced down at the bulge straining his zipper and stuck her tongue in her cheek. “My point exactly. Now stand up.”

He could see the spark of renewed desire ignite in her lovely brown eyes. It was thrilling to know he’d quenched her lust, her longing, but that the thought of returning the favor set her blood boiling again. “I’m not sure you—”

“I’m sure,” she interrupted. “You asked me to tell you what I want. And I’m telling you, I want you to stand up.”

Okay, then. He swallowed. He was so hot, so horny, so completely ready he’d probably go off the minute she got her hands on him. But who was he to question the demands of a lady? Especially a lady such as her. One who was wickedly beautiful. One who was wonderfully nude. One whose current expression was that of the devil himself bent on a sinning spree.

Hot damn…

Pushing to a stand, he gritted his teeth when his boxers and zipper rubbed against his painful erection. Then she went down on her knees in front of him. And just as it had done to men since the beginning of time, that submissive pose made everything that was male and dominant inside him growl with approval. In fact, he was pretty sure he was actually growling.