Too Hard to Handle (Black Knights Inc. #8)(71)

“Roger that,” Dan said. And despite everything, he smiled at the thought of taking Penni up to his room on the third floor of BKI’s main warehouse. He’d shut the metal door, throw her on his bed, and do…everything to her. It was a good thing she was still holding his hand or else he might have unconsciously rubbed his palms together in lurid anticipation, like a cartoon villain.

And, oh great. His hard-on had softened at some point during their conversation, but now it was standing at full attention again. Wonderful. Perfect. He only had an eight-hour flight ahead of him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” one of the pilots called. The flyboy was standing in the open doorway of the jet wearing jeans and a T-shirt and a serious expression that looked sort of foreign on his youthful face. If the kid was more than twenty-five years old, Dan would eat his Ruger for dessert. “We are fully fueled. As soon as this emergency flight lands”—the pilot motioned toward the little red Pilatus PC-12 that was touching down on the runway—“we’re green-lighted to go. If you all would, please.” He motioned for them to board.

Chelsea was the first to climb the stairs, followed by Zoelner and Penni. Dan brought up the rear. And speaking of rears…he watched Penni’s swing in front of him. This is gonna be the longest eight hours of my life.

“Emergency flight?” he asked the young airman once he’d made it to the top step.

“Yes, sir,” the youth said. Dan could almost hear the salute in his tone. “Apparently the plane got caught in the storm that passed earlier and she’s low on fuel.”

Dan harrumphed. “Weren’t we all. That squall was a bitch and a half.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll grab the door,” Dan told him. “You get us ready to taxi.”

“Yes, sir.” The pilot turned and headed toward the cockpit. If Dan hadn’t heard the kid speak earlier, he would have thought the lieutenant only had two words in his entire vocabulary. Good ol’ fashioned American military training right there, folks.

When he swung back, he saw the Pilatus PC-12 taxiing toward the airport’s main building. The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood up. He got that queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Narrowing his eyes, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, he tried to see the pilot inside. But the distance was too great and the night was too dark.

Is it possible?

Nah, he quickly convinced himself. There’s no way. Pulling up the stairs, he shut and sealed the door and convinced himself that he was just bone-tired, crazy horny, and jumping at shadows. The first two he was pretty sure he could take care of in due course. Hopefully, once he did that, the last one would go away on its own.

He turned into the cabin, noting Zoelner had cuffed Winterfield’s wrists and ankles with zip ties and left the duct tape over his mouth. Good. Nice and tight and ready for a quiet flight. The traitorous CIA agent was proving to have quite the mouth on him. Dan just hoped that translated over to him spilling his guts to Rock. Because Rock might be the best interrogator in Uncle Sam’s arsenal, but the guy hated doing it. Hated having to climb inside someone else’s mind and go rooting around in the filth to find what he was looking for.

Behind the traitor, Chelsea and Zoelner were buckled in and in the middle of a heated argument about something that had Zoelner asking, “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“Well, yeah,” Chelsea said. “Sometimes. But that’s beside the point.”

Those two either need to duke it out or screw it out, Dan concluded, shaking his head.

Of course, thoughts of anything or anyone else vanished when he turned to find Penni waiting across the aisle, a warm glow in her dark eyes, a small smile playing at her lips as she beckoned him toward the seat beside her. Naturally. Like he would have chosen to sit anywhere else?

His mind flashed back to her on her knees, and of their own accord, his eyes darted toward the door of the lavatory. Would she be up for round two? When he plopped down next to her and pulled his seat belt tight, her hand landed on his thigh, precariously close to the bulge straining his zipper. Roger that. He figured he had the answer he was hoping for.

The pilots throttled up, taxiing toward the runway, and he knew he was grinning like an idiot. Again. If the woman hung around for too much longer, he supposed he’d have to get used to wearing the expression. And considering that for more than two years he hadn’t had much to smile about, he fully expected to suffer from sore facial muscles. Not that he was complaining. Far from it. Being next to her, being with her reminded him what it was to feel good. To feel… Dare he say it? Happy?

He placed his hand atop hers, squeezed her fingers, and covertly slid her hand up his thigh until her palm was centered atop his hard-on. His shaft flexed at her touch and a zing of lust traveled up the length of his spine to explode at the base of his skull. His chest felt full, tight. Just like his jeans.

She turned to him, her expression slightly scandalized. Then she craned her head around to glance at the lavatory. With the jet engines revving and his heart beating wildly in anticipation, she grinned at him, wiggling her eyebrows and running a quick finger over the bridge of her nose.

So maybe it won’t be such a long flight after all…





Chapter Seventeen


3,600 feet over Atlanta, Georgia

Saturday, 11:13 a.m.