Too Hard to Handle (Black Knights Inc. #8)(79)

“Fell asleep?” he scoffed, watching her hesitate and then decide on a second hot dog. It had been a long time since last night’s dinner. “More like you sawed logs like a lumberjack from before we gained altitude over Bogotá to when the wheels touched down in Chicago.”

“I do not snore,” she protested. Her rosy lips—those lips he was going to kiss for a thousand years once he got her up to his room—quirked in the most delightful way.

“Okay,” he relented, motioning for her to follow him to the stairs that lead to the third floor. When he’d been married, he’d lived out in the little one-bedroom caretaker’s cottage that was on the property—a remnant of when Black Knights Inc. was an old menthol cigarette factory. But since he’d become a widower, he’d moved into one of the rooms upstairs. It was cozy. Comfy. And, more importantly, it was new.

Not that he was trying to escape the memories of his wife. Quite the contrary, he cherished each and every one of them. But neither did he like being haunted by them when he looked at every wall, into every corner, at every piece of furniture. Moving out of the caretaker’s cottage had been his first step in letting go of his past. The second had been rehab. “So maybe you don’t snore. But you definitely slobber.”

“I do not,” she insisted. Their footsteps made thumping noises on the stairs.

“Do too.”

“How would you know?”

“Because you used me for a pillow the entire way.” And, oh, how he’d loved holding her in his arms. He’d forgotten how good it could feel, just…being with a woman. No fuss. No fight. Only a mutual trust and affection that allowed them to sleep side by side, heart to heart. It wasn’t epic or filled with angst. It was simply right. And he’d slept better, harder during those eight hours than he had in years. “When you woke up, there was a huge wet spot on my sweater.”

“Well, I blame you for that,” she said, fighting a smile. She blinked rapidly when Peanut raced ahead of them. Considering the cat was a furry tub of lard, he was amazingly spry.

“How do you figure?” he asked her, pushing open the door to his bedroom and nudging Peanut aside when the mangy feline tried to slink inside. Like most men, Dan was into a bit of kink, but he could do without an audience. Especially one with whiskers and judging yellow eyes.

“Because you make such a good pillow,” she said, smiling. Her cheek was bruised around the butterfly bandages, and the blotches marring the beauty of her throat had turned from red to purple. His heart tripped over itself when he thought of the danger she’d been in, of how he could have lost her and—

No. He cut off his thoughts. She’s here. She’s safe. And by God I’m gonna make sure she stays that way.

“I woulda thought I was rather hard for a pillow,” he said, his blood warming, his breath catching when she stepped over the threshold into his room. There. Now I’ve got her exactly where I want her. The relief of it hit him. Hard. And he realized that all the months he’d been dreaming of her, all the months he’d been missing her, had led up to this moment, when she walked into his world, into his room, and, very soon, into his bed.

“Hard can be good,” she whispered, her voice having gone charmingly husky. His dick twitched at the promise in her tone, the teasing invitation in her words. Then she turned beet red and burst into a peal of laughter as she backed into the room. “I can’t believe I just said that. Look what you’ve done to me. You’ve made me into a woman who spouts corny one-liners.”

“I happen to like corny one-liners,” he assured her, wondering if he’d ever heard anything sweeter or more beautiful than her unreserved laughter. “As for what I’ve done to you…” He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, made sure the stare he gave her through the fan of his lashes was hot and predatory, and booted the door shut. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

*

“So…” Dan said, licking the last of the celery salt from his fingers. Penni watched the dart of his tongue and barely refrained from groaning. She knew just how talented that tongue was. “Was I right or was I right?”

She was sitting cross-legged in the center of his bed—yep, she was officially in Dan’s bed and she had the butterflies to prove it—wiping a drop of yellow mustard from the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Forget about it,” she said around the last bite of hot dog. “Best hot dogs ever. I’m straight-up ruined for anything else.” And happy to finally be able to keep all her food down. For a couple of months after The Assignment, it had been touch and go.

“Warned you.” He smiled and hooked his hands behind his head, leaning back against the headboard and stretching out his long legs. He let out a contented sigh that was far from sexual, but it still hit Penni’s ear like a hot kiss. “Man, it’s good to be home,” he said, sliding a satisfied look around the room.

The space was pretty much how Penni had imagined it. Polished wood floors, brick walls, and exposed piping and ductwork running along the ceiling gave the space a loft feel. And with a big wooden bed covered in a navy-and-green-striped comforter, a couple of metal bedside tables that supported mismatched lamps, and a big chest of drawers, the room was simple and masculine. Just like the man himself.

And also like the man himself, the space held a little mystery. There was a lacquered jewelry box atop the dresser. All pearly and white, it looked starkly feminine compared to the Ruger he’d placed beside it after he kicked the door closed, effectively sealing them inside his room. All alone. No likely interruptions.