Page 12 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Matt

Sufriría una lesión una y otra vez por ti cualquier día.

It’s not every woman I’d offer to suffer a repetitive strain injury for.

By way of long-distance telephone sex.

Good thing no one at that table spoke Spanish, you eejit.

“He seemed kind of territorial.” Aiming for casual, I turn us in a circle on the dance floor.

Lucky for me, the band has turned to Billie Holiday for inspiration.

And maybe I shouldn’t be enjoying having my hands on Ryan this much, but fuck it.

I should get some of the benefits. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, as the saying goes.

“Bryce, was it?” I add, poking when she doesn’t answer.

“Brandon,” she says flatly. “The bane of my office existence.”

“And the bet was his doing.”

Her shoulder flicks. “He does seem to have it in for me.”

He’d like to have it in you, a little voice in my head whispers. And I’d like to break it off. At the root. Preferably without touching it.

What the fuck is with that? I mean, I like to think I’m a decent kind of fella.

I do what’s right and stand up for those who can’t stand up for themselves.

But this feels different—the way I wanted to launch myself across the table and punch him in the face felt so real.

And that was just for his stroppy fucking attitude.

For the way he was looking at Ryan, I wanted to twist off his tiny balls.

So much for entertainment. And so much for lady’s choice. I only realized what that sounded like once the words were in the air. Because it sounded like I might be touting for business instead of being genuinely interested in her.

I stifle a sigh. No point in backtracking. It’s not as though she seemed interested in the proposition. Either of them.

“I thought that skinny fella was gonna break a rib when he started hammering at his chest.”

“Hush.” Her eyes dart left as an older couple smile, waltzing by us. “My boss is over there,” she says, nodding toward someone I can’t see behind me. “And you’re supposed to be Spanish.”

“I thoughta thata skinny fella—ow!”

“Knock it off, Spanish Mario.” She lifts her foot from mine. “Why didn’t you tell me you speak Spanish?”

“You didn’t ask.”

She narrows her eyes, a smile tugging at her mouth. “So are you Irish or Spanish or ...”

“ Soy lo que la senorita ordene. ” I’m whatever the lady ordered.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Sure it is. Just because you don’t understand it ...” Go on, ask me what I said.

“Show-off.”

I stifle a disappointed sigh. “I’m half and half,” I say. Half Irish, half Spanish, and all kinds of into her, despite the obstacles I’ve put in my own way.

“Oh. Cool.”

“Do you want to know what I just said?” Go on, say yes. If for no other reason than it can be annoying when people say shit you don’t understand. Like You’re not the kind of man women want to marry. Or You’re a good-time boyfriend, not a longtime one. Fuck.

“I’m almost afraid to know.”

I make a chicken noise again. Ryan gazes, playfully unimpressed.

“You really want me to keep my mouth shut now that you’ve discovered my Spanish tongue?” Go on, ask me what my Spanish tongue would do to you.

“Such compliments,” she deadpans.

“There are all kinds of ways to compliment,” I say, devoid of suggestion. From my tone, at least. “ Porque con esta lengua rendiría homenaje a tu belleza. ” Because with this tongue I would pay homage to your beauty. “Wanna know what I said that time?”

“Probably not.”

“Come on, be adventurous.” She can deny with her words, but those eyes ...

“I’m kind of risk averse.”

I give a soft chuckle. “You can’t convince me you’re frightened of anything.”

Her gaze slides over my shoulder. And hardens. “How about murder on the dance floor.”

“Something tells me you’re not referring to Sophie Ellis-Bextor.”

“Who?”

I open my mouth, about to ask how old she is, to complain that “Murder on the Dancefloor” is a classic. What comes out instead is “Your ex is behind me, isn’t he?”

Her expression gives an almost imperceptible flicker, her gaze drifting over my shoulder again. So I press two fingers to her cheek, gently moving her gaze back.

“Eyes on me, darlin’. That fucker doesn’t deserve an ounce of your attention.”

“I’m just imagining his face as Bolognese again.”

I give a soft chuckle and lift her hand to the back of my neck. “Let’s give the bastard a show.” Without giving her time to protest, I close the small space between us, pressing my lips tenderly to her hairline. Her head sits under my chin, and the heat of her body, its softness, just ... fuck .

“Really, really messy Bolognese.” There’s a wobble in her delivery that makes me tighten my grip. “I don’t know why I feel like this. It’s not like I don’t see him most days.”

“Fuck him. He’s not worth the salt of your tears.”

“Oh, I’m done crying,” she says with a heartening vehemence. “It’s just ... all this.” It’s not hard to guess what she’s referring to. The hotel. The day. The felicitations. “He gets all this after the way he treated me. There’s no justice, you know?”

But as I twirl us around, he doesn’t look joyous. Not that I say so. “How about we send him a tiny fuck you ?”

“What do you have in mind?” So much suggestion in her tone. So much interest in the brightness of her eyes. She gives a little gasp as my arm brushes her waist, but it’s nothing compared to her expression as I pull her body tight, pressing my fingers to her peach of an arse.

“Try not to look too shocked,” I murmur. “You’re supposed to be used to my hands.”

“It’s not your hands that are shocking.” Her lips clamp together, but the words are already out there. “Please ignore that I said that,” she quickly adds.

I give a soft laugh as pleasure ripples through me. “I don’t think I can. You called me a peacock, and now I feel like one.”

“Is that what you have stuffed down your pants? Oh my good Lord,” she adds in a hushed yet mortified tone. “I should not have chugged both glasses of champagne. It must’ve gone to my head.”

Just like she’s gone to mine.

“A peacock,” I murmur ponderingly. “Well, it’s not fully ... cocked. Just a little interest, let’s say.”

“This is so inappropriate.” But she’s smiling, even if she’s trying not to.

“You started it. But I can finish it,” I offer, deftly twirling us again. “Finish you.”

She blinks as she tries to discern my meaning.

“I have no words,” she says, her lashes still fluttering. “But at least the view is better this way.”

Now that I’m blocking her line of sight, she means.

I have that pleasure, and he’s not at all what I expected.

Which was a finance nerd, the kind that gets off on spreadsheets and wears an overpriced fleece vest to hide his pigeon chest. He doesn’t fit that stereotype at all.

Six feet, at a guess, blond, and my money is on blue eyed, though it’s hard to tell, considering the feckers are narrowed like slits currently.

That’s it, arsewipe. Take a good look at who’s manhandling her now.

“Your man is watching us awful closely for someone who’s just gotten married.”

“He’s not my man. I also don’t care.”

“But he does,” I say, dipping her for good measure, my eyes meeting his as I do. Yeah, fucker, take a good look.

“What are you doing?” Her tone is slightly panicked, though her leg slides against my thigh, her body fully on board.

“What Latin lovers do.” Hand splayed against her sternum, my fingertips feather the smooth wings of her collarbones. I give a satisfied purr before I pull her up again. “Dancing is a vertical expression of—”

“A horizontal desire?”

“Old-school missionary, I was gonna say.” I don’t know whether it’s the role I’m playing that makes me say these things or whether it’s desire or jealousy. I just know I want more than this moment.

The beat changes, and it’s like someone up there is looking out for me. I slide an arm around her waist and my thigh between her legs.

“What the heck—”

“Just go with it. He’s still watching.” Not that I’d know, because I’m no longer looking at him.

Dancing with Ryan is the next best thing to having her in my bed. The proximity. The touching, bodies moving with synchronicity. I lead, she submits. I give and she ...

Fuck. I clasp my arms tighter, one hand on her backside and the fingers of my other curled around her ribs. And my God, can she move. Sultry, sinuous, all undulating provocativeness as I press my lips to the curve of her neck. She smells of exotic blooms and secrets and tastes like she might—

“Ryan.” A man’s voice, deep and assured.

Under my lips and my hands, she freezes. I straighten, pulling her in front of me as I slide possessive arms around her waist. Our bodies still flush, my front pressed to her back, I’m a bear hug of possessiveness. And it feels so right.

“Pete.” Check out the pronunciation of that t . “And Annabelle.” I almost hear her forced smile. “You look stunning.”

“Thank you,” the bride murmurs.

“Congratulations. To both of you.”

“It’s so good of you to come,” the bride adds when the groom does not.

“Oh, I wouldn’t have missed this for the world!” Such forced pluck barely drowning out those piss and vinegar undertones. “This is Nathaniel—Nate. My boyfriend.”

All of a sudden, Pete looks like he’s sucking lemons.

How about balls, Pete. Suck on these balls.

“ ?Enhorabuena! ” I begin, my congratulations all magnanimous obliviousness as I nuzzle my stunning girlfriend, besotted. “I wish you much ’appiness.” A little bit of Mario isn’t gonna kill anyone. Except my foot as Ryan presses the point of her heel to my toes.

“Thank you,” the bride replies softly. Meanwhile, the groom can’t take his eyes off my hands. On Ryan, obviously.

You snooze, you lose, pal.

I tighten my arms around her and whisper something suggestive sounding in her ear. Suggestive sounding my ass—there’s nothing ambiguous about I’m going to make you come so hard you’ll forget what his face looks like .

Good that no one around here speaks Spanish.

“I bought you chef knives,” Ryan suddenly bursts out. “From the wedding registry. I figured you might want to use them. Someday.”

“That’s ... so nice of you.” The bride looks up, bewildered. “Isn’t that nice, Peter?”

“Yes. Nice. Thanks, Ryan.”

I can’t see Ryan’s expression, but I see his. Fucking entertaining, I’ll say.

“Well, we’d better ...” Ryan’s words trail off.

“Things to see and people to do,” I put in with a heavy accent as I turn.

“Things to do ,” the wanker corrects.

“No,” I say, twirling Ryan around, then back into the cradle of my arms. I shoot him a wink over my shoulder. “I got it right the first time.”

I’m thankful my parents made us learn how to dance in our early years.

Irish, flamenco, ballroom. The future benefits might not have interested me back then, when all I wanted to do was be outside with a ball.

I reaped the benefits once I reached puberty, though.

And I’m reaping them again as I sense his eyes following us.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” she murmurs.

“He’s not at all like I imagined. He’s so aggressively ... average,” I say. Okay, lie.

“I feel kind of bad. For her, I mean.”

“She’s not your responsibility.”

“Did you see that diamond?” she blusters. “Of course you did. Pretty sure they can see it from the moon.”

“You did your good turn when you provided her with a murder weapon.”

“I sounded weird, didn’t I?”

“You sounded like a badass. I wish I’d taken a picture of his face. Almost better than Bolognese.”

She laughs, and the sound gets me right in the feels. She should laugh always. Not like a crazy person, but she should be happy, content and loved, a woman like her.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

“For the appearance of Spanish Super Mario?”

“Even for him.”

“Anytime, darlin’. And anytime you want to ride the mustache ...”

“Oh, my God,” she splutters, putting her hand to my chest. “You don’t even have a mustache.”

“For you, I’d grow one.” I cover her hand with mine. “Because you deserve someone who treats you right.”

And there, in the middle of the dance floor, Ryan stills. “I don’t care what you say,” she whispers, resting her hand on my chest. “I think you’re one of the nicest men I’ve ever met.”

“Ah, darlin’, you’re confusing nice with good mannered.

” As though to prove a point, I take her face in my hands.

Fuck it all to hell. I don’t care about consequences, the person she thinks I am, or the things I said were no good for me.

Because right now, all I want to do is kiss her.

Kiss her until she sighs. Kiss her until her body melts into mine.

Her eyes darken with anticipation as I move closer and slant my mouth over hers.

And as our lips meet, I feel that spark of recognition again.

Like we’ve done this before, maybe in some other time or some other universe.

Is the familiarity in the flutter of her lashes or her tiny inhale?

Or maybe the way she folds her fingers around my lapel?

Because I sense it all. Feel it all. Like this is what I’ve been missing all along.

Fuck. Pleasure coils inside as the tip of her tongue glides against mine.

“You play dirty,” I whisper, pressing my lips to the corner of hers.

“I prefer the term creative competitor .”

“ Creative. ” So much suggestion in the word as I pinch her bottom lip between my teeth. Suck on her delicate gasp. “I do like the sound of that.”

I’m too old for making out on dance floors.

Too old for public displays of affection, of passion, yet here I stand, giving not one fuck for any of that.

Another press of my lips, and her mouth yields once more, the dance floor dropping away, the people around us fading into the ether at the vibration of her tiny moan.

I want her. I shouldn’t, but I’m too far gone.

Every press of her lips, every tentative brush of her tongue is nothing short of intoxicating.

“Oh, God,” she whispers as I slow the kiss, pull back a little, and stare into her soulful eyes. Her tongue makes a deft flick to the bow of her top lip as though tasting our kiss.

Like I wasn’t hard enough already.

“A friend said something to me earlier tonight,” I whisper, stroking her cheeks with my thumbs. “He told me there’s beauty in the spontaneous. Even magic sometimes.”

“Tonight was certainly spontaneous.”

I stare down at all that beauty. A hundred things I want to say, and not one of them makes any sense. “And magical, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” she agrees softly.

“Good. Because that’s why I think you should come back with me tonight.”