Page 13 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Matt

Outside, the air has cooled, but I don’t think that’s the reason for Ryan’s shiver. If her blood is simmering half as much as mine, then it’s anticipation.

“Are we walking?” she asks.

“Cab, I think.” But there’s something holding me back.

Something I need to do first. Need viscerally.

It’s part of the reason I followed Ryan here in the first place, I realize.

“I’ve gotta go back inside,” I say, not letting go of her hand.

I tip my head in the direction of the doors, the doorman vacillating, his hand still on the door.

“I’ve forgotten something.” Not a lie. Not exactly a lie. “I won’t be a minute.”

Her expression flickers uncertainly, so I make it right as I pull her into my arms and whisper something in her ear.

“Really?” Her incredulity hits the cool air in a chuckle. But with a dubious look, she allows me to pull her inside.

“Wait here, yeah?” I back her up against the arm of a couch only to find her fingers at the back of my neck.

“I can’t believe you don’t have condoms,” she whispers with a giggle that tickles my ear.

“I feel judged,” I say, pulling away with a grin.

“Well, I guess this is kind of a busman’s holiday.”

That again. My body kind of hedges as my brain weighs up the prospect of spilling my guts.

Now or later? In public or when we’re alone?

I know I’ll have to come clean—put her right.

Admit I’m not someone who fucks women for a living.

Not that I actually said I was an escort, but I’ve hardly disabused her of the notion either.

Because I’m an idiot, obviously.

“Hold that thought,” I say, holding up my index finger. There’s no easy way to pull myself out of the shit, but the best thing I can do is not tell her here.

“I’ll be waiting.” There is so much suggestion in her tone. Weird how it feels like there’s a lead weight in my stomach suddenly.

Three steps away and three back before I’m pulling her against me again. Kissing her. Whispering, “I can’t wait.” Fuck, I want her so badly, but I have to do this first. Even if what follows isn’t a night of unadulterated passion but a punch in the gob. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

“You’d better be.”

My gaze falls over her one more time. She’s all sass, her eyes lit from within.

Please, God. Don’t let me have fucked this up.

Through the hotel foyer, my rapid steps echo as I weave through residents and guests, taut jawed as I ignore the men’s room on this floor. I take the stairs—take them two at a time. Blood and adrenaline pumping hard through my veins, my desire for Ryan simmering just under the surface.

Out on the second floor, through the marbled entranceway. I pause as I reach the imposing ballroom doors. Straighten my jacket, then my cuffs, and slow my pace to sedate as I make my way inside and spot him almost immediately: One of the two men who deserve a little trouble.

I approach the table, keeping from his view, slowing my pace again as I draw nearer.

“I’m telling you, that bitch has some kind of pussy voodoo.”

I halt at the fucker’s words.

“You haven’t gotta chance with her,” one of the other men retorts. Jake, I think, his words slurred, thanks to the drinks. “She can’t stand the sight of you.”

“She’ll come around.”

“Bullshit.”

“She’d better,” he growls. “I want my turn.”

A fucking turn?

“Voodoo, I’m tellin’ you. She has all the best plays—I mean, where the fuck does she get her stuff from?”

“Instinct,” Dipesh says. “She pays attention to the little things.”

“And Brandon’s gotta little thing for her,” someone else quips.

“Fuck you,” Brandon retorts. “You don’t understand. Pete wouldn’t be where he is without her.”

“Pete got promoted because he’s marrying in. He fucked Ryan over!”

“Yeah, but she made it so he got noticed. Pussy voodoo, I’m telling you.”

I’ve heard enough.

I pass an empty table and swipe up a half-filled glass, then theatrically trip over an invisible chair leg. Oops.

“What the fuck!” Brandon jumps up, wearing his last drink of the evening.

“ ?Disculpe! ” I announce, throwing up my hands, my language a full-body experience now. “So sorry.” I point a finger. “Bryce, no?”

He glowers and mutters, “It’s Brandon,” as he presses a stray napkin to his soiled pants.

A tsk of teeth and tongue. “You look like you ’ave pissed yourself.” I give a chuckle, then move on.

I hit the jacks, the bathroom, as intended. Thankfully, there isn’t an attendant on duty. There is a condom machine, and while I really don’t have condoms on me, I do have them back at my hotel.

As I begin to rinse the spilled cola from my hands, the door swings open.

“This is a fucking Brioni fucking suit,” Brandon begins, giving it the big man, throwing shapes—his chest puffed out and his arms positioned like he’s holding a rolled carpet under each. Fucking eejit.

Water drips from my fingertips as I turn from the sink.

“Listen man, you’re gonna—”

I flick the droplets in his face.

“What the fuck?” Stunned, he reaches up to wipe his face, and before he can utter another word, it’s on.

Two steps, and I grab him by the balls. A little unorthodox, I’ll grant you, a little familiar, but there’s method in this madness as I manhandle him until his back hits the wall.

“What the fuck,” he repeats ... not in the same tone, obviously. A few octaves higher.

“I thought this is the way you like it,” I mutter, keeping up the accent as I basically crush his bollocks between my fingers until he squeals.

“Is this not the way you like it?” Without giving him time to answer, I knock the wind out of him some more with a right to his guts.

Then I thrust my forearm across his neck for good measure.

“It’s not such a good feeling when it is happening to you, no? ”

Men like him are the lowest. Men who claim space that doesn’t belong to them are fucking abusers and violators, every one. They’re nothing but scum.

“Hey, man,” he stutters, tears clouding his eyes. “Stay cool.”

“I am ice cool,” I snarl, straining to keep my accent from straying Irish. “But I want to know what it is about my woman. Why you have such a fascination.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he bleats, his breath liquor-foul as I plant my fist in his kidney.

“ Tell me! ”

“She just ... she just ... knows, man. Everything she touches turns to gold.”

“And you think she might rub your pathetic little lamp?” I long to smash my forehead into his nose .

.. but I’m not about to leave evidence of this little chat.

“She is mine. ?Hijo de puta! ?Malnacido! ” A jab to the guts.

“ ?Cabronazo! ” Then another. Motherfucker.

Son of a bitch. Bastard. Take your pick.

“There is no place and no time on this planet when you will be anything to her, do you hear?”

When he doesn’t answer, I jam my arm against his windpipe.

“Yeah, yes.” A pained swallow. Tears and snot.

Fair fucks to him—no one without balls would understand how much this hurts. I could almost feel for him. Almost. “What was that?”

“I hear you—I fucking hear you!”

“You will treat her with nothing but respect. To you, she will be like a far and distant land—like ancient Egypt. Interesting but unreachable. Something you cannot touch. Unless you want to lose these for good.” I make to grab him again, and he flinches.

Like I want to touch his sweaty ball sack!

It’s a necessary evil, that’s all. Something to get my point across.

“In fact, I don’t think you should even say her name. ”

“Okay. Okay!”

“Pussy voodoo,” I spit, releasing him to collapse into a heap.

I wash my hands, muttering in Spanish and ignoring the sound of him retching and the sight of him on all fours. I’d call him a pig, but that would be insulting poor swine.

Bullies. Man, how I fucking hate them.