Page 8 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

“I see you’re unfamiliar with the villainous Toy Story character?”

“You have kids?” My heart plummets to my Jimmy Choos.

“Borrowed only. I’m an uncle,” he says with an air of .

.. something. “‘Kill Stinky Pete’ is what my niece would yell at the TV whenever the prospector in Toy Story popped up. When she was much younger, at least.” He smiles, the memory causing something inside me to thaw.

“She’s more into Disney princesses these days. ”

“‘Kill Stinky Pete.’ I like it. Feels almost preordained.”

“There’s a reason he’s at the top of your smother-with-a-pillow list.”

My mouth curls lopsidedly. “Not painful enough. And the margin of error is too wide for my tastes.”

“All right, killer,” he says with a chuckle.

“Don’t call me that.” My words hit the air like bullets. “I just don’t like it,” I add, hoping to lessen my bite as I turn and make as if to pull out my chair. Until his hand engulfs mine and he squeezes it tenderly. Reassuringly.

“Hey, turn that frown upside down before people begin to think you don’t fancy me.”

As if, I almost answer, though I catch myself. Breath catches in my throat as I sense him closer. I feel the heat of his breath against my neck, the wisp of it making me shiver.

“And how could you not fancy me when I’ve spent the afternoon between your legs.”

His words, that taunting tone. It feels like the thrust of two fingers deep inside me. As my body clenches emptily, I curl my toes in my shoes as a way to make sure I don’t turn. Because if I turn, I might throw myself at him.

The last good man in Manhattan has game. Of course he does. This is his stock-in-trade.

“That was a little graphic,” I murmur as I offer him my profile, chin slightly raised.

“What can I say? Your lover is a dirty talker. Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

“Because all the ladies like it?” I don’t know why that came out so bitchy. Am I jealous or something?

“Haven’t you heard that a gentleman never kisses and tells?” He pulls out my chair, waiting until I’m seated before positioning another to face me. “What’s the plan?” He brushes his palm against his broad thigh as though to flatten any creases.

Damn. Those are some thick thighs.

Big deal, I school myself. He also has big hands. And big feet. Are you gonna get all twisted up about those too? I bet he has big everything.

“Ryan?”

“The plan?” My voice is crazy high, and my cheeks suddenly feel radioactive.

I clear my throat and regulate my tone. “Honestly, I hadn’t thought much beyond getting here.

” Because I’ve been so focused on the getting here and so worried something would go wrong.

And it did. But also so right. “Maybe we just go with the flow?”

“I can do that.” His doting boyfriend’s gaze is for no one but me.

Lucky me. I wonder how many women he’s bankrupted with his boyfriend experience.

“We can dance,” he purrs, reaching out to trail the backs of his fingers along my jaw.

“We could.”

“Maybe enjoy a couple of drinks.”

“We could do that too.” A couple of drinks is usually my limit, thanks to the chaos I was raised in. But my mother’s vices are not my own, so I guess I can make an exception for today. Come to think of it, I probably already have. “We don’t have to stay long.”

“Because everyone can tell we’re at the fucking-like-bunnies stage of our relationship.”

The way he looks at me, I can almost believe that myself. I give a tiny lift of my shoulder as though completely unaffected. As though the way his mouth moves when he speaks doesn’t do things to me. “You are quite something.”

“You don’t know the half of it, darlin’,” he says, laying on his accent thick.

Why the heck didn’t I think to make my imaginary boyfriend Irish?

The two seem to go together like figs and honey.

I roll my lips to wet them a little, and Matt’s gaze drops there.

His throat moves with a swallow, and I realize how close we suddenly are, both of us straining close like flowers seeking the sun.

“Can I get you anything?” A server appears to the side.

Thank God. Because I think I was about to climb into his lap.

“To drink?” White shirt, an apron, and a long blond ponytail that she swishes over her shoulder, none of which Matt seems to see as he barely glances her way, politely reciting his drink order.

“Whiskey. Please. A single malt if you have it.” His eyes on me feel bold and kind of possessive.

“Champagne?” My request sounds like a question, my mind buzzing with the things I want but can’t have.

“Absolutely.” She makes a note on a little pad and moves to the other side of the table to gather some of the abandoned glassware.

“Should I be glad not knowing the half of it?” I ask, unable to keep myself from going there. Returning to the conversation from the careful distance of my chair.

“Worried you might miss out?”

“Well, I’m not gonna scribble your name in a bathroom stall or anything.”

“‘For a good-time call’?” His mouth curls in a reluctant-looking grin.

I bet a good time would be had by all.

“Forget I asked.” Because this is dangerous territory. It feels entirely too flirty.

“If you don’t want to find out, what should we do instead?” So much suggestion in that.

“Whatever that is on your face,” I retort, “let’s not do that.”

“Spoilsport. All right.” He leans in suddenly. “Tell me something.”

“Like what?”

“Anything. Tell me anything.”

My eyes slide over his shoulder to Josh, one of the back-office people, leaving the dance floor and walking our way. “Rumor has it that one of the techs is on OnlyFans.”

Matt gives a chuckle.

“But that’s not the juicy part. He has a wife and three kids, but his followers are predominantly male, if you know what I mean.”

“Tell me something else. Something about you.”

“Matt, we don’t need to—this is just a one-night thing.”

A very shapely eyebrow (for a man) lifts like a taunt.

“That’s not what I meant.”

That’s what they all say, his dark laughter seems to suggest.

“Can you, like, not behave?” I demand a little too delightedly.

“See ...” He slips his hand between his legs to pull his chair closer, as though he has a secret to share. “I can behave,” he says, his eyes devouring me. “But Nate from Nine Inch Males? Sadly, he doesn’t know how to behave in public.”

“Nine Inch—” is as far as I get before I laugh. Part chortle, part snort. I do a bad job of smothering the heinous sound with my hand. “Nine Inch what?” I manage eventually.

“Males.” I swear his taunting tone reverberates right through to my bones. “It’s what I’d call my escort agency. If I had an escort agency.”

“Oh, my God, please don’t say that in here. Even if in some weird, alternate universe it might help put those knuckleheads in their place.” Or one of them, at least.

“Help how?”

“Doesn’t matter.” I glance over his shoulder at the dance floor again. Granted, I can’t see the idiots I work with, but they’re probably propping up the bar. Maybe doing lines in the bathroom, I think uncharitably. Vices that almost come with the job.

“Doesn’t matter?” he repeats, then begins to make chicken noises.

“Stop that,” I say. I chuckle.

“ Baaawk, bawk, bawk. ” Matt begins to move his arms like wings.

“Okay!” I splutter, still laughing at his impression. “I just meant that a man who’s paid to ... you know. He’d likely be packing.” Obviously, I can’t look at him as I say this.

“Sounds like you’re asking a question.”

“What?” I glance his way and blink. I mean, if you’re offering. “No. Not at all. I was generalizing.” Shit. Shit! What possessed me to say that? “Look, before I hired Cuddle Carl, I’d found myself on a couple of escort sites. And it just made me think. Premium rates must mean a premium service.”

“So do you think escorts are paid by the inch?”

“No!” I splutter. Laugh. Then coax my eyebrows from my hairline. “You said nine-inch—can we just change the tone of conversation, please?”

“By the inch,” he repeats, meditatively. “That is a question I’ve never thought to think, let alone seek the answer to.”

“Maybe Nate from Nine Inch Males ought to know. For market research.”

He taps a finger to his lips as though in thought. “Getting back to your idea,” he says, smacking his arm down like an elephant’s trunk. “I’m not at all sure slapping my massive man meat on the tabletop, at a wedding, is the way to go.”

“Massive?” Help!

Almost ponderingly, he adds. “Maybe that’s why I get paid the big bucks.”

“Well, I’m happy for you,” I say, struggling to keep it together while ignoring all the things.

All the things running through my head as well as flickering in my panties.

“And while you might be right, I’d still love to see their faces.

It would seriously mess with their heads.

” Both of their heads, I think with a snicker.

Along with the pressures of the job, the liquor drunk, and the coke vacuumed, I wouldn’t be surprised to find one or two already have issues getting it up.

Ask me how I know, because I’m not talking hypotheticals here.

Despite that, half the girls in New York seem to be looking for a man who works in finance. I find the concept laughable and the species so overrated. At least, now I do.

“Maybe I could hire a stripper for the office,” I say, propping my elbow on the table and cupping my cheek. Maybe I shouldn’t have ordered that drink. Or inhaled the one on the way in.

“It might give you a laugh, but it’s not adequate payback.”

“Payback isn’t what I have in mind.” Playing them at their own game, however ...

“Maybe you don’t.” He says this so airily, with so little consequence, my intuition is immediately tweaked.

“I didn’t tell you how things are because I need someone to defend me.”

“I’m aware. But also, I’m not someone you’ve hired.”

“Meaning what?”

He sits back in his chair again, all lounging confidence. “I think you know exactly what I mean.”

“No, or I wouldn’t have said otherwise.” I don’t ever rely on others to fight my battles.

“Why do you think I’m here?”

“Because you’re—” Nice, I almost say. “Because you felt bad for me.”

He quirks his head slightly as though to say Maybe , or That’s not entirely it . “Let me put it another way.” Like a snake striking, he sits forward again and takes hold of my hand. “I’m not working tonight. I’m not taking orders.”

I find myself blinking again, rapidly this time. And oh, the places my mind goes.

“But you don’t need to worry. I won’t fuck you over.” Those eyes, they’re beguiling. “As for fucking you ...” There’s something almost cautious in the way his gaze moves to the back of my hand. “That’s lady’s choice.”