Page 62 of Sacrifice the Knight (Checkmate 6)

“Have I murdered a date?” His lips twitch.Damn him for being this handsome while the rest of the world sleeps.“At midnight?”

“Yes, but don’t use that as a loophole. Have you murdered a date,ever? At any time of the day or night.”

“No.” Prying my hand off his muscular chest, he pulls me in until we crash together. If it weren’t for him holding me up, I might fall from my heels and land on my ass. But of course, that’s why he did it. Bending his neck, he comes in for a kiss as though this is our millionth date and not the first. His tongue slides over my bottom lip, suckles until I grant entry, and then slides in until my eyes close and my hands clutch at his strength. Pulling back slowly, with shadowed eyes and a tick to his jaw, he makes me want to stay right here and possibly relocate to my bed, because his strength is the only thing keeping me upright.

“I’ve never murdered anyone, ever,” he whispers. “Male or female. At any hour of the day.” He pulls back just a little. “Care to explain why you asked that?”

“Nope.” Pushing back until I’m steady on my feet, I reach back inside to grab my purse. Dropping my cell and keys inside, I step into the hall and pull my door closed. “Where are we going?”

He pulls me under his arm and crushes a kiss to my temple as we walk. “It’s a surprise. You look beautiful, by the way. Truly beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Warmth rushes to my face and makes me feel like an idiot. “I can work fast when I have to, and I really didn’t want to come out smelling like diner food.”

“But I love diner food,” he chuckles. Making our way down the stairs and out into the parking lot, he leads me toward a black truck that looks about seventy times more expensive than my little beat up car. “I won’t keep you out late; I know you still have to work tomorrow. I promise.” He beeps the truck lock and swings the passenger door open.

As soon as I’m sitting and pull the belt on, he leans in and presses his lips to mine until my nerves turn to a warm puddle of goop. He forces my lips open, nips at my sensitive flesh until I whimper, and messes my hair when he slides his hands in to hold me captive.

Stepping back with a smug grin, his eyes dance while I try to find my balance. “That’s better.”

“What?” My heart stumbles. “What’s better?”

He shrugs. “You seemed nervous. Now you’re not.”

My eyes narrow as my wildly beating pulse is forgotten. “I see your suave version is here tonight. Dork by day, smooth as cream once the sun goes down.”

“I’m just me, and you’re so beautiful you were making me nervous. Now your sass is coming out, which means neither of us are nervous. You ready to go?”

When I only huff, he closes my door on a laugh, walks around to the driver’s side and slides in, then we head across town and over the train tracks. His music plays low, so Hoobastank’s drum beat is soft and matches my pulse. Between each change of gear, Eric’s hand comes back to my leg; it’s possessive, but not in a bad way. There’s no one here for him to assert his dominance over; there’s no one to make a claim in front of. It’s not the annoying type of possession that Zeke continues to demand, but a softer kind, where he’s silently telling me he’s here, that he wants to touch me, that he craves me.

That hevaluesme.

Moving up the hill and around gentle bends, we climb for a few minutes, then stop at the top of Lookout Hill and park near the edge to look out over the only town I’ve ever known. I never considered leaving here. Not once in all my thirty years did I think I could pack up and skip out.

Opening his door, he climbs out without a word, makes his way to the back and shuffles things around.Picnic or shovel?Picnic or shovel?

I turn in my seat in a panic and try to see him in the dark. “Eric, are we having a picnic, or are you sorting through your ropes and lime?”

He chuckles but says nothing. Closing the back and moving straight past my door, he moves to a grassy patch in front of me and sets down a heavy basket. Whipping a blanket open and letting it drift to the ground, he kneels and pulls out containers of food. Tupperware after Tupperware, then wine glasses, a bottle of white, and a loaf of fancy bread.

Standing, he studies the layout with his hands on his hips, and when satisfied, turns back to me and comes to my door. Slowly pulling it open, he stands over me with a playful grin and offers a hand. “Is there a reason you’ve become obsessed with nighttime murderers?”

I accept his hand and slide out. I leave my purse behind, knowing my cell ringtone is on loud, so if someone needs to find me – like Mac – I’ll be able to hear. I step onto gravel in my sexy heels, but kick them off within three steps with a huff. Eric watches with affectionate eyes, and though I see the millionwhat the fuck is she doing?questions running through his mind, he says nothing. “I might have watched too many cold case shows lately,” I answer, “and almost all of them include a dude in a trapper hat and a midnight drive. You’re starting to freak me out.”

“I didn’t even wear my hat tonight.” He chuckles and helps me onto the soft blanket, waits for me to lower down, then he follows and sits so my back rests against his chest. I meant to sit on the opposite side and hoover up a bunch of wine and food, but now I’m resting against him and not entirely unhappy about it. “I promise not to murder you.” He peppers kisses on my temple. My forehead. My neck. “Unless you choke on my fat cock, in which case, that wasn’t my fault. You knew the risks going in.”

“You’re a pig.” I dig my elbow into his thigh and smile when he squeaks and moves my arm away. “What did you bring to eat?” I cross my ankles and lean back. I’m entirely too comfortable already, and hearing his heart beat just by my ear comforts me. “I hardly ate anything since lunch, so I’m starving. If your answer is dick, I’m taking your truck to the drive-thru and leaving your ass here. If you’re lucky, the trapper hat killer might go easy on you.”

Chuckling, he slings one arm over my shoulder and stretches until our fingers interlock, then he reaches out with the other and brings the picnic basket closer. “I brought fried chicken. It’s cold.”

“I like it best when it’s cold.”

“Yeah?” He pauses and smiles. “Me too. That’s when the spices have had time to get deep into the meat. I also brought dipping shit: carrot sticks, celery, healthy shit, and a nice hummus dip.”

My stomach loudly rumbles and makes him laugh. “Katrina likes hummus and healthy shit. Check. I also got a nice white wine, to have with the chicken and healthy shit.”

“And bread.” I lean toward the aromatic loaf and uncover it. “I smell garlic.”

“Mmm, I love fancy bread. I might have been Italian in another life. I brought little pizza scrolls, because they’re easy and look fancier than they are, and for dessert, cheesecake cups.”

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