“Sociopolitical movements, whether or not they spark and result from revolution, form past, present, future. The Magna Carta, the Elizabethan Religious Settlement, the Bill of Rights, the Emancipation Proclamation, the New Deal. And you can go back to—”
He gripped her shirt at the shoulders, lifted her out of her seat. The movement, completely unexpected, had her falling into him. He had his mouth on hers before she could react.
Then her reaction was elemental, as his mouth was hot, a little frenzied, and stirred needs barely buried. His mouth was rough; so were his hands.
And that was just fine.
He’d snapped, no question, but at least now he had something he wanted. A taste, a release, however they incited more hunger. He’d known, just known, she’d grab on rather than pull away. Known she’d cover him in that wild and earthy scent.
He gripped her hair now, the carelessly sexy chop of it, and took his fill.
Then released her, plopping her back in her seat as abruptly as he’d yanked her out of it.
She’d have sworn her insides sizzled, but kept her voice steady. “Well, that was interesting.”
“I had an itch, and you make it worse because you won’t shut the hell up.”
“Intellectual curiosity isn’t a flaw in my world.” Mildly insulted, she gave his shoulder a sharp poke. “I defy anyone sitting next to a three-hundred-year-old man not to have questions.”
“The others don’t badger me with them.”
“If Annika badgered you, you’d find it charming. And who can blame you? Sawyer, he’s got a way of figuring out what he wants and needs to know with the subtle. If Bran hasn’t asked you some direct questions in a one-to-one, I’m a dancing girl from Tupelo. And Sasha doesn’t have to ask, but when she does, it comes off—I don’t know—next thing to maternal.”
He waited a beat. “Tupelo?”
“They have dancing girls. Hold on.” This time she just opened the window, hitched up, and shot the black, staring bird off the signpost where it perched.
Satisfied, she put her gun away, closed the window, sat back. “Now what?”
Was it any wonder he had this damn itch?
“Now we go pick up some pizza.”
“Sounds right.”
• • •
Better to pretend it never happened. That’s what Doyle told himself. They drove into the village in blissful silence—since Riley took out her phone, began scrolling something or other.
It took some doing to maneuver the narrow streets thronged with traffic, with pedestrians swimming over the sidewalks.
He supposed tourists found it charming—the pubs, the shops, the painted walls, the flowers spilling out of baskets.
For himself, he preferred the open.
Still, unlike Annika, Riley didn’t exclaim over every shop window they passed—from the car or on foot once they parked.
She moved briskly, a woman on a mission, a trait he appreciated.
“Should be ready,
” she said as they weaved through the pedestrians taking advantage of a pretty day. “I texted our order from the road.”
Something else to appreciate, he admitted. She thought ahead, didn’t waste time.
She’d ordered four large, a variety, and since it was his turn to provide dinner, waited for him to pay. She carried half as they navigated back to the car.
They loaded pizza boxes with the weapons.