Light Her Fire Page 10

  Hopefully he’d sprung for shipboard cell service. She sent him a text and crossed her fingers.

  Chapter Nine

  “What? Say that again, Roger. I can’t hear you.” Melody turned down the mood music she’d programmed and pressed her phone tight against her ear.

  “I said I’m sorry to call so late.” The thumping pulse of dance music and general cell static accompanied his voice. “I just got your text. You said call ASAP.”

  “Yes. Yes. Thanks. I needed to speak with you right away. Is there”—jeez, she could barely hear herself think—“is there any way you could take this call somewhere besides the world’s largest floating disco?” This was not a conversation she wanted to scream over a dance party.

  “Hold on.”

  She waited. He must have been on the move, because the music slowly faded a few decibels.

  “Can you hear me now?”

  “So much better. Thanks for calling.”

  “No problem. I hope I’m not too late.”

  She glanced at the clock—a minute after midnight. “Just in time.” But no time for a gentle lead-in. “Roger, I need your permission to tell Josh you’re gay.”

  “Why? It’s none of his business.”

  The defensive tone and a hint of panic in his voice carried all too clearly. She stalked to the hall, went up on her toes, and peeked out one of the fan-shaped arrangement of glass triangles in her front door. “Honey, I’m trying to get some long-overdue action here. The ‘Melody doesn’t like sex’ rumor works against this goal, as does the fact that I’m fresh out of a long engagement. I need to tell him why we really broke up, so he understands I’m not nursing a broken heart, nor am I a prude. I promise you, he’s not going to tell anyone. Spreading gossip doesn’t interest him.” Josh’s black Yukon pulled up to the curb. She pulled back from the window so he wouldn’t catch her watching, and ran a restless hand over her carefully chosen ensemble—shoulder-baring pink T-shirt over cropped pink yoga pants.

  “What if he says something to my parents?” The thud of a car door. The cadence of footsteps on her flagstone front walk.

  “He doesn’t even know your parents.”

  “Do you think he’d sign a confidentiality agreement? I could email you one tomorrow.”

  She closed her eyes and counted to ten. He couldn’t help it. He was a lawyer, after all. “Roger…please.”

  “Oh God. Okay. I owe you this much. I know. You trust him, obviously, and I trust you. If you think it’s important, tell him.”

  She let out a breath, and then nearly choked on the inhale when Josh’s knock rattled her front door. “Thank you. Say hi to Doug for me. Bye.”

  She disconnected, tossed her phone on the hall table, opened the door, and came face-to-face with six foot plus of hard-packed firefighter, encased in a soft black T-shirt and broken-in jeans. She managed a breathless, “Hey.”

  He didn’t answer. Just walked in, grabbed her, and hauled her against him. Then his lips were on hers and she had proof the T-shirt and jeans were the only soft things about him. Her breasts plumped against his unyielding chest. Her stomach fluttered against his taut abs. His hand came around and palmed her backside, pushing a gloriously rigid part of him against one of her most sensitive regions. Maybe she jumped, or maybe he lifted her, but the next instant, she was on him—legs wrapped around his waist, arms twined around his neck, mouth fused to his as he kicked the door shut and carried her deeper into the entry hall.

  He tried to draw back to speak—probably to seek directions to the nearest piece of usable furniture—but she couldn’t bear losing the heat of his mouth and the rough caress of his tongue, so she speared her fingers into his shower-damp hair and attempted to hold him in place. His five o’clock shadow scraped her lips, and she nearly dissolved into a puddle imagining the same sensation between her thighs. If she asked nicely, perhaps he’d even—

  His mouth found her ear. “I hate to put carpet burns on your hands and knees, but you’ve got five seconds to direct me to a better place, or I take you right here on your entryway rug.”

  The threat sent a tremble through her. Now. Right here. Right now. He’d never know what it did to her, hearing him say things like that. Roger had always made her feel pretty. Never failed to compliment her hair or outfit, but Josh…Josh wanted her, with unrelenting intensity. She didn’t have to initiate some highly choreographed seduction effort just to get a crumb of physical attention—and then cross her fingers and pray it would work. He made it so reassuringly…easy, and suddenly, she wanted to reward him for it.

  Thanks to Google, she knew exactly how. She reached out, unsnapped his jeans, and slid the zipper down.

  “What if I take you instead?”

  …

  Josh started to tell her, “Next time,” but she didn’t wait for his answer. She just reached in and caressed him through his boxer shorts. His cock went heavy as blood rushed south, then harder than ever as she continued to toy with him.

  “Bluelick, what are you planning in your dirty little mind?”

  Still smiling, she went down on her knees. Then, in a flashback from last night, she pulled his jeans and boxers down. All thought fled his brain when she leaned in and teased his head with her tongue. Every muscle in his body tensed at the thought of her mouth on him. Last night might have given her the wrong impression, though. Tonight he wouldn’t be content with a handful of shallow, lubricating thrusts. If she took him, she needed to be prepared to take all of him. “You wore the pink, so you’re asking for it. You know I’m going to fuck you. But I’m also going to warn you, I’m not some polite country boy. If you put me in your mouth, I’m going to fuck your mouth. We clear on that?”

  Apparently yes, because she took him in with a long, slow, ever-deepening kiss. Her hair and the angle of her head blocked his view—which had to change because he needed to see her—but he took a moment to appreciate the sensation of being cradled in all her soft heat. A pulse beat strong and steady there, and he couldn’t be sure if it came from her, him, or some perfectly timed combination. Then she applied suction. Long and hard enough to wring a groan out of him as she worked her way back up. He buried his fingers in her hair, fisted his hand to hold the waves away from her face, and tugged her head back a fraction.

  Their eyes met. Hers contained the hint of a question. “I need to see your face, so I know when you can’t take anymore…and when you can. Right now, you can take more.” So saying, he pushed his hips forward, and fed his cock deeper into her mouth, losing an ounce of precious control at the sight of her full, wet lips sliding along his shaft. When he reached the point where the rest was up to her, he paused. “Come on, Bluelick, own it. Take what you want.”

  She adjusted her body, coming up higher on her knees, and then worked a hand between his legs. Using his balls as a rudder, she steered him into the delta at the back of her throat.

  “Fuck me,” he grunted, “that works.”

  She reversed course, faster now, and came down again, picking up more speed, but not sacrificing attention to detail. Reverse and repeat. Reverse and repeat. He thrust his hips—just a little—in counterpoint to the movement of her head, in part so she didn’t have to do all the work, and in part because he couldn’t stand still. “That’s it,” he growled, as she came down again. “Finish me off. Any way you want.” He loved that she didn’t stiffen up, or switch out her mouth for her hand. Loved that nothing he’d done, or was about to do, crossed Miss Bluelick’s line.

  Or maybe he had crossed a line, because she nudged her index finger alongside his cock. When she lowered her head again, she slipped her finger into her mouth along with him. What the…?

  Next thing he knew, that wet finger speared between his legs, behind his balls, and…whoa…what the holy fucking…A.

  She drove deep enough to force a groan from him. Deep enough to find the spot she sought, because a light exploded behind his eyes, which could only be his brain short-circuiting. His knees threatened
to buckle. The breath rushed from his lungs on a long, ragged curse, and every last synapse in his nervous system caught fire as she sucked the orgasm right out of his cock.

  By the time most of his senses kicked back online, Melody had abandoned the south post, and was kissing and nuzzling his completely wrung-out, extraordinarily grateful dick. Amazing as it felt, he eased back, because she deserved only his best—his biggest, hardest best. He’d never considered himself an all-or-nothing guy, but there it was.

  She gave him a round-eyed look and a half-smile, and then got to her feet. “Would you like a glass of wine or a beer?”

  “A beer sounds good.” He tucked himself back into his pants, carefully, and trailed after her as she led the way into her kitchen. She headed to the center island and downed the rest of a glass of wine sitting on the butcher-block surface, and then turned to the sink and washed her hands. The move caused him to mentally replay the last few seconds of the most satisfying blow job of his life.

  “Things got a little fuzzy toward the end. Did you stick your—”

  “Yes.” She dried her hands, took a beer from the fridge, and popped the top. A bit of foam bubbled out. “Did you…um…did you like it?”

  He laughed and accepted the bottle. He’d just come in her throat with all the restraint of a broken water main, and she asked if he’d liked it? A deadpan “What do you think, Bluelick?” sprang to mind, and he was about to give voice to the reply when she turned to face him. He read genuine uncertainty in her stunning face. A series of facts toppled like a line of dominoes in his mind. She’d grown up with Roger, been engaged to him since her senior year. Was it possible she’d never been with anyone else, and she honestly didn’t know if the reaction she’d just pulled from him was normal, above-average, or extraordinary?

  “You destroyed me, Bluelick. I hope you’re proud of yourself. Every time I see your gorgeous mouth I’m going to get hard, because now I know what you can do with it. You point at something and I’m liable to come in my pants. I’m going to be walking around town like some pervert with a hair-trigger boner. That’s all on you.”

  She beamed and looked proud as hell, which had him congratulating himself on the compliment. “The finger thing was an interesting twist. Took me by surprise.”

  “Not good?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Portions of his anatomy clenched in remembrance and appreciation.

  “That’s a relief. I wasn’t sure you’d be into the A-play, but…well…I heard it was a guaranteed man-pleaser.”

  “You heard that, huh?” He didn’t need three guesses from whom. “Did I just get the Roger Reynolds special?”

  She stared at him and then giggled. A full-out laugh followed. The laugh evolved into waves of laughter she bit her lip to try to contain. She dropped onto one of the two high stools tucked around island, covered her mouth with her hand, and proceeded to shake in stifled silence—like he’d made the funniest joke in the world. He waited—okay, fumed—while she got herself under control. Finally, she wiped her eyes, pressed her hand to her chest, and looked at him. “Whoo. Sorry about that. You did kind of get the Roger Reynolds special, but not the way you’re thinking. Actually I, ah, I spoke to him just before you arrived.”

  Roger? Fucking awesome. Just what he wanted to hear. He took a long, bitter sip of the watered-down travesty some beverage conglomerate had the balls to call beer, and swallowed. “I thought he was on vacation.”

  “He is, but he called me tonight because—”

  “You two can’t go a week without talking? For a woman who keeps insisting she’s not stuck on her ex, I gotta say, your actions are speaking louder than your words.” And the situation bothered the shit out of him. And the fact that it did, bothered him even more. He should shut up, and get on board for some mutually satisfying rebound sex, but something inside him balked at the notion of serving as her second choice.

  She glared at him. “Can I finish my sentence?”

  At least he wasn’t the only one irritated now. “Absolutely.” He pulled out the other stool and settled in. “Please tell me every riveting detail of your conversation with Roger. Does he miss you? Let me guess. He wants you back.”

  “No.” She shook her head for emphasis. “We are never, ever getting back together.”

  He crossed his arms. “Famous last words, Taylor Swift.”

  She mimicked his pose. “Josh…Roger’s gay. Right now he’s with his gay boyfriend, on a gay cruise, enjoying seven days of shipboard gaiety.”

  All right, he had not seen that coming. All he could do was stare back at her for a moment while his brain digested her words. “Oh.”

  “Yeah, ‘Oh.’” She uncrossed her arms, rested them on the island, and used the edge of her thumb to trace the wood grain. “He hasn’t come out to anyone in Bluelick except me, and he doesn’t wish to, so you need to keep this information to yourself.” Her eyes flickered up to his.

  “What information?”

  The lame joke produced a tiny smile. She resumed tracing the grain. “Thanks. I asked him for permission to tell you, because I wanted you to understand why the man I was engaged to for so long feels more like a brother to me than an ex. I’m sure I talk about him a lot, but he’s been in my life forever. I grew up with him. He was my first date, my first kiss, my first…everything.”

  “Yep, sounds just like a brother.” But his instincts had been right, as far as they’d gone.

  “Shut up. All those firsts occurred a long time ago. My point is, he’s a huge part of my past, and there’s nothing I could or would do to change that. But”—she looked at him again, and this time her gaze held—“he’s not my future. In the future, I’d like to get my dates, kisses, and…everything else”—she eyed him meaningfully—“from men I don’t feel the least bit brotherly toward.”

  So that’s where he came in. A lot of answers fell into place. Her uncertainty, her vulnerability, her motives for getting involved with him? Everything stemmed from her relationship with Roger. But she wouldn’t be reconciling with her ex, and she was obviously ready to make up for lost time.

  “So, Roger’s giving you advice on how to please a man?”

  Her eyes shifted away. She suddenly took great care smoothing the hem of her T-shirt. “Sort of. Why? Did he steer me wrong?”

  “No. I’m willing to concede he wasn’t completely off base. But from here on out, how ’bout we falter along on our own?”

  She tipped her head and fluttered her eyelashes—all angelic innocence. “Should I assume this means you don’t want to do it under the bleachers at the high school, while I’m dressed in my cheerleading uniform?”

  Holy shit. An image of her in a snug sleeveless sweater and a short pleated skirt, bouncing all over the damn place, filled his head, and his biggest, hardest best stood up to join in the cheer. “You know what? I changed my mind. Consult Roger all you want. Just be ready.” He lifted her up and sat her on the kitchen island, then leaned over her until he had her draped across the surface. “I’ve consulted my expert, too.”

  “Y-your expert?”

  “You had him in your mouth a minute ago.” With that he pushed her long shirt up past her waist and yanked her leggings and panties down to her knees. “Better hold on to something, Bluelick, because you’re about to find out where else he likes to go.”

  Chapter Ten

  The intense, almost feral sound of his voice sent a shiver down her spine. Was she ready? Her body responded with an enthusiastic yes, but her brain insisted on making sure they’d talked through the Roger issue. “Wait—”

  “No more waiting.” He pulled off her pants and underwear, freeing her from the shackles of her tangled clothes. “I’ve been waiting too long to be inside you.” His hitched his hands under her thighs and lifted her legs to his hips. Obedient to his silent instructions, she wrapped them around his waist, and bit her lip to keep from moaning, while a thrilled little voice in her head said, Sweet Jesus, he’s going to have you right h
ere in your kitchen. Naughty games in her place of work were one thing—there was some innate thrill about doing it at work—but here, among her ribbon-trimmed dish towels and the ceramic owl cookie jar from her great-grandma? He couldn’t possibly find anything stimulating about these surroundings, which meant she’d brought this on all by herself. Just her.

  The truth of that excited her as much as anything else. She couldn’t quite stop herself from lifting her hips to hurry him along. He grabbed her butt and pulled her toward him—which had her scrambling to hold on to the edge of the island—and then let her go, leaving her clinging to the counter with her legs clamped around his waist. Her already-strained quadriceps complained, but it was a minor discomfort compared to the relentless ache at her core. His zipper rasped, and then his hands were back on her and he tugged her closer still. His erection slid unerringly along her center. Every instinct in her body urged her to grind against him, but he must have read her mind because he said, “Don’t you move a muscle. It’s my turn to play.”

  She held herself still as best she could, because fair was fair, but hopefully her vocal cords didn’t count as muscles because staying quiet turned out to be impossible. Her moans didn’t completely cover the wet stroke of his shaft along her juncture.

  When her calves, thighs, and glutes pulled so tight she worried she’d give herself a charley horse, he calmly asked, “Do you want to move?”

  “Yes.”

  Next thing she knew, he had his big hand wrapped around her ankle, parting her legs, bending one as he lifted it. “Get your knee up there. Now.”

  Oh God, not the movement she had in mind. She reinforced her grip on the lip of the island and used her stomach muscles to lift her leg and hook it over his shoulder. Logically, she wasn’t any more exposed right now that she had been the other night when he’d had her kneeling on the exam table, but something about being bare from the waist down, spread-eagled across the top of her kitchen island, had heat flooding her cheeks even as a new wave of dampness flooded her core.