Fury on Fire

by Sophie Jordan

  She was the temptation, far greater than anything oblivion offered him. Unsurprising, he guessed. Everything with her was different; why not that, too?

  His fingers walked over her skin. He drew small circles on her arm, his stomach churning and knotting in an unfamiliar manner. For the first time being with another woman, being with her, filled him with a sense of wonder. Like when he was welding and creating something from nothing. Correction. Creating something beautiful from nothing. God. He was almost poetic, and that was a joke. He was not a poet.

  He stroked his hand down her arm and stopped at her wrist. He hesitated a moment before lacing his fingers with hers, letting their palms kiss while she slept.

  As the air in the room faded to a murky blue, he tried to sort out his feelings when it came to Faith Walters. Moments ticked into minutes and the answer became no more clear-cut. When it was time for him to finally get out of bed, he had no clearer idea what those feelings were. He only knew that one night with her wasn’t nearly enough. He wanted to do this again. Except doing this again meant talking . . . and that would lead to defining what it was they were doing. The define-the-relationship talk. No thanks. He didn’t do those. The moment a woman wanted the DTR, he took it as his cue to go. Although that would be tricky business when he lived next door to her . . . And she happened to be the sheriff’s sister. Yes, he had known that before last night. These had been the reasons he told himself to keep his hands off her.

  Not that those reasons had stopped him. Still, he regretted nothing. He would change nothing.

  But it had to stop now.

  He had to stop.

  He slid his jeans on and reached for his T-shirt. He pulled it over his head and caught a whiff of Faith. The coconut scent of her hair. He cursed softly. He needed to wash the shirt as soon as he could.

  The sheets on the bed rustled and he glanced down as she rolled onto her back, bringing the sheet with her and unfortunately covering up her nakedness. “North?”

  Her voice was groggy with sleep and seductive as hell. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to climb back into that bed with her. To spend all day with her, touching and loving every inch of her body until he had her memorized.

  He couldn’t do that though.

  “I gotta get ready for work. Go back to sleep,” he said, his voice gentle.

  She settled back into bed. She was exhausted. He’d kept her up late. She probably wouldn’t even remember this verbal exchange later.

  She’d asked him to ruin her, but she didn’t really mean that. She didn’t know what that meant. He knew. He’d seen it firsthand. He’d lived it. He still was living it. He had to leave her alone before he actually inflicted wounds that went too deep and became irreparable. Before they became scars.

  Before it all became more than words between them.

  Before he wrecked her like he did everything else in his life.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  North slammed out of his truck and stalked up to the front door. It happened from time to time. Occasionally the past came knocking. Like it had today. Only this time, his guard had been down. He’d been humming as he worked. Humming. His thoughts wrapped up in a long-legged brunette. Even if he had told himself to keep last night buried in last night like any self-respecting one-night stand, he could still taste her mouth. Still feel her against his hands. Her coconut-scented hair chased him as he moved around the garage.

  He made a beeline for his fridge and popped open a beer. Collapsing on the couch, he found a ball game on TV and nursed his way through a couple beers, trying not to think about the customer who’d rolled in today and recognized his face. Apparently the man had been Mason Leary’s second cousin. He had choice words for North. Not willing to risk his job, North had stood by and done nothing as the man called him every foul thing he could think of. If prison had taught him anything, it was how to take a beating—be it physical or verbal.

  Still, it was a shitty day.

  He heard Faith moving around next door. That didn’t improve his mood. He glared at the wall and went and got another beer.

  His phone dinged and he saw it was a text from her. An innocent Hey stared back at him. He ignored it. Dropping his phone, he fell back on his couch again.

  An hour rolled past. She didn’t text again. He figured she would get the picture eventually. Last night was a onetime thing. If anything, today’s fiasco at work drove that home more than ever.

  People like you should be in cages. You shouldn’t be free and allowed to share the same space as the rest of us.

  He shook his head, trying to chase away the words and the venom in which they had been uttered. It was harder than it should have been. He was going soft. That must be it. He had heard far worse insults in his life. Maybe he was getting too domesticated. His gaze slid to the wall separating him from Faith Walters again. Yeah. That must be it. Domesticity. He needed to purge it from his life. Stay hard. It was the only way he could protect himself.

  His phone dinged again and this time it was a text from his brother asking him to join them for dinner. With a disgusted snort he tossed the phone down on the couch. Good people. Nice people. He had too fucking many of them in his life. Strangely enough, things were easier when he was at the Rock and he didn’t have these types of people around him. When things were black and white and he knew where everyone stood—himself included.

  He flipped through channels and found an old western he recognized as one of his uncle’s favorites. He dropped the remote and left the channel there, watching as bad guys and good guys shot at each other across an open range. Life was simple back then. You knew who the bad guys were. You knew who the good guys were. You were either one or the either. None of this bullshit.

  He was halfway through the movie and on beer number five when a knock sounded at his door. He stared at it for a moment, not moving. His gut told him to stay where he was. Don’t move. Don’t get up.

  He stood.

  He didn’t bother looking through the peephole. Something told him who would be on the other side. It wasn’t rocket science for him to guess.

  He opened the door to find Faith standing there, dressed in a soft-looking T-shirt with a faded Bullwinkle across the front. Her shorts did nothing to disguise the sexy slopes of her legs. Her eyes were luminous in the dark of his unlit porch.

  “Hey.” She held up a plate of brownies. The rich chocolate aroma hit him full force and he was suddenly bombarded with the echoes of his childhood, of innocence. Before he’d destroyed everything.

  “Brownies, huh? No scones.”

  Uncertainty flashed across her face for a split second before she managed to smile at him. “Brownies are more a guy thing if I’m not mistaken.”

  He tilted back his head and took a long slug of beer. Lowering his drink, he stared at her for a long while.

  She shifted on her feet. “Aren’t you going to invite me inside?” She lifted her chin a notch and he knew that her pride was on the line. It took her a lot to ask him that. This girl was not versed in one-night stands. She was not versed in men like him. He should do the right thing here. End things now before expectations set in and rooted. He knew that. He had planned to do that. Up until he opened this door and feasted eyes on her he would have.

  He sucked in a deep breath, searching and digging for the words buried somewhere inside him where goodness and right still existed. Go. Get away. Leave me alone. Don’t come back.

  Screw it. Tossing his well-intentioned plans aside, he seized her wrist and tugged her inside, slamming the door shut behind her.

  He plucked the plate of brownies out of her hands and set both his beer and the plate on his countertop.

  “What are you—” she started to ask.

  Turning around, he took her face in both hands and pulled her toward him. “I’m interested in a different kind of dessert.”

  He kissed her hard and fierce. She said something. Mumbled words fought between their lips, but he ignored them and kisse
d her harder—until she was panting and their hands were wild, groping and tearing them free of clothing.

  When they were both fully naked, he grabbed her by the waist and plopped her on top of his kitchen table. Her wide eyes met his. “North . . .”

  He heard the hesitation as clear as day in her voice. “You’re good, baby,” he assured her, ignoring the whisper in his head that told him to stop, to not do this again with her. To her.

  He reached for his wallet inside his jeans and quickly removed a condom, watching her, naked and quivering on top of his kitchen table as he tore it open with his teeth. His hand gave the barest tremor as he rolled it down his aching cock. He reached for one of her small rose-tipped breasts. He fondled her roughly. First one perfect breast, then the other.

  Her head dropped back and she released a keening moan. One glance down and he could see she was already glistening wet and ready for him. It was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. She was. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her toward him with a growl, until he was right there, poised and brushing against her sex. She choked out a sound that might have been a word. Her fingers grabbed him, nails scoring deep into his biceps as she urged him closer, her eyes so shining and radiant that he was certain he could find her in a room void of any light.

  He couldn’t wait a moment longer. He plunged into her with no ease or delicacy. It was base and primal and hard, and exactly what he craved. Maybe what he had craved for years. It felt more satisfying than anything he’d been chasing, anything he’d had, except maybe the last time with her.

  She screamed and dropped back on the table, her arms flung wide and outstretched above her head in abandon.

  A curse seethed between his clenched lips as she surrounded him, hugging him like a silken glove. He looked down at her, spine arched, upturned breasts flushed pink with desire. She was so pretty it actually hurt to look at her. Her lips were puffy and bruised from his mouth and her eyes looked so wide and guileless and slightly stunned as he worked in and out of her. He was corrupting her. He knew it, and while he hated himself, while he couldn’t bear it, he couldn’t stop either. Her sex pulsed and flexed around him, pulling him in impossibly deeper.

  Digging his hands into her hips, he slid out from her and flipped her over on the table, lowering her legs to the ground. He spread her feet apart so that she was standing on the tile floor, bent waist down for him. As tall as she was, the angle was perfect—and so was the view of the sweet swells of her ass.

  He stroked her, finding her slick heat, so wet and swollen for him. Her clit was distended and so sensitive she cried out when he gave it the barest graze.

  “Too. Much,” she gasped, squirming away.

  “You can take it, Faith,” he rasped, wrapping an arm around her waist. He bore down on the little nub, rubbing it in a fast little circle.

  A shuddering sob racked her body, followed in quick succession by another one. She cried out, pressing her palms against the table and pushing back against him. “North!” she pleaded.

  He answered her by plunging back into her tight pussy. A deep growl spilled out of him. He stroked a hand down her spine while still working his other one between her legs.

  For each of his thrusts she pushed back, meeting him with similar force until they were both crying out, both shuddering. She exploded first, shrieking and grinding against him, her sex milking him, squeezing him like a vise as she hit her climax.

  He followed fast behind with his own release, shouting like he never did. Like the man he wasn’t. A man who wasn’t burdened.

  He draped over her for a lingering moment, his forehead resting against her back as his breath crashed out of him. She was bewildering like that, making him forget who he really was in a moment of passion. A dangerous thing. He could never forget.

  He pulled out from her body and moved into the kitchen, forcefully tossing the condom in the trash. When he turned around she was already on her feet. Hands shaking, she dressed herself. He leaned one hip against the table, cautioning himself not to touch her again when that was exactly what his body cried out to do. He swallowed back a sound of self-disgust. Needing to do something with his hands, he picked up a brownie and took a giant bite, schooling his expression into something impassive.

  “Are you going to get dressed?” she asked with a nervous little laugh. Only a good girl like her could feel awkward after what they had just done. Especially considering it wasn’t even their first time.

  He shrugged, not even glancing down at himself. “I’m comfortable.”

  “That was . . . amazing.” Her smile turned shy and definitely nervous. “Different.”

  Unease trickled through him. This was starting to feel too intimate, too much like what other well-adjusted couples did after they fucked.

  “Of course it was.” Of course she would be one of those that wanted to talk afterward and examine everything. This was insanity and he was a fool.

  Her eyes narrowed slightly, evidently picking up something in his tone and words. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re you, Faith Walters. What we did was . . .” His voice faded and he dragged his hand through his hair with a pained sigh. “Tell me this. Why do you let me touch you? And kiss you? Why did you just let me have sex with you like that?” He gestured to the table. It hadn’t been kinky necessarily, but it had been fast and hard and short on foreplay.

  “What?” she demanded. “Having regrets now because I’m a good girl?” She air quoted that last bit, her face flushed with emotion. “Afraid I’m going to want to pick out china patterns now? Grow up, North. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “Maybe you should do the growing up. I mean, what the hell are you doing here with me, Faith?”

  It was an excellent question.

  Searching his face, Faith was glad to finally have this out between them. It was time to talk about what they were doing with each other. Because she was beyond the point of pretending any of this was nothing. She’d just had the most amazing sex of her life with him—again—and now he was being a jackass.

  He motioned wildly between them. “Why have you been letting this go on between us?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m starting to wonder.” She propped a hand on her hip. “And this what, North? What is it that we’re doing?” She stared hard at him, waiting for him to say that it was more than sex. Because, God help her, it felt like more to her.

  He laughed once, a harsh bark. “You need a definition?”

  “I do!”

  “It’s called fucking but I have no idea why you’ve been doing it with me.” His brown eyes glittered to black. “Do you have some stupid felon fetish? Is that what this is?”

  She sucked in a sharp breath. “Are you trying to be an asshole on purpose?”

  He kept right on talking. Like he hadn’t heard her. Or he had and didn’t care what she thought about him. “Your brother is right. You shouldn’t be living next door to me. You should not—”

  Her hand shot out, shoving him in the chest. She just reacted. It had always been like that between them though—from the very start. All impulse. All reaction.

  She never minced words with him. Even after she knew about his history, she was never afraid. Never hesitant. Never tiptoed. Never behaved as though she should.

  “Stop it! Don’t say that. I get enough of it from my father and brothers.”

  “Maybe you should listen to them then. Leave me. Stay away from me.”

  She glanced around wildly. Spotting a marker on the counter, she stalked over and snatched it up.

  “What are you doing . . .” His voice faded as she yanked off the marker’s cap. Bending, she drew a great long line in front of her along the tile floor.

  Standing back, she stared him directly in the eyes. “There.”

  He glanced from the line to her. “What the hell is that?”

  “That’s the line, North Callaghan. Remember?” She felt her nostrils flare as she exhaled a
breath. “And I’m stepping over it.” She made a great show of lifting her foot and crossing the line. “Now what are you going to do about it?”

  He opened his mouth, for once speechless. Usually she was the stammerer, but here, right now, he was at a loss.

  “What are you so afraid of?” she demanded, still searching his face. “Is this really an ‘I’m not good enough for you’ moment?”

  “It’s the truth.” He stared grimly.

  “Nuh-uh.” She shook her head fiercely. “You’re a coward, North Callaghan. Don’t ever think you are doing this for me.”

  “Oh, I’m a coward. You’re right about that.” He shook his head with self-disgust. “You don’t get it. Every morning I wake up with this sick, twisting sensation in my gut.” He clutched his stomach, clenching deep against his ridiculous abs, the tips of his fingers whitening from the strength of his grip.

  He continued, “Most people wake up relaxed and groggy, their minds still lost to sleep or dreaming about their coffee or what they want to eat for breakfast. That in-between state, you know? Not quite awake and not asleep, when everything in the world is perfect and clean and fresh?”

  She nodded. It sounded like many of her weekend mornings when she slept late.

  “I never get that. I haven’t had that since I was a kid in high school. The past never leaves me. Every morning I wake up and I feel sick all over again once I remember it all. I take that first big breath and it feels like fucking razors going down. Every day I feel that way. Every day I relive it. I’m broken. I ruin everything I touch. I have to leave you alone before I destroy you, too.”

  “North—”

  He continued coldly, his words a steady rain of bullets. “If you knew anything about me, you’d be disgusted.”

  “Why?” she pressed. “Tell me. Talk to me.”