Sweet Burn

by Anne Marsh

  “Come in,” she invited sourly.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he said, ignoring the sarcasm in her voice.

  She hadn’t made any changes to Auntie Belle’s place. She liked the reminders of the old woman she’d barely known, and she hadn’t planned on staying in Strong all that long anyhow. The small living room was crammed full of Bali-esque rattan and teak furniture, colorful throw pillows, vases and statues and a million knickknacks Mimi had decided on day one that she had absolutely no intention of dusting. A small stone Buddha watched her impassively, perched next to a grinning Cheshire cat. Auntie Belle had liked anything and everything.

  “Nice place.” The way Mack looked around, she didn’t know if he was admiring the décor or looking for hidden attackers. He still had her gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans and there was a grim look on his face despite his semi-playful words. It didn’t matter. She didn’t want his help, even if she needed it. That was undoubtedly yet another stupid decision in an equally impressive (and long) line of bad decision-making on her part, but right now she didn’t care.

  “I’m thrilled. Now go.” She pointed to the door to underscore her point. Her mood ring flashed in the dim light, the stone more black than anything. Perfect.

  Of course Mack just gave her a look and stepped past her. Equally clearly, he’d decided it fell to him to check out her place for lurking ax murderers or assassins. Or gang members. No. She wasn’t thinking about that tonight. She couldn’t afford to be weak or scared, not in front of this man. If she let him see just how much the firebomb and the drive-by had shaken her, he’d insist on being nice to her.

  She couldn’t handle that—any more than she could handle letting him into her life any further. Mack needed to go. Now. “Are your ears working?”

  “No games,” he warned and headed into her small galley kitchen, before she could sort out what he meant. Did he mean that he wasn’t going to play games? Or that she shouldn’t? It was still spring and the nights got cool, the temperatures often dropping twenty or thirty degrees from the afternoon highs. That was the only reason she was shivering. She’d just been surrounded by heat flames. She couldn’t possibly be cold.

  The sound of the pantry door opening and shutting drew her back to the present and she bolted after Mack into the kitchen. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Angry tears prickled her eyelids. She never cried, but her body ached with weariness. She also smelled like smoke and chemical retardants. Probably like old drinks and stale bar air as well, but she was postponing the date with her shower until tomorrow. She’d hold it together for five more minutes, she decided. Then, Mack would go. She’d be alone. She could give in to the shakes or cry or do whatever stupid thing her body was demanding.

  “Mack?” She was as out of words as she was out of energy. Whatever it was he thought he was doing, he didn’t stop. Nope. He stepped into her bedroom, then turned to look at her.

  “Someone shot at you yesterday.” A muscle ticked in his jaw and, from the tension there, she’d bet he was grinding his jaw. “Tonight, someone firebombed your bar. Right now, I’m making sure it’s just you and me here, Mimi, because I don’t think whoever has it out for you is done.”

  Thank God he wasn’t being sweet or gentle, because the deluge behind her eyelids was growing and he had to go now.

  “Get out of my bedroom.” She didn’t want him here where she slept. This felt too personal, in a way that sharing a rented hotel room and her body hadn’t been. Ignoring her (of course), he opened her closet door. His large, tanned hand sorted rapidly through the hangars, making sure no one was concealed in the narrow space. She almost hoped he’d find someone, just so he could wrap this shit up.

  “I’m not done.” He checked behind the curtains, crouched beside the bed and peered underneath. Paused. Shit. Right. She had plastic boxes of books stashed under there, an entire stash of cowboy books. Her favorites were the kind with covers that had plenty of yummy bare skin, cowboy hats and rope. Yeah. She had a few fantasies about rope. Just because she wasn’t embarrassed by her reading choices didn’t, however, mean she wanted those preferences broadcast to the world. Or on display for this man.

  “Nice,” he drawled, plucking the topmost book out and eying her Lorelei James like the book was one of those how-to manuals he liked so much.

  “Time’s up. Get. Out.” Snatching the book from his hand, she tossed it back into the pile and shoved the box firmly under her bed.

  “That’s no way to treat a book,” he said mildly.

  Right. She didn’t care. That wasn’t a book. It was a fantasy, something she did on her own time and just for her.

  “Go,” she repeated and this time, finally, he shoved to his feet. For a moment, he stood over her and the position had possibilities. She had a gorgeous view of the strong column of his thighs and, wow, the way the denim clung should be illegal. She could run her hands up his legs, cup him there where she was seeing definite signs of interest. No. She’d had her taste, and he’d had his. It didn’t matter that he wanted her, because they were done. She and Lorelei would date later tonight and that would be enough fun for her.

  “I can get my hands on some rope.” A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He reached down and held out a hand to help her up. Shit. Nice Mack was back. “If you’re into that kind of thing.”

  Why was he so nice? She barely knew him, even though he’d been spending every Friday night at her bar for the last few months. She didn’t do relationships and she never let anyone get close. When she got too lonely, she picked out a guy for a night of casual, fun sex. One night. That was the rule and, with the exception of Rio Donovan, who had been every bit as anti-commitment and pro-fun as she was, she’d stuck to that rule since her college days. All 180 of them.

  And yet she looked at Mack and she… wondered. He wiggled his fingers, waiting more or less patiently for her to make up her mind, and part of her thought that maybe she should consider breaking her rules for him.

  No. No way.

  Guys were bad news. Her life had been a hands-on demo in failed relationships. Her last pre-Strong boyfriend had cleaned her out, but at least she hadn’t tattooed his name on her ass. He’d emptied the cash register and the safe at her street shop and then he’d cherry-picked her tattooing equipment. She’d woken up alone in their bed and found her store just as empty. Receiving the letter saying she’d inherited Ma’s had been a lifeline. A bar had sounded right up her alley. Okay, it had been the only option she had, other than an eviction notice on her tattoo shop and no money to buy ink. She couldn’t draw tattoos on with a ballpoint pen. So she’d come here.

  She pushed to her feet, ignoring both his hand and the impatient gust of air as he processed her fuck off.

  “Would it hurt you to accept a little help?” He sounded more curious than angry, but since he’d already turned away from her she decided that was a rhetorical question. One she could ignore.

  “The door is the other way,” she said. Calling Sheriff Hernandez and demanding an eviction of her own remained a possibility, but that wouldn’t get through to Mack. She knew it, deep inside. What she couldn’t tell was if she minded—or if she was thrilled. She didn’t need him pawing through her panties, looking for miniature assassins or checking out her bathroom. He ignored her, of course, and kept right on doing what he was doing. Her apartment not being all that big, the next stop on his I’m-a-big-bad-military-protector agenda was clearly her bathroom.

  She ducked in front of him, reaching the doorway in plenty of time to register the amusement on his face. She’d never liked being laughed at, so much so that she’d sworn she’d never let it happen again. Better to disappoint. To anger. Anything but laughter. She suspected Mack wasn’t laughing at her. No, he was laughing with her, at this ridiculous situation.

  “Boo.” His rough endearment made her shiver, which was also bad. God, he got to her. Just standing there, waiting for her to acknowledge him, he was in cha
rge. “How do you think you’re stopping me?”

  ***

  Hell. Mimi was twisting her mood ring ferociously and her eyes had that glassy sheen to them that advertised tears on the way. Knowing his Mimi, she was probably holding back the waterworks through sheer force of will. Of course, she’d had a bitch of a night, preceded by a pretty damn bad day and she was entitled to cry. Or storm, rage, and generally kick the shit out of life. She’d probably prefer that last option, but her biology had clearly decided to betray her.

  Riling her up and making her mad would be a kindness, taking her mind off the tears. Unfortunately, he didn’t feel like being kind. No, what he felt looking at Mimi had absolutely nothing to do with kind and everything to do with the way his body stood to attention when she was around. He wanted to take her into the shower, soap her up and clean her off before getting really dirty with her. He liked rope too, so he was plenty game to bring her fantasies to life.

  She didn’t answer his question, either, but Mimi wasn’t a quitter. She didn’t back down any more than she admitted defeat. Probably, she figured keeping silent about how, exactly, she intended to stop him was the smartest option she had right now.

  “You think you can push me around?” He was reaching for her even as he got the words out, and she sure wasn’t doing much avoiding. Nope. She glared at him plenty, but she didn’t do the duck-and-twist so he wouldn’t let her stare him down. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight.

  The firebomb had scared the piss out of him. He didn’t like to think about what could have happened if she’d closed Ma’s alone. Or if the guy tossing the Molotov cocktail had had better aim, a different weapon, or a second chance. He’d fought fire for years now, but this was personal. He buried his face in her hair and breathed her in. Smoke and a hint of shampoo. Pretty. His, even if she didn’t admit it.

  He backed her up against the wall and she didn’t complain. Nope. She was pure encouragement, wrapping a long leg around his waist, her heel digging into the small of his back until he could feel the heat of her through his jeans. Deliciously warm. Tempting.

  This was a bad idea.

  He had no business wanting to scoop her up and carry her into her bedroom. To lay her down on her bed and to follow that primal act of possession by stripping her bare in every way possible. Slow. He had to take this slow. He cupped her shoulder with his hand, nudging the strap of her tank top aside with his thumb and rubbing a slow circle there while he leaned in and covered her mouth with his.

  She didn’t want slow any more than he did.

  Her mouth met his and their kiss headed to Sexyville, faster than fast. Good times. He devoured her, deepening their kiss as his hands shoved her tank top down and she pressed into his touch with a groan.

  Letting her go was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

  “Finish what you started.” As she spoke, she pulled back. Not physically—her breasts still pushed up against his chest and, hell, he loved that—but emotionally. He could almost see her brain click on and start the next step of the drive-Mack-away plan. Mimi didn’t let anyone close. Damned if he knew how she did it, because sex should have been about as close as two people got, but the minute she started shucking her clothes, an emotional Grand Canyon opened up between them.

  “You want to have sex right now?” The words came out hoarser than he would have liked. Best to be clear, though, because she confused the hell out of him. That was the God’s honest truth.

  “You bet,” she whispered back to him in her sex kitten voice, a husky ribbon of sound that promised a thousand delicious sex acts that would rock his world and make him forget both his name and hers, lost in the meeting of their bodies. He liked it better when she was laughing and happy. When he didn’t forget his own name—or who she could be to him.

  His Mimi.

  Taking his silence for buy-in, she cupped his ass with her hands. Her urgency communicated itself to him through the squeeze of her fingers, soft and then harder, more demanding as she pulled him to her and in. He’d be happy to let her manhandle him all night because it felt so good, except… He wasn’t sure she was one hundred percent with him. And definitely not for the right reasons. Her fingers slipped over his jeans, teasing a naughty pattern over his butt, and he groaned. There was no helping that. Mimi got to him.

  He was one hundred percent hers, even if she wouldn’t admit it. So his next words surprised him.

  “No.” He thought about it for a too short, too long moment and then repeated himself. “We’re not doing this.”

  She tilted her head back so she could see his face, her hands clenching on his ass. “No? Really? Because if this is your version of hard to get, we need to talk.”

  Her fingers moved over his ass, down the crack and exploring between his legs as far as she could reach. Jesus. Heat shot through him. Was he really turning her down in favor of empty arms tonight?

  “I’m holding out for all of you,” he said roughly.

  “Is that code for some kinky shit you want to do?” Her eyes laughed at him. But… there was something else there as well. In truth, his Mimi probably didn’t have a problem with any sex act he could list. He’d never hurt her and everything they did had been about giving her pleasure. But that was her body and there were all sorts of other parts to Mimi. Like her head.

  Her heart.

  He should let her take him to bed and figure this out in the morning when they weren’t fresh from a fire and a possible death threat. She was tired. He’d seen the yawns. But letting this go seemed wrong.

  “The sex is great, but I want more.”

  Her fingers made another wicked pass over his ass, not letting go. He stepped back reluctantly, because otherwise he was going to cave. Softly, he set her leg on the ground.

  “There’s not much more, big guy.” She didn’t move from where he’d put her, just leaned against the wall, her tank top shoved up beneath her breasts. He’d done that. It would be so easy to step back and continue what they’d started. Her bra was a wicked scrap, a pale blue covered with black lace that almost, but not quite, covered the rosy tips of her breasts. Her nipples were like the best kind of cherries and he wanted to tongue them, suck them slow and sweet.

  “No,” he said again, making sure.

  She slowly slid her hands up over her ribs, cupping her breasts. Rearranging… and then concealing.

  “What you see is what you get,” she said quietly, her voice full of what he’d come to think of as Mimi bravado. She never showed fear, not even when her bar was on fire and someone was gunning for her. The mocking smile was back on her face, though, and he deserved that.

  “You deserve more.” He’d never meant three words so much.

  She shook her head, sending her hair dancing. “Most women wouldn’t complain about a good orgasm. What more is there?”

  Hell if he knew what. He was certain with every fiber of his being that this thing between him and Mimi wouldn’t—couldn’t—be about just sex.

  “Were you a virgin?” She sounded curious. And dubious. Wise girl.

  He laughed softly. “I lost my new a long time ago, sweetheart.”

  Something dark flashed in her eyes. “I’m not new, either.”

  “New to me, to each other,” he said.

  There was a moment of silence while he tried—and failed—to come up with the right words. If she wanted a man who could sweet talk her, he was all wrong.

  “I want us to have a relationship.”

  The surprised look on her face was hardly flattering. “Are we in high school? Are you asking me to go steady with you? I’m not seeing your class ring fitting on my finger.”

  His high school self had been a wild child, only interested in what he’d decided was living. Problem was, his definition had been all about him. He’d chased fast cars and six packs, pretty girls and long nights in the bayou. Waking up in the morning had simply meant waiting for the next night, the next round of fun.

&n
bsp; “I want to see where this can go. I want tomorrow instead of tonight.”

  She looked at him like he was speaking Greek and she’d left her Berlitz at home. “You want us to get married or something?”

  Yeah. He did.

  She said the words and everything kind of slid into place, like one of those kaleidoscope puzzles you shook up. Imagining himself starring front and center in one of those white tulle things he’d gone to in Napa? That was rough. He could see something simpler, perhaps on a beach somewhere. After that, though, it was all smooth sailing. His head—and possibly his heart—had plenty of suggestions for the next fifty years or so, and not all of them involved a bed and making love with Mimi.

  “You want to marry me?” The words slipped out of his mouth before he could over-think them, but he had no regrets. The question was the right one. She wasn’t something casual, not when she just might be his everything.

  “You’re holding out for a ring?” The familiar mocking tone was firmly back in place. Mimi didn’t like feeling vulnerable and she answered questions with questions. Never answers.

  “Yes.” One of them needed to say yes to the possibility of the two of them. It might as well be him. Marrying Mimi was the best idea he’d had in a long time.

  “I’m not interested.” She shoved away from the wall, brushing past as she moved. The shoulder check that followed was deliberate, because she had plenty of room to go around him.

  “I’m stubborn,” he warned her. “I don’t give up when there’s something, someone, I want.”

  “Great.” He could practically hear her eyes roll.

  She stopped in the living room and pointed toward her front door. “It’s time for you to go, since you’ve decided against putting out.”

  “Harsh.” He didn’t take orders well and he intended to make that clear. Instead of taking her up on her invitation to hit the road, he stepped up close behind her. Just because he’d done some asking (and she’d shot him down), didn’t mean he wouldn’t be doing plenty of telling. He slid his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. Her hair smelled like that fruity stuff she kept in her shower and he suspected he’d get a hard-on anytime he smelled apples again. “I’m not leaving you alone here. You can grab some stuff and come back with me to my place, or I’ll borrow your couch for the night.”