by Anne Marsh
She wriggled furiously. “Put me down.”
“Absolutely.” He flicked off the light and strode towards the bedroom. There was nothing dignified about this. His arm curved around her, his fingers pressing into her butt. So good. Shit.
“Don’t you dare drop me,” she ordered when she couldn’t get free.
“Uh-huh.” She smacked his shoulder with her palm and he shifted her smoothly into a fireman’s hold. The shriek flew out of her before she could stop it. Her stomach lurched up, following her head, and then she was hanging over his shoulder with a primo view of his butt. Even in the dark, this close there was plenty to see. She slapped it hard.
“This is not dignified.”
“Stop complaining,” he said and kicked the door shut behind them.
The bedroom was familiar territory. She couldn’t see much in the darkness, but he reached down, pulled back the covers, and dropped her onto a bed that smelled like Tide and dryer sheets and Mack. An outdoorsy, smoky, pine tree kind of scent that got her panties wet. He reached for her ankles and started unlacing her boots.
“You going to answer me?” She’d never imagined a man laughing when he proposed. Leave it to Mack to be different. He tugged off her boot and set it on the floor.
“No,” she said, wiggling her toes. God, his bed was a beautiful thing. His mattress was way better than Auntie Belle’s, like that Heavenly Bed she’d had once in Vegas that had been a puffy cloud of comfort. Or maybe she was just really, really tired. He pressed his thumb down the sore arch of her foot and she moaned with pleasure.
“No, you’re not answering me? Or no, you’re not marrying me?” He turned his attention to her other foot, sliding that boot off too. Sweet, blessed freedom. “Socks on or off?”
“Off.” Laughter bubbled up inside her. He confused her, sure, but she liked being with him.
“You’re a hard woman to pin down.”
On purpose, she wanted to tell him. She still felt that sweet-scary tug of something when she looked at him. Lying back, letting him take charge… this wasn’t her, and yet he made her want to be different. Her eyes were getting used to the dark, and now she could make out his face more clearly than before. He stood there by the edge of the bed, stripping off his T-shirt and unbuttoning his jeans. Watching him was absolutely no hardship, so she rolled onto her side and stared.
“I’m staying?” It wouldn’t be the first time she’d literally had to walk away from a date.
“Please,” he asked gruffly. He folded up his clothes, then padded over to the dresser in his boxers. Pulling out a T-shirt, he tossed it at her. “You want to sleep in this?”
She thought about that for a moment. There was no point in being uncomfortable, though, so she stripped off. He’d already seen her goods and she’d pretty much decided she was going to break her cardinal rule and have him a second time. She flushed, remembering just how good he’d been. She’d heard that wedding nights were supposed to be memorable, but she’d thought that applied only to the bride. Thank God that hadn’t been true.
“I’ll pay you back,” she said, her voice muffled by the T-shirt she pulled over her head.
The mattress dipped as he got into bed beside her. “It was a gift.”
“It’s not Christmas.”
“Or your birthday.” He didn’t sound concerned. She hesitated, then curled up against him. Why not? If she was going for a two-peat with him, she might as well go all in. “Some gifts are just because, boo. They don’t have to have a reason. And,” he rubbed a finger gently over her lower lip, “they don’t come with strings attached either. Since I could help you out, I did.”
He had a gorgeous neck that begged for kisses, so she reached up and pulled him down a little closer. He didn’t seem to mind, because he let her do it. Let her press her mouth slowly against his skin. His pulse leaped, so she did it some more, covering his throat with kisses. Unfortunately, right as she was starting to really enjoy herself, the yawn escaped her.
“You need sleep.” He dropped down onto the mattress, pulling her up against him so her head was tucked under his chin, his leg over hers. Kissing time was apparently over. “And I meant what I said about waiting.”
Hold on a moment. He’d really meant that? They weren’t having sex tonight? She suddenly wasn’t so tired anymore.
“Are you making me wait?”
“I’m making myself wait. Because you’re worth waiting for,” he said roughly. “I’m bad news. I’ve been told so by just about everyone I’ve met, including yourself.”
“Boo—”
“I’m available. I don’t need or want a ring on my finger. You’re a guy.” She could feel his interest tucked up against her butt. This waiting business was crap.
***
Mack had served Uncle Sam in some damned hairy situations.
He hadn’t hesitated in a firefight, relying on his training and his instincts. He’d done well, and had brought the same skills to bear when he faced down a fire from the plane bay four thousand feet in the air. A man could only watch the drift streamer for so long before he had to jump in. Had to fight rather than stand on the sidelines and watch. Mimi burned hotter than any fire he’d ever seen and he wanted this woman.
So, fuck it.
He had absolutely no idea how she really felt about him, although he suspected that lust played no small part in whatever emotions she possessed. Desire was good. The sex had been some of the hottest of his life, and he was definitely looking forward to a repeat. Like every night of his life for the next fifty years or so. That worked for him. But they couldn’t spend every minute in bed, so they had to work out what happened when they weren’t burning up the sheets. He’d asked her to marry him and, no, he didn’t regret it.
“I’m playing for keeps,” he said roughly.
A jaw-splitting yawn spoiled her indignant huff. He tucked her closer, wrapping an arm around her waist. The sight of her swimming in his T-shirt tugged on something deep inside him, a part that loved the sight of her, all long bare legs and silky skin where his T-shirt didn’t cover her. Her hair tickled his nose and she squirmed as she got comfortable—or did her best to torture him by rubbing her butt against his erection. Probably that last option. Knowing Mimi, there was nothing accidental about her touch. She had sex like generals conducted military campaigns. The sex was spectacular, but she didn’t let go. Not really. And, the problem was, he wanted her wild and unorchestrated, trusting him completely. He wanted her to come apart for him—with him—the same way she undid him. He just had to figure it out.
“Your loss,” she informed him.
She gave one more sensuous, torturous wriggle before settling in. If he hadn’t loved holding her and hadn’t had to get up in approximately ninety minutes, he’d have gotten out of bed for a cold shower. The farmhouse’s antiquated water heater would have been a blessing.
Mimi drifted off to sleep quickly. Of course, she’d been tired, but he wouldn’t have minded her lying there thinking about him some. About having sex with him when she was good and ready to admit that there were two people in the bed, people who came with heads and hearts and feelings. Not just boy parts and girl parts, however much he enjoyed Mimi’s parts. He didn’t need a complicated, baggage-carrying, too-sexy wild child in his life. He’d been there, done that, and gotten both the T-shirt and the scars to prove it. He had the jump team and a new mission in life. When he was too old or too broken to jump any longer, he’d head back to the bayou and the place he’d bought there years ago. That was going to be enough for him.
You had your own wild child years, a blunt voice in his head said. You’re just afraid to do it again. You know you can’t make Mimi change.
He’d come from a firefighting family. His father, his brothers, his cousins—they’d all fought fire. They were blue collar, hard-working, beer-drinking men who preferred blue jeans and flannel shirts. When they made a promise, they kept it. They were also men who married young and stayed married, mo
re than a little redneck and honest as the day was long. He hadn’t appreciated them growing up. That was probably, he thought, how most kids felt about family.
Nope. For him, life had been a hedonistic do-as-he-pleased gig. He still had no problem with pleasure—bring it on—but not at the expense of others. He’d spent high school and the year after drag racing on back country roads and building late night beach bonfires. He’d had himself twelve-packs of beer, sex with girls, skinny dipping in the pond and four-wheel-driving. Those weren’t bad things in and of themselves, but he’d been careless. When he’d crashed his truck, he’d gotten a wake up call all right. A broken arm was better than a broken head, and he’d realized he was on a fast-track to a bad end. No more sweet temptation of giving in and doing the wrong things because they felt good. He wasn’t a Puritan, but nobody got hurt on his watch now. He’d learned to fix trucks that summer, but he’d also learned that some stuff you couldn’t put back together. Ever.
Fancy Jane, for example, had been broken into too many pieces.
She hadn’t wanted him to put her back together.
Mimi snuffled in her sleep and he ran a hand down her back. Sometimes, there were too many parallels between Fancy Jane and Mimi. Or maybe he had an overactive imagination. Damned if he knew which it was. All he knew was that he fully intended to kill Mimi with kindness.
And seduce the hell out of her.
Chapter Eleven
Mimi had woken up in more than her fair share of strange beds—really, she had no one to blame but herself—and she’d mastered the morning after scene. She woke up and she got the hell out of Dodge. She blamed Mack for her departure from her usual mode of operation.
This morning after had been… different. Not different bad, but definitely not like any other morning after. Of course, they hadn’t actually had sex, which might have had something to do with it. She looked at Mack and she heated up all over, and yet he refused to do anything about it. Instead, he held out on her.
Since Sheriff Hernandez had brought her in in the patrol car, Mimi didn’t have her bike or her truck. That meant she couldn’t slip away. Mack’s farmhouse was also far enough outside of Strong that walking was out of the question.
When she woke up, he’d already gone out. Right. The training run he had to do. That meant she’d been forced to wait for him to come back. Which he’d done, bearing a paper bag with two maple-glazed doughnuts. Then he’d driven her out to get her bike and dropped a quick, hard kiss on her mouth before she mounted up.
“Drive the speed limit,” he growled.
He tasted like maple icing, probably because he’d stolen the end of her doughnut. She opened her mouth and he pressed a finger against it.
“Please,” he said. “You’re going to give me gray hairs and drain my bank account.”
He was smiling, though, so she didn’t think he was truly mad at her. And he did have a point about the speed limit. She’d also paid more speeding tickets than she should have, so there was that.
“Yes, sir.” She mock saluted him and he shook his head.
“You’re not going to do it, are you?”
She shrugged. Five miles over didn’t count.
She pulled out, the gravel spitting beneath her tires, and damned if he didn’t ride her six all the way back to Strong. Better yet, as she sedately putted her way into Strong (because, really, anything less than forty was turtle speed), he sped up and passed her. The bastard.
He also looked suspiciously like a guy she could fall for and that she one hundred percent believed she didn’t deserve. By late afternoon, her confusion hadn’t cleared up any. He’d followed her inside the bar and immediately started triaging the repairs she needed before she could re-open. She knew he was busy. The jump team was training hard while they waited for the call to come in about the next fire. So she had no idea why he was currently on his hands and knees replacing the charred boards in her dance floor. Still, it was a good look for him and she had a perfect view of his perfect butt.
“You sure I can’t pay you?” She had no idea how, but she didn’t like the thought of owing him anything.
“You ask me that again and I’m going to say yes.” He looked up and there was the wicked curl of his lip. The sexy gesture did something to her.
“And?” She definitely heard an and there.
“And I’ll be taking your money and buying you the hottest strip-o-gram out there.”
Right. She’d been banished to the bar after her lack of hammer expertise had become clear. So now she was mixing up a new drink because maybe she could jazz up her menu and bump up her revenues. She tried it and made a face.
“You’re going to punish me by sending me a half-naked man?”
“Uh-huh.” He re-focused his attention on her floor, grabbing a hammer from the oh-so-sexy tool belt he’d strapped around his waist. Looking at him was no hardship.
“We may be defining the word differently.”
He sat back on his haunches and looked at her. He was gorgeous from that angle too, the move accentuating the muscles in his thighs and that tool belt—uh huh. She loved a man who knew how to work with his hands. The positively wicked grin spreading over his face, however, said he knew something she didn’t.
“Fighting fires is mostly a seasonal gig. You know the Big Bear Rogues?”
“Will Donegan’s team?” Abbie’s husband and a couple of other hotshots came by Ma’s on a regular basis. They were nice guys. Blue collar, hardworking, and rough around the edges, sure, but they would also give you the shirt off your back—or work their butts off to save your house. No questions asked.
“He’s one of them, yeah. He’s got Abbie, though.”
“I’m not following.”
“For the winter months. She gets a paycheck from the school district, so if he can’t find part-time work to fill in the empty months, he’s not eating canned beans from the food shelf. A couple of the other guys…”
“Deliver stripper-grams?”
“In the flesh.” He grinned at her as he shoved to his feet and came over to the bar. “I’ve heard Cal Holland is one hell of a dancer.”
She could believe it. She’d seen the guy tearing up Ma’s dance floor. The man knew how to move his hips.
“He’d dance for beers. Save your money. Plus, I never said I was offering to pay you with cash.”
He blinked and she held out the drink to him. The glass held a mix of tequila, triple sec, and cherry and cranberry juices. It was definitely—she squinted at the glass—very, very pink. Whatever.
“Whatever you’re offering, stop asking me to take it.” He reached over, grabbed the drink and took a tentative sip. “Woah.”
“What do you think? Too sweet?” Her teeth had started begging for a dentist after two sips.
He nodded, his fingers brushing hers as he handed back the glass. “I like a bit of a bite. What’s this one called?”
She looked into his brown eyes smiling at her. Was there a subtext there? Because the cranberry juice ought to have had him puckering up from the sour. She wasn’t good at frozen froufrou drinks.
“Sex in the Desert.”
“It has possibilities, although I think the sand would be uncomfortable.” He grinned and got back to work. He was almost done, this man who’d bailed her out in more ways than one. He’d stuck by her side which, she realized, was more than any other man in her life had done. She’d miss these afternoons together. The company was pretty damned good.
***
“Table for you.” Delia, Mimi’s part-time cocktail waitress, leaned over the bar. Her cheeks were flushed and strands of hair escaped from her ponytail in little curls. The poor girl had been running flat-out since they’d opened at eight, although Mimi hoped the tips were good enough to compensate. She’d finally gotten Ma’s re-opened after a week of cleaning and painting. The new dance floor—all forty square feet of it—was almost invisible beneath the press of booted feet. The entire jump team had come out to cele
brate her grand re-opening and they’d brought friends. Every firefighter in the county appeared to be crammed inside her place and Mimi only hoped they’d left the fire marshal at home. It would be too ironic to get shut down for a fire code violation because she had too many firefighters in the building.
“Take their order,” she snapped. “Do I look like I’m waiting tables?”
There was something to be said for being the only bar in town. Strong’s residents had clearly missed easy access to alcohol. From the moment she’d opened the front doors, Mimi had juggled pouring drinks, restocking and running endless loads of glasses. Someone had dropped a tray of bottles with a cheerful whoop of “Clean up on aisle five.” Right. Not so funny if you were the cleaning crew. Thank God she’d dressed for it. Her faded blue jeans and cowboy boots were comfortable enough, and a Ma’s T-shirt made it clear which team she played for tonight.
Delia shook her head, ponytail bouncing. “They want you to come take the order. I told them, twice, that you were serving the bar only.”
Since her immediate answer for the recalcitrant table involved her middle finger, Mimi took a moment to breathe in. Out. Nope. There was no magic antidote to irritation there either.
“Then they go dry.” Too bad for them.
Delia didn’t look happy, but she took off for a corner of the bar. Five minutes later three butts hit the barstools, the butts’ owners staring expectantly at Mimi. She probably should have seen this coming. Those girls were like the Three Stooges. Where one went, the other two did as well.
Laura leaned forward. Any further, Mimi thought, and she’d land on Mimi’s side of the bar. “We need the fun stuff.”
Right. Like Mimi knew what that was. She slapped a menu down on the bar. “Feel free to read up on what Ma’s has to offer tonight.”
