Close To The Fire

by Suzanne Ferrell

  “Deacon,” she whispered again, her soft, gentle hands cupping his face.

  “I’m sorry, Libby,” he whispered, his own eyes hot with unshed tears.

  “You didn’t kill him, Deacon,” she said, leaning in to press her lips against his.

  The softest of kisses and the pain in his chest—the one he’d been living with for so long—threatened to swallow him up, the tears finally flowing down his face.

  She pulled back to stare at him, compassion in her beautiful blue eyes, her thumbs wiping at the wetness on his cheeks. “You did your job. Neither you nor Bill would’ve stayed out of that fire if you knew a child might be in danger.”

  Again she kissed him. This time slower, a little deeper. Repeating the motion. Kiss after kiss. Moving her mouth on his, pulling back slightly to hold his lower lip between hers, then coming in again. With each one his ache eased a little more, his breathing now ragged, not from the pain inside him, but from the need for this woman, his woman.

  Finally, he let the need to hold her take over and untangled his fingers to grasp her hips and draw her up to straddle his lap.

  “Libby,” he murmured, finding hope and strength in her kisses.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered, as she trailed her lips along the left side of his jaw, her fingers sliding down over the thick scars on his neck.

  Grasping her hand, he stilled her movements. She leaned back, the question in her blue eyes. He wanted to let her continue, to feel her touch him in the one place that reminded him daily of what had happened, but he couldn’t, not until he explained. “You were right.”

  Her eyes narrowed and she tilted her head as she stared down at him.

  God, how he had missed that little quirk of hers. It told him she was both confused and curious by his admission. Some women would gloat over being told they were right. Not Libby. No, she’d want an explanation.

  “I was right about what?”

  “You could’ve come to visit me in the burn unit.”

  “Then why didn’t you let me?” she asked softly. No accusations. No recriminations.

  “Guilt.” He held her hand in his, lightly rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “I’d pushed him to go back in. I’d lived. Bill hadn’t. Your brother died. I couldn’t take the pain of you hating me on top of the pain I was already going through, both mentally and physically.”

  “I wouldn’t…didn’t hate you, Deacon,” she leaned in and kissed him again. Quick. “I don’t hate you now.”

  He lifted the right corner of his mouth. “I know that now, but then. Seeing your pain and grief, knowing I’d caused it. I just couldn’t do it.” With a groan he leaned his head back and looked up at the ceiling. “I’m such a coward.”

  “Stop that.” Both hands on his shoulders, she raised up until she could stare straight down into his eyes, hot anger in them. “You are not a coward. No one—I mean no one—running into a burning building to find a child, has ever been classified as a coward.”

  “But Bill—”

  “Bill didn’t go into that building because you made him. You need to get over that. Bill went in because It. Was. His. Job. Same as it was yours.” She slid her hand up his neck, resting her splayed fingers over his scars. Her softened gaze never left his face. “You chose to suffer alone. You chose that for both of us. That was the pain I suffered with the most. I didn’t just lose Bill in that fire. It was as if you’d died, too.”

  “God, I’m so sorry, baby,” he said, a new pain hitting him. He tried to pull her in closer for another kiss, but she stopped him with her fingertips on his lips.

  “It’s like there are two ghosts—Bill and our grief—between us and we can’t let either one go.” She took a slow breath in, then exhaled just as slowly. “I miss him. I do. But I’ve missed you more. I want you back in my life, Deke. You. The man I loved then, the one I still love.”

  He opened his mouth, but she shook her head, stopping him once more.

  “I forgive you. I forgive you for Bill’s death.”

  She leaned in and kissed him.

  “I forgive you for getting yourself nearly killed.”

  Another kiss.

  “I forgive you for shutting me out.”

  A slower kiss as she slid her hips over his thighs, getting closer.

  “I forgive you for making us both grieve alone.”

  This kiss long, heated.

  “I forgive you for making me ache to be in your arms night after night.”

  And with that, need slammed into him. Need to let her forgiveness wash away the guilt. Need for her, the woman he’d never been able to forget. He wrapped his arms around her and crushed her to him. Sliding his tongue between her parted lips to taste her essence, he was rewarded by the soft, muffled moan from deep inside her.

  Suddenly, it became a chaotic frenzy of hands and fingers. Shirt, blouse, bra, shoes, socks, his belt, her shorts, his jeans. All went flying to scatter on the floor beneath them. He ran his hands up her arms, the smooth softness of her skin teasing his palms. Then he slid them down the front of her to cup her breasts. They were slightly larger than he remembered, but still delightfully pert, with their pointed nipples. They’d darkened, too, over the years.

  “You’re still so beautiful,” he murmured against her lips as he pinched and plucked at both nipples, feeling them grow even tauter. “I’ve missed you. Holding you. Touching you. Loving you.” He accented each statement with a short kiss, pulling her lower lip between his teeth with the last one.

  She rocked her hips so her panty-covered heat stroked across his aching erection, straining against his boxers to be released. Another moan escaped her, and she clenched her hands on his shoulders. “Deacon, please.”

  “Please what, baby? This? Is this what you want?” he asked. Sliding one hand down her stomach to slip inside her panties and gently grasp her mound in his palm. He crushed her lips with his again as he pressed upward and she began to ride his hand. Even though it had been ten years, he knew her body’s needs and desires so well. He slid one finger between her slick folds, finding the spot just above her clitoris that always brought her to orgasm. Like a guitarist with a fine-tuned instrument he slowly let her tension build.

  Releasing her lips, he ran his mouth down the long elegant column of her neck to the juncture of her shoulders. The spot where he’d watched her pulse earlier in the day. He ran his tongue over it.

  Soft mewing sounds filled the room as her rhythm increased.

  “That’s it, baby,” he murmured against her neck. “Give it to me.”

  Suddenly, her fingers dug down into his shoulders as she arched forward, her body taut like violin strings. Then, slowly, she shattered in his arms, the sound of her orgasm ringing in his ears. She dropped her head on his shoulder, her blonde hair covering them both. Her breasts moving against his chest as she sucked in air.

  He held her tight as the last shudders of her release ran through her. His own aching need throbbed just below her, his erection wanting to find its home inside her. Reality hit him. He hadn’t brought any protection with him, and the last thing he’d do is get his own pleasure while putting her at risk. Counting to ten, then to twenty, he willed his body to relax.

  “You okay?” he asked, soothing her hair from her face.

  She rose up to press her forehead against his. Passionate blue eyes stared down at him, her cheeks flushed from her release. A slow, satisfied smile spread over her face. “Oh, I am better than okay.”

  He returned her smile. “I’ve missed that.”

  “Me, coming apart so hard?” A wonderful pink blush covered her body.

  “Well, yeah, I missed that,” he said, watching her wiggle her brows.

  “Me, sounding like a cat in heat?”

  “Oh, yeah, I missed that, too. A lot,” he said with half a grin.

  She playfully slapped his arm, then buried her head against his shoulder. Her body shook, but he could still her laughter. Cupping her head in his hand
s, he slowly raised it once more until their gazes met. The humor faded as the bond between them grew.

  He wanted her to know he hadn’t reconnected with her just because he was as horny as a kid on his first date. Given the fact that he’d been celibate since the last time he’d made love to this woman, it wasn’t too far off the mark. That wasn’t the reason he was here, what he wanted from her.

  “Your laughter.”

  “My laughter?”

  “Your laughter, your smiles. I’ve missed them.” She opened her mouth, but he stopped her with a soft kiss before continuing. “I’ve missed talking with you—about anything and everything. I miss holding you, especially at night and waking up to hear your gentle snores.”

  “I do not snore,” she said, slapping his arm again.

  He caught her hand in his. “I even miss you smacking me on the arm when you think I’m wrong. And yes, you do snore. Okay, maybe it’s more like a gentle purr. But I can’t tell you how many times I’ve woken in the middle of the night wishing I would hear it and I could pull you in to spoon a while.”

  She lowered her head a little and peeked up at him through her slightly lowered lashes. “I’ve missed that, too.”

  “You have?”

  She nodded. “I miss watching sports with you. It’s no fun yelling for our teams or against the refs when you’re not here to back me up.”

  He laughed. “You have an unhealthy bias against refs who don’t call in favor or our guys.”

  “Whatever,” she said, her usual reply when she was out of arguments. She leaned in and kissed him slowly, then pulled back. “I’ve missed the way you always checked the doors and put on the alarm before crawling into bed with me. The way you’d call me while on shift to be sure I’d done the same, then talk to me until I was ready to fall asleep.” The corner of her lips lifted again and she slid her hips back so she could stroke the thickness of his still-happy-to-be-here hard-on. “I’ve missed other things, too.”

  “You have?” he asked, enjoying the slow torture of her movements.

  “Oh yes. The feel of your muscles,” she said, running her hands over his lower arms, then slowly upward, stopping to briefly massage his biceps. “The feel of your skin against mine.” Her fingers stilled over the scars that extended from his jaw, down his neck, and across his left shoulder and chest.

  He reached up to grasp her hand. “Don’t.”

  “Does it still hurt?” she asked, all her teasing gone.

  He shook his head. “Not like it did. The scars get tight sometimes.”

  “Then why don’t you want me to touch them?” She stared at him with those clear blue eyes and he knew she wasn’t going to let this go.

  Holding her hand pressed against his chest, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the sofa again. “They remind me of Bill’s death.”

  “It’s time to let him go, Deacon.”

  Beneath his hand he felt her fingers move slightly and he relaxed his hold on her hand. Libby could be one very stubborn woman. Especially when she thought what she was doing was the right thing to do. And maybe she was right. It was time to let Bill go, to let the pain of losing him go and the memories of that damn fire.

  Gently, she traced her fingers over the edges of the scars. From his outer shoulder, slowly over his collarbone, then up his neck. There, she let her fingers get a little firmer, massaging the corded muscles beneath them. A moan escaped him at how good that felt. The she moved, and her lips traced across his jawline, moving downward towards his chest. When her tongue traced over the thick lacework of the scar tissue he sucked in his breath.

  “Did that hurt?” she asked, her breath teasing his skin.

  He shook his head. “It felt good.”

  “Oh good. Because I’ve always loved the way you taste,” she said, sliding her tongue back over his chest at the same time she feathered her fingers over the upper part of his torso.

  And the erection that had been waning seemed to surge back to life beneath her. If she kept this up, he wasn’t going to keep from sinking deep inside her, protection be damned.

  “Libby,” he said hoarsely, leaning up to capture her face once more.

  “Yes?” She picked that moment to dart her tongue out and lick her lips as if she was savoring the taste of his skin.

  Willpower was so highly overrated.

  “Libby,” his voice croaked this time as he fought to do the honorable thing. “Sweetheart, I haven’t got a condom with me.”

  “Hmmm, I don’t have any here,” she said, looking at him with almost innocent eyes, then her smile turned the look on her face into something much more sensual, seductive. “But you know I’ve always loved the taste of you.”

  “Oh, God, baby,” he whispered.

  Giving in to the devil on his shoulder telling him to enjoy what she was offering, he released his hold on her and watched her move farther down. A soft chuckle of triumph escaped her as she licked all the scars, until she came to the smooth skin of his muscles. Her hands trailing behind her mouth, still teasing his chest, scars and nipples.

  “Oh, baby,” he moaned.

  “Like that?” she whispered.

  “You know I always have.”

  She wiggled back until she was kneeling between his spread thighs. Just as she reached for the opening of his boxers, the room shattered into the ringtone of her phone lying on the table beside the couch.

  They froze, eyes locked on each other.

  “Sorry, I have to see who it is,” she said, reaching for it. Then she was standing and reaching for her bra, giving him an apologetic shake of her head. “Hey Emma, what’s up?”

  I’m sorry, she mouthed to him. He stood, grabbed his jeans and stepped into them, almost glad for the interruption. Well, most of him was. He wanted so badly to be with her again. To make love to her. And the phone call forced him to see how important that was going to be to the two of them. Way more important than a blow job on her couch. Of course, he knew it would’ve been one hell of an experience with Libby, but not really what he wanted for their first time back together.

  “He’s what? Is he okay?” The tone in her voice changed and her gaze shot to his.

  Something was wrong.

  Deke paused—jeans around his hips, the fly open—completely focused on her face. His internal warning bells going off.

  Kyle.

  “No, no. Don’t bother Todd. I’d rather you called me, too. I’ll be right over.” She hung up and wiggled into her shorts. “I’m sorry, Deke. I have to go to the clinic.”

  “What’s up?” he asked as he jerked on his sports shirt and was finally able to zip up his jeans.

  “It’s Kyle. He’s been beaten up.” She put on her blouse and quickly pulled her hair into a ponytail. “He doesn’t have a guardian, and as part of the board of Colbert House, it’s my duty to see to the residents’ welfare along with Todd. Emma called me first, thank God.”

  “I’m coming with you.” He’d gotten his shoes on and stood holding the door open.

  “You don’t have to.” She grabbed her purse and phone.

  He stopped her at the door, one hand on her shoulder. “Yes, I do. The kid doesn’t have too many adults on his side. I figure his coach ought to be one of them. Besides, I want to hear what he has to say happened. And for another thing. I’d feel better going over there with you.”

  Neither one of them said it, but once again, the peaceful little town of Westen seemed to be a dangerous place to live.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Thank God, Emma’s call had stopped them. Thank God, Emma’s call had stopped them.

  The words kept running through Libby’s mind like an old record with a scratch in the vinyl. Heat filled her face in the darkness of the truck cab as they drove the short distance to the medical clinic.

  How could she have been so stupid? Quick sex wasn’t going to mend this thing with Deke. Unprotected sex. What an idiot! Hadn’t she learned her lesson years ago? Every action had a con
sequence and some were more devastating than others. She laid her right hand over her lower abdomen and glanced at Deke.

  The truth. That could be the only thing between her and Deacon from now on. Secrets and feelings long hidden were going to come out. What if they couldn’t get past them?

  She thought back to that final day when she’d gone to the hospital asking to be admitted to the burn unit. From the moment he’d been admitted, she’d spent whole days in the waiting room—first to see that he’d live, then hoping to see him, to talk with him. She’d watched other families go in to visit their loved ones, but every day she was turned away.

  Then came the day the young doctor sat down beside her in the empty waiting room.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Wilson. Mr. Reynolds isn’t accepting any visitors.”

  “Does he know it’s me?” She couldn’t believe he would turn her away.

  The doctor laid his hand on her shoulder. “I’m afraid he does. He’s refusing all visitors at this time, including you and his mother, and it’s his right to do so.”

  “Is he burned so badly?” Dear God, was that why he wouldn’t let her in? Did he think she wouldn’t love him if his face was scarred?

  “I’m limited by law not to discuss details of his case, however, I think I can assure you that while his injuries are extensive, his general appearance hasn’t changed considerably.” A softness came over the man’s features. “Often, our male patients don’t want their loved ones to see them in any kind of pain, especially the kind that can come with the healing process involved with third-degree burns. With time, and as the healing process progresses, he may be more willing for your company.”

  From the moment he’d uttered the words so sympathetically, she knew they were a lie.

  Deacon would never let her back into his life. She knew him that well.

  They said deaths came in threes. First she’d lost Bill. Then Deke was as good as dead to her from that moment on.

  That night she’d been sound asleep in the bed she shared with him when the bleeding started. Almost three months into a surprise pregnancy, she’d miscarried their child.

  “How bad was it?” Deke’s gravelly voice broke the silence, his words making her catch her breath.