by Moira Rogers
Copyright Information
Firecracker
Copyright © 2013 Moira Rogers
http://www.moirarogers.com
Smashwords Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Table of Contents
Copyright Information
Firecracker
The Last Call Series
About the Author
Firecracker
Too hot to handle. Looking for a fireproof lover.
Phoebe stood on the curb and watched another human walk past Last Call without giving it so much as a sideways glance, even when the door pushed open to release two drunk pixies, one of whom glowed independently of the neon sign above her glittery pink hair.
A neat bit of magic, hiding a popular club for supernaturals in the midst of the city. Whatever spells wrapped the building must have extended to the sidewalk in front of it, because passers-by seemed wholly uninterested in the giggling, glowing duo.
The bouncer wasn’t as inattentive. He caught the girl’s arm before she could step off the curb. “Do I need to call someone to sober you up?”
“Oh, whoops.” The pixie in the green dress leaned in to her friend and whispered loudly enough to be heard three blocks away. “You’re glowing.”
“Damn it!” The girl scrunched up her nose, and the pink aura surrounding her vanished.
The bouncer released her, and the two spilled into the street in a sea of giggles. As they melted into the night, the bouncer turned his attention to Phoebe. “You torn, sweetheart?”
Torn—the perfect word. The club wasn’t the sort of place she usually visited. Loud music and grinding dances were diversions of the young, and after one hundred and thirty-seven years on the earth, she hardly considered herself that.
But Last Call had another purpose. “Do you have one of the menus I could see? The specials?”
It must have been a common question, because he reached behind him to produce a glossy menu without comment. Taking it, she found nothing but plain black text on an off-white background, a long list of drinks under headings that marked the most common supernatural species.
Nothing common about her problem. She almost gave up before realizing the back held more drinks, each one assigned a meaning in elegant italics. Halfway down the page, her breath caught as longing and hope set her heart to pounding.
Firecracker. Too hot to handle, looking for a fireproof lover.
As if he’d seen the reaction a hundred times, the bouncer pushed open the door. “Welcome to Last Call.”
She’d ordered a firecracker.
Jarrett watched the delicate looking brunette as Bernie mixed her drink. She seemed nervous—and with good reason, if she’d somehow been walking around, inadvertently setting her lovers on fire.
“Damn, I’d hit that.” Beside him, Andy lifted his beer and watched the woman smooth her prim black skirt down her legs. “Too bad I’d die trying. You wouldn’t, though.”
Jarrett hesitated, then shook his head. “She’s dressed like she’s on her way to play the lead in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. That’s out of my league.”
“Not tonight, buddy.” Andy leaned forward and gestured with his beer bottle. “What are you going to do, leave her to the psychics? She wants a man who can handle a little fire, and you’re a fucking hellhound.”
She was pretty, the kind that didn’t come from hours of getting ready. The kind that would still be pretty in the morning.
Jarrett rose without thinking, drained his beer, and tossed a bill on the table. “Take care of it for me, would you?”
Andy laughed. “Go get her, you lucky bastard.”
The brunette was watching the floor as she sipped at her drink, and her gaze snapped to Jarrett as soon as he drew even with the two psychics who were arguing over which one got to have her. The taller one had just about decided he’d be okay, so long as he maintained his concentration while he was getting her off.
Jarrett shook his head. “How about you get the next one and leave the firecracker to me?” He didn’t wait for answer, just pushed past them and made his way to the bottom of the dais.
She didn’t take her eyes from him as she rose, her purse clutched in one hand and the plastic key to one of the upstairs suites in the other. Even her heels were modest, and they clicked smartly on the floor as she crossed to the top step. Her brow furrowed as her gaze slid over his tattooed arms and back to his face. “What are you?”
He could be charming when he needed to be. “A hound of hell. Want me to nip at your heels?”
As if hypnotized, she descended two steps. “Fire truly won’t burn you?”
“Well, considering the hell thing... If it did, I’d be fucked.”
Her cheeks turned pink, and she held out the key. “And here I thought that was rather the point.”
“Smartass.” At least she liked what she saw. “Want to finish your drink?”
“Not particularly.” She looked self-consciously at her outstretched hand. “Am I doing this incorrectly? I thought I was supposed to offer you the key.”
“You are.” He accepted it, but forced himself to move slowly. “I can see you’re not the kind of lady who comes to places like this a lot, though, so I’m going to take my time.”
“A considerate hellhound.” She looked momentarily baffled, but then a smile curled her lips as she stepped off the stairs. “I don’t need a drink, but I wouldn’t mind a dance.”
She wasn’t just pretty, not when she smiled. She was beautiful, and Jarrett wrapped his hand around hers. “What’s your name?”
“Phoebe.” Her hand was as cool as a human’s against his own. “And you are?”
“Jarrett Chance.” Instead of shaking her hand and releasing her, he pulled her close to his chest.
She gasped and closed her eyes, which spared her from the curious looks of the crowd. Most people who shelled out money for a room got straight to the fucking, but Phoebe was obviously starved for a little touch. He had plenty of time, and if he played his cards right, she’d be burning before they ever got on the elevator.
Maybe literally.
On second thought. “One dance, sweetheart. Then I want to see what’s under this proper little dress.”
“Proper underwear,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her purse bumped the back of his head, and she laughed. “Boring underwear. I didn’t wear anything I would have minded lighting on fire.”
“That’s a shame.” Jarrett touched the nape of her neck, and her skin heated under his hand.
“I know.” She traced the tattoo winding down his arm. “I’m out of my league.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. “Me too, Phoebe. Me too.”
“People are staring at us.” Her fingertip edged up under his sleeve. “Would it be breaking the rules if I kissed you?”
“No,” he murmured, his cock already straining against his jeans. “But we might light the place up, and Ben would kick our asses out.”
“You’re on a first-name basis with the owner?” The thought seemed to amuse her, but she eased away. For one moment, her brown eyes seemed to glow. “Have you ever met a phoenix?”
He’d thought she was maybe a pyromancer, someone with poor control. He’d never imagined she mig
ht be a creature of flame herself. “Never.”
Phoebe didn’t look away from him. “I burn every time I come,” she whispered, her cheeks flaming as if she was well on her way to catching fire already. “It’s an awkward distraction for most lovers. Even the flame resistant ones.”
Jesus Christ, the very thought made him want to sink with her to the dance floor, push up her dress, and get his face between her thighs. He’d make her burn right there. “I can handle it, sweetheart. Cross my heart.”
“The bartender said the room would be fireproof.” She twined her fingers with his and pulled him toward the back of the bar—and the elevator. “You should take me there before I get too warm.”
He swiped the key and kept his hand on her back until the doors slid open. “After you.”
Phoebe slipped past him and put her back to the wall, her gaze following his hands as he punched the button for the right floor. “I’m not going to die or anything. After I catch fire, I mean.”
He folded his arms over his chest and blinked at her. “Well shit, I hope not.”
She started, then buried her face in her hands with a helpless laugh. “I’m sorry. You have to have one annoying question people ask you. Hellhounds aren’t exactly common, either.”
The elevator stopped at their floor with an almost inaudible beep. “Come on, let’s get to the room. I want to show you something.”
“Okay.” She followed him to the door at the end of the hallway. The key fit into a card reader embossed with a stylized flame, and the room pulsed with protective spells.
Jarrett led her inside, tossed the key on a low table by the door, and held up his hand. “Put your palm to mine.”
After discarding her purse and slipping out of her shoes, she moved to obey. Her skin was good and warm now, and she caught her lip between her teeth and stared at their hands.
“Now light it up,” he whispered. “You can, right?”
She licked her lower lip and let her eyelids droop. Flames licked up her wrist, dancing over her hand and up her fingers to ghost over his skin. They tingled, shooting straight through his bloodstream to his throbbing cock, and he had to concentrate on absorbing them. “Open your eyes.”
“Oh...” Her eyes widened as she watched the fire melt into his skin, and her nervousness broke. She surged up onto her toes and caught his lips in a desperate, openmouthed kiss.
It felt better than he expected, sweeter somehow, and he plunged his fingers into her upswept hair. She moaned and gripped his shirt, tugged him toward the bed with clumsy eagerness.
Not yet. Jarrett broke the kiss with a groan and stilled her movements with both hands on her hips. “Let me undress you.”
Phoebe whimpered, but didn’t fight him. “Whatever you want. Just promise you’ll fuck me.”
He said fuck at least fifty times a day, and it never sounded as naughty as her voice wrapped around the single syllable. “I’ll fuck you hard, sweetheart. Swear to God.”
“Can hounds from Hell swear to God?”
“You bet your sweet ass.” He slipped his hands up under her skirt and teased his fingertips along the backs of her thighs.
She shuddered and reached for the pins he’d dislodged, dropping each one carelessly to the floor as she worked it free. “Tell me why you come here. Just to scratch the itches of lonely women?”
She probably wanted to hear something profound, something downright poetic. “I come here to get off, Phoebe. Everything else is an intriguing bonus.”
“But why here?” She tugged at his shirt, working it high enough to allow her hands to slip across his abdomen. “Do you need supernatural lovers?”
“Need is relative, isn’t it?” He dragged his shirt over his head. “Sometimes it’s nice not to have to hide who I am.”
Tiny wisps of flame curled across her fingers as she pressed a hand to the center of his chest. “Sometimes I wish I could hide. Those of us who cannot haven’t adapted to modern times very well.”
Jarrett drew her hand up to his mouth and licked her fingers. “You get a little fiery sometimes?”
“I have... I have very good—” Her breath caught, and the flames danced in her eyes now, too, before she squeezed them shut. “Do you think the sheets and blankets are fireproof? Because my clothes aren’t.”
“Yes, they are.” At her confused look, he nodded to the door. “You didn’t feel it when we walked in? The warding?”
“I felt a jolt. Heat.” She turned and lifted her hair, revealing the zipper on her dress. “But I feel that every time you touch me.”
Flattering—and arousing. “The wards extend to protect anything inanimate that comes into the room. Your clothes won’t burn and your jewelry won’t melt.” He pulled the tab of her zipper down slowly.
“Oh.” She was breathing faster now. “I suppose that’s why it costs so much.”
“Part of the reason.” The black fabric parted to reveal creamy, pale skin, and he brushed a kiss over the base of her neck.
Phoebe took a stumbling step back, pressing her body to his with a choked noise. “Faster?” It was a plea, not a question, and she squirmed around and pressed her lips to his throat. “Please. Please, Jarrett.”
She had to be burning, because his own skin felt like it was on fire. “Say it again. My name.”
“Jarrett.” She tugged at her dress, working it down as she pressed desperate, hungry kisses to his chest, each one punctuated by his name. “Jarrett, Jarrett...”
Instead of pulling off her dress, he slipped his hands under it as he captured her mouth with his. He found the edge of her panties and eased his fingers beneath the simple satin.
She bit his lower lip and went up on her toes, nudging his fingers lower. “Please,” she whispered again, her mouth still pressed to his. “Please, I’ll do anything if you just make me come. It’s been so long since it wasn’t me, by myself...”
He could touch her now, ease his fingers over her slick flesh and find her clit. Just a little teasing and she’d come, he just knew it. “Now? Right here, like this?”
Her whimper sounded torn. “Is that bad?”
If their time together was going end afterward, maybe, but they had all night if they wanted it. So he moved his hand, hitched her closer to his chest, and slid his fingers over her clit in a firm circle.
They were just getting started.
In the indecisive days leading up to this moment, Phoebe had fretted that decades of virtual celibacy would render her awkward and unsure. But this was a dance the body could never forget, and one she was relieved to discover had clearly not changed.
They might be new lovers but, in this moment, she thought they understood one another perfectly. She was meant to come, and her knees weakened as the wide tips of his fingers pressed in another slippery circle.
She was so wet. Wet and melting. Glowing, with flames licking beneath her skin and ready to burst free. Her control was usually impeccable, but tonight she thought she might catch fire before the first wave of release claimed her. “Are—are you ready?”
He chuckled and scraped his teeth over her jaw. “Show me that fire, Phoebe.”
As if she had a choice. She was half naked, tangled in her own clothes and pressed against a dangerous stranger. Even the club’s rigorous safety precautions couldn’t detract from the sheer illicit thrill of the moment, of having a handsome, tattooed hellhound stroke her clit.
She gave in with a moan, relinquishing conscious control over the power twisting inside her. Freed of its cage it spilled forth in a rush of heat bathed every inch of her in a trembling layer of fire.
He licked her throat. Her skin sizzled, and he groaned and did it again.
No screams. No singed flesh. He was still holding her, clutching her close—and the flames weren’t consuming him.
Release unraveled so quickly her knees buckled. She cried out and sagged against him, flames pulsing in time with her heartbeat, in time with the clench of her desperate orgasm.
“Delicious.” His touch gentled, but didn’t cease. Instead, his fingers slicked lower, deeper. Into her.
That felt even more wicked. She clutched his shoulders and gasped in a trembling breath. “I don’t think I can come again so soon.”
Jarrett smiled against her cheek. “No?”
“No, but—” It wasn’t stopping renewed pleasure from fuzzing the edges of her vision. “Do you know something I don’t?”
He didn’t answer. “How long has it been, Phoebe?”
If she told him the truth, he’d think her ridiculous. “A while,” she said vaguely. “Too long.”
“Amen, darling.” His fingers moved then, just a little, stroking inside her.
The slow, torturous stretch countered the gentleness of the caress. His hand was larger than her own, his fingers broader. She shuddered and buried her face in his throat. “You can tell, can’t you?” she whispered.
“You’re tight, but not tense.” He bit her earlobe.
Pain shot down her spine, the delicious kind that melted into pleasure somewhere between her neck and her belly. She moaned and rubbed against his hand. “I’m not a virgin, I promise.”
“I know.” He slowly pulled his hand away. “Neither am I.”
She moaned at the loss, unable to stop herself from grabbing his wrist. “You-you’re stopping?” She sounded shameless, like a desperate woman.
Of course, she’d come to a bar looking for sex from an anonymous man. She was a desperate woman.
“Just for a minute.” He eased the dress down over her hips and helped her step out of it. “I want to look at you too.”
“Oh.” Her underthings were demure and uninteresting. Simple white with barely a hint of lace, even on her garters. She felt like a plain bride on her wedding night, and the thought brought color to her cheeks. “If I’d known my clothing would be safe from the fire, I would have dressed up.”
Jarrett slipped his fingers under one of her garters. “Honey, I’ve had cars that cost less than this lingerie.”
