by Moira Rogers
Melting.
Instinct whispered for her to run, but something even more intrinsic and ancient laughed at the very notion. She wasn’t a frail, fragile mortal who needed to fear a minion of hell. Hell was fire—and so was she.
Tilting her head back, she thrust two fingers deep and cried out as her body lurched toward release.
She didn’t hear the cuffs snap, only the chains rebounding on the tile as Jarrett hauled her hand free of her body and pressed her against the shower wall. Phoebe had only half a heartbeat to miss her own touch before he filled her, hot and hard, thrusting deep.
She scrambled to wrap her legs around his hips, but everything was slippery. The tile heated at her back as the stall filled with steam, the air thick with the sizzle of water splashing on a fire that couldn’t be quenched.
“Hold on to me.” His chest rumbled against hers. “Hold on to something.”
There was nothing within reach. She groped above her head with a whimper, running her hands over smooth tile before giving up and grasping at him. Her fingernails sank into his skin but he only hitched her higher, angled his hips under hers and drove deeper.
Pleasure hollowed her out, and Jarrett filled her. Consumed her. Her inner muscles clenched tight around his cock, and Phoebe groaned, caught so close to orgasm that pleading words escaped without her permission. “Make me come, please make me come, please—”
He gripped her hips and backed away a half step but held her immobile. His next thrust was sharper, faster.
Everything.
She raked her nails down his back as his next thrust granted her plea, shaking her apart with the force of her pleasure. Jarrett sank his teeth into her shoulder with a shout as he followed her over that peak, grinding helplessly against her.
It was almost enough to trigger another round of spasms. She turned her face into his cheek and squirmed, too raw to feign detachment. “Don’t stop. Fuck me forever.”
His reply was lost to another growl as he shuddered and clutched her hips tighter. She twisted her head, closing her teeth on his ear when she couldn’t find his mouth. It didn’t take much—another grind, the heady grip of his fingers bruising her hips—and she came again, biting hard to keep from moaning his name...or something far more revealing.
“Phoebe.” A hoarse whisper. A plea. “Yes.”
Limp-limbed and boneless, she melted against him. “I’m so slippery.”
Bit by bit, the water running over them cooled as their skin did, and Jarrett leaned back and squinted at her. “You what?”
She laughed, and it was her turn to bury her face against his shoulder. Her own still throbbed with the imprint of his teeth, a mark that would undoubtedly bruise even her. “We make things steamy.”
“Uh-huh. How big is your shower at home?”
“Not nearly big enough. No chains, either.” She nuzzled his throat and asked the question that should have been forbidden, the one that took it beyond the safe fantasy allowed by a place like Last Call. “If I fixed that, would you visit me?”
His laugh blew hot on her wet skin. “Ask me if I’ll ever leave.”
Her heart lurched in her chest, hope and longing and terror born of both, of knowing how much it could hurt when they were thwarted. “You will,” she said lightly. “Especially if you don’t like what I come back as next time.”
Jarrett lifted her chin, met her gaze. “You’ll still be you, remember?”
“Men have said that before.”
He smiled, an expression not of sympathy, but understanding. “I’m not a man, Phoebe. And I’ve lived too long to be obsessed with whatever the current idea of beauty is.”
She shivered, even with the warmth of his body protecting her from the chilly water. “You really want to come home with me?”
He hesitated. “I’m not really going to move in on you, honey. But if you want, I’ll make sure you know how to find me.”
He was slipping through her fingers. Her fear, her hesitation, all the things that had kept her bottled up inside herself for so long, the things that had driven her to celibacy and loneliness... If she didn’t let go of them, they’d cost her the first person who’d touched any real part of her in decades.
“He died,” she blurted out before cowardice could win. “I killed him. My last real lover, the werewolf I was with in the twenties. I—there was a spell, a charm, and he pushed me too far. I burned through it, through him. You should be sure you want me to be able to find you before you make any offers.”
“I’m sorry.” Jarrett made a rough noise and pressed his forehead to hers. “Sorry it happened, and sorry you’ve been so scared. But that’s not me, Phoebe. Us. You can’t hurt me like that.”
Maybe she wasn’t the only one who needed that assurance. “We can’t hurt each other.”
“Not physically.” He brushed his thumb over her lower lip. “But I can be careless in more ways than that. Maybe you should be sure you want to get mixed up with me.”
“You’re worth the risk.” Giddy relief had her smiling against the pad of his thumb as a bright world of possibilities unfolded before her. “Come home with me. Tonight. I want to paint you, just like this. Rumpled and satisfied but still hungry.”
He squeezed her ass. “Don’t want to stay until morning?”
She wanted to put her hands on the wizard who’d cast the wards on the room and drag him back to her apartment. Then again, these wards were already in place... “Are there more chains?”
Jarrett turned off the water and swept her off her feet, up into his arms. “First thing to learn about Last Call, sweetheart. There are always more chains.”
The Last Call Series
http://moirarogers.com/series/last-call/
AVAILABLE NOW
KAMIKAZE
Werewolf in heat, looking for a temporary mate.
HURRICANE
Contents under magical pressure. Experience required.
TEQUILA SUNRISE
Werewolf looking for a dominant.
VIRGIN DAIQUIRI
Supernatural looking for a first lover.
FROSTBITE
Looking for a partner immune to supernatural seduction.
FIRECRACKER
Too hot to handle. Looking for a fireproof lover.
About the Author
How do you make a Moira Rogers? Take a former forensic science and nursing student obsessed with paranormal romance and add a computer programmer with a passion for gritty urban fantasy. Toss in a dash of whimsy and a lot of caffeine, and enjoy with a side of chocolate by the light of the full moon.
By day, Bree and Donna are mild-mannered ladies who reside in the Deep South. At night, when their husbands and children are asleep, they combine forces to unleash the product of their fevered imaginations upon the page. To learn more about this romance writing, crime fighting duo, visit their webpage at http://www.moirarogers.com. (Disclaimer: crime fighting abilities may appear only in the aforementioned fevered imaginations.)
Table of Contents
Copyright Information
Firecracker
The Last Call Series
About the Author
