Hot Attraction

by Lisa Childs

  Her skin tingled and heat coursed through her, along with desire. He kept walking—across her living room—to her bedroom door. He’d carried her there the night before, but unlike last night he kicked the bedroom door closed with them both on the inside.

  Finally, his hands moved back to her waist and he pulled her from his shoulder. Her body slid over his, down the tense, rigid length of him.

  Her breath shuddered out on a gasp as desire overwhelmed her.

  His chest rose and fell, pushing against the thin material of his black T-shirt, as if he was breathing hard, too. But she’d watched him effortlessly lift a barbell that weighed far more than she did. He hadn’t physically exerted himself.

  She stared up at him. For once she was incapable of asking all the questions burning inside her.

  But he answered her anyway. “We both need protection,” he said. “Because I’m staying the night and I’m not sleeping on the couch again.”

  She had to clear her throat before she could reply. “I told you it’s the most uncomfortable couch I ever owned.”

  “It’s uncomfortable,” he agreed. “Just like I’ve been all day…”

  “You hated having me ask questions about you.”

  “You made me uncomfortable,” he said. “But you did that yesterday.” He reached for her hand and pressed it to the fly of jeans. “You made me uncomfortable because you did this to me. You made me want you…”

  “You want me?” But he had rejected her.

  “I’ve been miserable since last night.”

  She had been, too—even more so after seeing him shirtless and sweaty in the firehouse gym. He’d looked so sexy. She stroked her fingers over the hard ridge of his cock beneath the denim. “I don’t want you to be miserable.”

  Her hand trembling slightly, she fumbled with the button on his jeans—freeing it before she slid down the zipper and released him. His cock pushed out the thin material of his boxers, tenting them toward her.

  She reached for it, but he caught her hand in his. And a groan slipped through his lips. “It’s going to be over too quickly if you touch me,” he warned.

  “I want to touch you,” she said. “I want to taste you…”

  He groaned again. “I do need protection,” he said. “Not just for you but from you. You’re dangerous…”

  She giggled at the thought of his feeling threatened by her. “Me?”

  “I know you’re ambitious.”

  “Why is that a bad thing?” she asked. “I want to be successful.” She wanted airtime, and respect for being a good reporter, not just a pretty one.

  “It’s not a bad thing,” he said. “As long as you don’t use other people to achieve your goals.”

  “You think I’m using you?” she asked. And now she tensed. “You don’t think very much of me if you believe that.”

  “I think you’re beautiful and smart and determined.”

  “I am determined,” she agreed. “And I want to find out the whole story about the fire.”

  He tensed now, and his amber eyes burned as he stared down at her. “So you do just want the story.”

  Her pride be damned, she admitted, “I want you.”

  His hand still on her wrist, he pulled her forward—into his arms. He lowered his head, kissing her passionately—his tongue sliding in and out of her mouth.

  She lifted her arms to slide them around his shoulders. But he pulled back.

  Had he changed his mind?

  She held her breath, waiting to see what he would do. His hands moved to her waist. He tugged up the knit material of her loose sweater and pulled it over her head. Her hair tangled around her face. But before she could push it back, his fingers were there—sliding through the strands.

  “Your hair is so silky,” he murmured. Then his fingers trailed down her throat, over her collarbone to the curve of one of her breasts.

  She wasn’t wearing a bra, hadn’t felt as though she needed one beneath the loose sweater. But then she hadn’t been expecting anyone to show up at her house—least of all Dawson. He had looked beyond irritated at the firehouse earlier.

  But maybe that had been because he’d been as tense and achy as she’d been all day—achy with wanting.

  “Your skin is so soft,” he said, his voice going hoarse with desire. He skimmed his fingers around each mound, caressing every inch. Her breasts swelled and her nipples tightened.

  A moan slipped through her lips. She needed him to touch her. As if he’d read her mind, his hands moved to her nipples. He brushed his thumbs across them, making them even tighter. And desire coursed through her—from the tips of her breasts to her core.

  Heat and moisture pooled between her legs. That ache inside her intensified. She needed him there.

  He lowered his head. And his lips moved across her breasts before closing over a nipple. He tugged on it gently before nipping it lightly with his teeth.

  She cried out—not because he’d hurt her. But because he’d made her come—just a little. Not enough to ease the tension she’d built inside her.

  He tensed and asked, “Are you okay?”

  She shook her head.

  “Was it too hard?”

  “Not hard enough,” she said. “I want you.” Want wasn’t adequate to describe how she really felt, though. It was more than want. It bordered on desperation.

  He lowered his head again and scraped his teeth over the point of her nipple. The sensation was both torture and ecstasy. She tunneled her fingers in his soft hair and clasped his head against her breast. He continued the torment—moving his mouth from one breast to the other.

  And drove her out of her mind…

  “Please,” she implored him as she pulled at his shirt.

  He stepped back and dragged it off. The muscles in his arms and chest bulged and rippled. Then he kicked off his boots and dropped his jeans to the floor.

  She reached out for his boxers. She wanted them off, too, wanted to see every sexy inch of him. He was male perfection.

  But he stepped back, eluding her touch. “Not yet,” he murmured, his voice so gruff she could barely understand him. “You first.”

  She reached for the waist of her yoga pants. But he lifted her and laid her on the bed. Then he peeled the pants down her hips and legs and dropped them to the floor.

  His breath escaped in a rush. “You’re not wearing panties.”

  The yoga pants had them built in, but she didn’t explain that to him. She didn’t have time before he was touching her. He ran his hands down her legs, his palms gliding along the outside of her thighs and calves.

  “They go on for miles,” he murmured. Then he wrapped his fingers around her ankles and tugged her down, so her butt was at the end of the mattress. His hands slid back up her legs—to her knees—which he pushed apart.

  Was he going to make love to her like that? Him standing up and her lying down? She didn’t care how he wanted to do it—just that he did.

  But he didn’t shuck off his boxers. Instead, he dropped to his knees. She felt the soft brush of his hair against the inside of her thigh, then the heat of his breath.

  Anticipation coiled with the tension inside her. She didn’t have to wait long for the brush of his lips. His tongue flicked out, teasing her clit, which already pulsed with desire.

  Then he used his hands, too. One reached up for her breast, cupping it, before he slid his thumb across the nipple. The fingers of his other hand stroked over her before sliding inside.

  She arched up, pushing against his mouth and his hand as little spasms began to move through her body from her nipples down to her core. He sucked at her clit now as he drove his fingers deeper inside her. She shuddered as the spasms intensified to an orgasm so overwhelming she screamed his name.

  *

  HIS NAME ECHOED inside the bedroom. He’d known she was passionate just from her little moans the first time he’d kissed her. He’d had no idea the intensity of that passion until he tasted it. She was swee
t—like honey.

  He wanted to feel it, too. Hands shaking slightly, he pushed down his boxers. Then he reached for his jeans and pulled out a condom. Before he could tear it open, she took it from his hand.

  Had she changed her mind?

  He tensed, waiting for her to send him away. But she said nothing. She just slid off her bed and dropped to her knees in front of him. Staring up at him with those gorgeous turquoise eyes, she watched his face as she closed her lips over the tip of his cock.

  He groaned at the sensation—at her tongue moving around the end of him. She lapped at the drop of desire that slipped from him. Her mouth was small and tight. She couldn’t take much more than his tip inside it. But she parted her lips and sucked him deeper.

  She was driving him crazy with her mouth. And her fingers moved at the same time, stroking over his sensitive skin.

  His groan turned into a growl. A warning. He was going to come. But he didn’t want to come like this. He pulled away from her. “I have to be inside you.”

  He had to feel her—had to drive as deep as he could. Her fingers trembled as she fumbled with the condom packet, so she ripped it open with her teeth. Then she rolled it down the length of him.

  “You’re so big,” she murmured. “I should have known you would be…”

  He lifted her from the floor—lifted her into his arms. She clasped his shoulders then slid her hands over his biceps. “You’re so big everywhere…”

  He was big. And, swollen with desire, he might be too big for her. He laid her down on the bed, and she parted her legs and arched—ready for him to thrust inside.

  He nudged the tip of his cock into her slick opening. She was so hot—so wet. Knowing she was ready, he slid deep. Her inner muscles gripped him, tugging him deeper yet.

  She lifted her legs and wrapped them around his hips. As he thrust down, she moved up—matching his rhythm. Her breasts pushed against his chest, the nipples still tight. Her hands moved over his back, her nails scraping the skin. And her mouth touched him, too, sliding over his shoulder.

  He moved his head, so that he could kiss her. And as he drove inside of her, he moved his tongue between her lips. In and out.

  Her tongue tangled with his. She sucked at it—the same way she’d sucked his cock. He’d already been aching with desire before that. Now his body was so tense—his erection throbbing and pulsing—that he could barely hold back.

  But he wanted to give her another orgasm. He moved his hands to her legs. Unlocking them from behind his waist, he lifted them. They were so long that they stretched beyond his head, and were so damn silky against his chest. He leaned into her—driving deeper than he had been. He reached between them and pressed on her clit, rubbing his thumb over it.

  Her hands clutched his back and she moved against him—increasing the pace of his thrusts as she lifted her butt. She bucked beneath him, seeking her release. He felt it come over her—felt the contraction of her muscles, then the hot rush as the orgasm flowed through her. She screamed his name again.

  He drove harder—not for her now, but for him. As her muscles continued to contract, squeezing his cock, his tension finally broke. His body shuddered with the intensity of the orgasm as he came. A shout slipped through his lips.

  He collapsed on his side, pulling her to him as he recovered, tucking her head against his shoulder.

  After a few minutes, he rose to discard the condom and clean up. When he came back to the bed, she had pulled up a blanket and snuggled beneath it.

  Apparently she hadn’t gotten any more sleep than he had the night before, because she was out, her lips slightly parted as she breathed deep and easy. He wanted to slide beneath that blanket and wrap his arms around her.

  But she’d been right earlier. She didn’t need his protection. She had the dead bolts. Mace. He had no reason to stay. Except longing…

  He wanted to make love to her again. But he was already getting too involved. He’d thought having sex with her might cool the heat of the attraction between them. But it had only made it hotter.

  He couldn’t risk staying—couldn’t risk getting in any deeper with her. He was a simple guy. An honest guy. When he was with a woman, he had no secrets. If she questioned him then, he would be tempted to tell her everything. And the Hotshots would be furious if she ran a story about the arson. Worse yet, the arsonist might thrive on that attention and start more fires. He couldn’t risk it—couldn’t risk her getting to him any more than she already had.

  He grabbed his clothes and hurriedly dressed. But desire for her had him stopping at the bedroom door. He turned back. The blanket was thin, doing nothing to conceal the curves of her body. He wanted her again—wanted to peel back that blanket and cover her with himself instead.

  Would she be mad that he left? Or worse yet, hurt? Or would she be relieved?

  She couldn’t actually want a relationship with a guy like him—a guy based out of sleepy Northern Lakes, the town she couldn’t wait to leave as a kid. She’d only been back as much as she had because of the fire, because she knew there was more to the story.

  No. He’d be smart to run as far and fast as he could from Avery Kincaid. She was dangerous—because she was a reporter and because she was getting to him. Yet he couldn’t make himself move toward the door. He couldn’t leave her.

  But then a sound pealed out from his cell. It wasn’t a phone call; it was the siren that called him back to the station—to a fire.

  He jerked open the bedroom door and hurried out, hoping it hadn’t awakened her. He didn’t need to worry about her. She would be safe.

  If it was another arson, the arsonist wasn’t likely to go far from the fire he’d set. He would be as drawn to it as Dawson was drawn to Avery Kincaid.

  10

  AVERY FLINCHED AT the piercing sound of the siren. While she wasn’t really on vacation, she had promised herself no alarm clocks at the beach house. So she reached out sleepily, slapping the top of the bedside table to shut it off. But there was nothing on the table but the wrapper from the condom she’d rolled onto Dawson Hess’s long…

  She jerked fully awake.

  Dawson. Where was he?

  The bed was empty but for her and the tangled sheets. The siren was gone, too, replaced by the sound of a closing door and then a truck engine. He was leaving.

  Because of his alarm? But that hadn’t been an ordinary cell phone alarm. It had sounded more like a fire alarm.

  He’d left for a fire. Maybe she should have felt better—that he hadn’t slipped out after making love with her because that was all he’d wanted from her. Sex.

  Incredible sex. Mind-blowing sex. She’d never felt anything as intense as the pleasure he’d given her. He’d instinctively known just where to touch her to drive her crazy. And when he’d used his clever tongue on her…

  The orgasm had shattered her so completely that she hadn’t thought she could have another. But he’d felt so good inside her—driving so deep. And when he’d touched her clit, she’d been helpless to do anything but come again.

  The intensity of their passion had overwhelmed and exhausted her. She hadn’t meant to doze off. But then she hadn’t thought he’d slip away, either. He’d said that he was going to spend the night with her—in her bed.

  Of course, if that siren had been for a fire, he’d had to leave. He’d had to do his job—his real job. He was a firefighter. Not a bodyguard. Not a police officer.

  So what the hell had he been doing shining the flashlight around in the dark earlier? Why was he so concerned about whether or not someone had been inside her cottage?

  Who did he imagine it could be?

  She suspected he had someone in mind—someone other than a neighbor nosy about the renovations she’d had done to the place or a vacationer who’d forgotten which cottage they’d rented. Was that why he’d really come over? To shine that light around—or had he come to make love to her?

  Despite just having had the most incredible sex ev
er, frustration built inside her again. Now that she knew how amazing it was between them, the desire she felt for him intensified. She was greedy for more of the pleasure he’d given her. Nerves joined the frustration inside her, fluttering like the wings of a hundred butterflies. She couldn’t be getting attached to Dawson. Attracted was one thing…

  But attached… She’d never let any relationship get that serious before. She’d always been too focused on her career. On a story…

  And there was a story here in Northern Lakes, one she was pretty certain Dawson was trying to keep from her. But for the first time in her life she wanted more than the story.

  She wanted the man.

  *

  DAWSON BRACED HIMSELF at the end of the hose, his arms burning as he directed the blast of water toward the last of the flames. Cody stood beside him, his feet planted hard in the scorched ground as he helped Dawson with the hose. Wyatt was on the other side of Cody while Zimmer was in the truck.

  They’d only needed the four of them—the ones who worked out of Northern Lakes when they weren’t out with the entire Hotshot crew. This fire hadn’t called for more firefighters; it wasn’t like the beast that had torn through the national forest so many weeks ago. It was just a small fire within the previously scorched part of the forest.

  The flames dropped as the smoke grew—dark clouds rising into the dawn sky. They directed the hose, sending the blast of water over the ground again—making sure no hot spots fired back up.

  It was only later, as they wound up the hose, that they spoke.

  “You weren’t home again last night,” Cody remarked.

  “Who the hell are you?” Dawson asked. “My mother?” But his mom hadn’t talked to him for years, not since he’d joined the US Forest Service fire department—as his stepfather had so many years before. Her not talking to him hadn’t been all bad, though. She was never going to put the past behind her; she enjoyed dwelling on the tragedy and wallowing in the sorrow too much. He’d had to move on, had to let it go so that it wouldn’t consume him as it had her. But if the press—if Avery—dredged all that up again…