Ember: Part One

by Deborah Bladon

  "Bridget." Zoe taps her finger on my shoulder. "Do you want something to eat before you go to work?"

  I glance down at the tank top and jeans I'd put on after I'd showered. Zoe had texted me, telling me she wanted to see me before work so I'd left early, took the subway to her place and hoped that she'd be able to take my mind off of Dane.

  "I ate some leftovers before I left home," I half-lie. I'd searched my kitchen for anything edible and had come up with some Italian I'd ordered in three nights ago. Once I plated it, I realized it was about as appetizing as the container it had sat in so I'd thrown it in the trash. I'll grab something at the pub on my break.

  "Have you found a new roommate yet?"

  I know she's only asking out of a sense of guilt. Zoe had left me without a roommate when she moved in with her boyfriend, now husband, Beck. I'm making just enough at the pub to cover the rent mainly because the tips are stellar. It's a strain on my savings account though so I'm still searching for someone I can live with who will have the rent in on time. I've gone through three roommates since she left. None of them lasted more than a month or two.

  '"Not yet." I shrug my shoulder. "I'm thinking about moving out. I can probably find someone looking for a roommate who has a better apartment than I do."

  "When is your lease up?" She yanks on the top of the light blue blanket she put over Vane. The gentle sound of his breathing fills the quiet spaces in our conversation.

  "In two months. I don't think I'll renew."

  "You can move in with Beck and me. I'll put you on diaper duty." She winks to show she's teasing me.

  "I'll find a new place." My gaze sweeps the room and settles on the silver clock that hangs on the wall opposite the crib. "I'm going to take off. I need to check out my schedule for next week before my shift."

  "Can we do lunch on Friday? I miss hanging out."

  "Lunch on Friday," I parrot back as I take one last look at Vane. "Text me the details. I'll be there."

  Chapter 7

  "The bar closes in ten minutes. Does that mean you'll be done?"

  It's him. I've only heard his voice a few times but the raspy tone of it touches me in a way that I can't explain.

  I look to the right to where he's standing. His hands are shoved in the pockets of his jeans, his torso covered by a bulky black sweater and his dark eyes are peering at me beneath the brim of a baseball cap.

  "Dane," I say his name just to hear it from my lips. It contains all the uncontainable desire it did when he first pushed his lips into mine last night. "What are you doing here? How did you know I worked here?"

  His index finger lightly grazes over the front of my breast, stopping to point at the logo. "I saw this last night."

  I look down to where his finger is settled over my now hard nipple. I dart my tongue over my lips before I speak. "I didn't think I'd see you again."

  His hand moves down to my waist as he flashes me a brilliant smile. "Am I just a one night stand to you, Bridget?"

  I squeeze my eyes shut as I try and adjust to the fact that he's not only standing in front of me, he's asking for more. It may not be direct, but it's there woven within the tone of the question. I look up into his face. "I didn't say that. I assumed you needed someone to…"

  He leans forward so far that I'm certain that his lush lips are going to glide over mine but he stops just short of touching me. "You assumed I needed someone to fuck away the memory of my ex."

  It's not a question. It's a statement and if I'm being honest, it's the truth. I did think that. "Break ups can be hard."

  "The second I tasted your sweet pussy I forgot about her," he hisses the words into my ear. "I came back for more."

  I swallow hard. This is exactly what I've thought about all day. I wanted this and yet now, that it's happening I feel the earth shifting beneath my feet. This man has the capacity to unravel me and even though my mind is telling me to stop and think, my body can't resist the promise of his words and his touch.

  ***

  "Suck it, Bridget," he says the words through labored breaths. "Not too fast. I don't want to come yet."

  I'd said the same words to him when we first arrived back at my apartment and he undressed me in a heated rush. He'd pulled me onto the cold hardwood floor just inside the doorway, setting me atop his face as I rode him to an intense climax. I'd fallen forward, desperate in my need to recover from the orgasm as much as to retreat momentarily from his desire for me. It was raw and unyielding.

  Now, he's standing above me, his feet a hips' length apart as he fucks my mouth slowly, leaning his ass into the wall behind him.

  I moan around the thick root as I pump the base with my hand. He's thicker than any other man I've taken down my throat. I adjust my knees, hoping that my stance will give me more leverage.

  He doesn't stop his languid, slow strokes. His cock glides between my lips and over my tongue with each pulse. "I knew you'd suck me like this. I knew you'd take it all."

  I want to take it all. I push forward, wanting him to guide it in carefully but his primal need for release takes over and his hands drop to my head. He pushes the wide crest deeper down my throat. I gag momentarily which only excites him more. I feel him widen and swell in my mouth.

  "You want to swallow it don't you?"

  I look up into his face. I nod slowly knowing that I must look greedy and shameless but I don't care. I want him to mark me. I want his release to cover me. I want it in me and just as I feel his body tense, I pull the head to my lips, close my eyes and moan when he comes all over my tongue.

  Chapter 8

  "Show me your drawings." His hand cups my breast from behind.

  I must have drifted off briefly after he'd come in my mouth. We're twisted together on the couch in my living room. The white blanket from my bed is covering us. He had to have gotten up to get that. It's a gesture that speaks of quiet consideration. It's a brief glimpse into the handsome stranger I first met a few nights ago at the restaurant.

  "I don't show them to people," I begin before I realize how it sounds. "I've only shown them to a few people."

  His hand tugs me tighter into his chest and stomach. I can feel his semi erect cock resting against my thigh. It's too comfortable a position for two people who met only days ago yet it feels like I was made to fit within the crux of his arm and within the curve of his stomach like this.

  "How long have you been drawing for?"

  No one I've ever known has asked me that question. It began when I young enough to hold a crayon in my fingers and pull the colors across the easel that my parents bought for my fifth birthday. I'd position my dolls in a row on my bed and draw each in the way that I'd see them. My mother would take the colorful pages and tack them to the refrigerator with magnets. I'd study those drawings and critique the lines and shapes, eventually pulling them down to throw them in the trash.

  As I got older, I graduated to sketch pads and pencils I'd purchase at the art store in Greenwich with the money I'd make babysitting. I started to draw the people I knew and eventually that shifted to classmates and boys that seemed enchanting in high school.

  I wanted to go to college to study art but that was a foolish approach to life they told me. My parents had tucked every spare penny they had away into my college fund. I was accepted to a community college in Rhode Island which meant an escape from home but not from the future they planned for me. I got my degree in sociology because they saw the promise of a career in social work for me. They saw my compassion towards others as a means to a secure financial future for me even though my heart only speaks through my art.

  I moved to Manhattan right after graduation under the guise that I'd find a job here but when I went into Easton Pub to have a drink that first night, the manager handed me an apron, a schedule and a way to fund my love for drawing through a hefty pocket filled with tips each night. I've never looked back, or forward.

  My parents have stopped asking about a job with the city or the state. They'v
e stopped hoping that I'll use my education to change the world. The disappointment is there in every conversation we have and it suffocates me when I go home to visit. I was their one chance at making a difference, and I let them down.

  "When did you start drawing, Bridget?" he repeats the question quietly.

  "I was a child." I look at his arm as I answer. There's a small scar on his wrist. It's not large enough to notice in passing, but it's there marring his skin in a way that makes him even that much more mysterious. "Did you get this at work?"

  He leans forward, his arms circling me even tighter. "I did. It was years ago."

  "What happened?" I ask because I'm interested in his job but more than that I'm grateful for the reprieve from talking about myself. "Were you hurt?"

  "Not badly." His breath whispers over my shoulder. "My wrist was broken. I had surgery."

  "Not badly?" I look back at him. "I've never had a broken bone. I think that qualifies as being hurt."

  "It comes with the job," he says as he feathers his lips over the sensitive skin of my neck. "Turn over so I can look at you."

  I cling to his hand as I shift my body on the narrow couch so I'm facing him directly. He rests his cheek on his bicep. "Your eyes are really beautiful. They're such a pale blue."

  I've always loved the color of my eyes. They're light blue, soft and expressive. I stare at his face, soaking in the rich masculine lines. His nose is strong and lean. His eyebrows are dark and full. There's a pain behind his eyes that I can only assume is connected to his break up but asking will only bring it all to the surface. "Did you always want to be a fireman?"

  "No." He shakes his head slightly. "I wanted to be a fire truck when I was a kid."

  I laugh as his gaze holds mine. "You outgrew that dream, did you?"

  "I ride on a fire truck." His hand slides up my arm. "It's the second best thing."

  I nuzzle in closer to him, inhaling the heady scent of the skin on his neck. I want this moment to last. I want this comfortable feeling to take us from these moments post intimacy into the outside world. Logically I know I'm his rebound and once he's pasted his heart back together, he'll move on but for now, being in his arms is the only place I want to be.

  ***

  "If you say something to me… please say something…it would help," I stammer as I shift my bare feet over the cool floor.

  He moves his lips but the only thing that escapes them is a quiet puff of air. I watch as he pivots his body forward, his head bowing down towards the bed.

  "I know they're not gallery quality." My stomach knots with apprehension.

  When he followed me into the bedroom, I hadn't hesitated before I pulled the large cardboard box out from under my bed. He had bent over to pick it up to place it on the sheets. When I removed the lid, his eyes had widened just as his hand jumped up to cover his mouth. He's looked at four, maybe five, of the drawings now and the only response I've gotten has been silence.

  "You drew these, Bridget?"

  I cover my lips briefly with my hand. "Yes. I drew all of those. They were all at different times, but they're all by me."

  "How old are you?" His eyes flick over my face.

  I wrap the blanket from my bed tighter around my waist. He'd gently put it around me before we left the living room. He's still nude and that only adds to my failure to focus and absorb what he's saying to me.

  "How old am I?" I repeat back wanting to make certain that I didn't misinterpret his question. It would be understandable given the fact that I'm standing in a room with a beautiful naked man who is staring at my drawings.

  "Yes. I want to know how old you are."

  "I'm twenty-three."

  "How can you be twenty-three and draw like this?" He gestures towards the box. "How are you not famous?"

  "Famous?" I smile at the suggestion. "What do you mean?"

  He shifts so he's on his knees. "I go to galleries. I've been to every museum in the city. These belong there."

  I look down at my drawings. "No. They're good but they're not like that. I do them because I like to draw."

  He picks up one and holds it towards the dim light that the lamp on my bedside table is throwing off. He studies it, twisting it slightly in his hand. "I can feel who this woman is by looking at this. I can sense the heartache that she feels. I see it. It's right there, Bridget."

  My eyes fall from the drawing to his face. "I saw her outside a floral shop on the Upper East Side. She was sitting on a bench there and I drew her."

  "She's in pain. Look at her hands. See how they're fisted together."

  I take a step closer to the bed to study the drawing. "I think she lost someone. I think she was there at the shop buying flowers for a service or a wake. I felt that when I looked at her."

  "You can't hide these in your room." He slides to the edge of the bed and onto his feet. "You need to show these to people."

  I let the blanket fall from my shoulders as I push the drawings back into the box. "No. It's not the right time yet. I'm not ready for that."

  "You're not ready." He scrubs the back of his neck with his hand. "Why aren't you ready?"

  I tug at the edge of the box gently. "I don't know."

  "You're hiding your talent away from everyone." His tone is warm. "The world outside of your apartment needs to see these."

  Chapter 9

  I've never been to a fire station before. Technically I'm not in one now. I'm across the street, sitting on the edge of a fountain, staring at the place where Dane works.

  It's been two days since he left my apartment after I showed him my drawings. He'd insisted on taking my number. I hadn't hesitated because a connection that transcends my bedroom in the middle of the night is what I've wanted. I know that what I share with him is fleeting and not based in anything beyond great sex, but for now, I'm willing to ride the wave to see where it's heading.

  He walks through the doors and lifts his hand towards me. My breath catches. I might have thought he was irresistible that first night in the restaurant when I saw his body covered in a suit, but today, watching him walk towards me wearing a dark polo shirt, navy pants and a fleece pullover resting over his forearm, I feel something else. I spot the New York Fire Department logo on his chest before I pull my gaze to his face.

  "You came." The words leave his lips the moment he reaches the spot where I'm sitting. "I didn't know if you'd come."

  My head tilts to the side, as I look at him in the bright light of day. It's not that he looks remarkably different. His hair is combed and his face shaven, but the essence of the man who has given me so much pleasure is right there, staring back at me. "You asked me to come."

  He had. He'd sent me a text message this morning asking if I'd meet him for an early dinner. I had wanted to type back a response immediately but instead I had laid in my bed basking in the knowledge that my one night stand has now pushed itself into a week.

  "There's a diner around the corner." He nods to the left. "We can grab something there before you have to go to work."

  I nod, not knowing exactly what to say. I've never fucked a man, and then had dinner with him. It's always been the other way around.

  "Come with me, Bridget." His hand falls to the small of my back and I let him guide me through the busy pedestrian traffic to what I hope is the first of many dates.

  ***

  "Her name is Maisy." He tosses that out into our corner of the universe before he takes a large bite of the turkey sandwich he ordered when we sat down. I hadn't asked about her. Hell, I was talking about the thunderstorm that had filled the skies with brilliant flashes of lightening last night. Her name came out of left field to smack me right across the side of my face.

  I don't need to ask who Maisy is. I've wondered about her name since he told me at the hospital that he'd broken up with his girlfriend. Maisy. I repeat it back in my mind. It's adorable. She's likely adorable.

  "That's the girl you dumped?" I ask for clarification. I don't know why I
need it him to spell it out to me unless by some weird twist of fate he names his food.

  He wipes a paper napkin across his lips. "That's her. Maisy. We dated for a couple of years."

  I'm grateful that I ordered soup. I can't imagine anything heavier in my stomach right now. I push the spoon into the bowl and twirl it within the ribbon noodles and vegetables. "Have you heard from her since that night?"

  I don't care if he has. I'm trying to be polite and short of asking him whether he's planning on getting back together with her, I don't know the right way to react. I've known him for only a few days. I've shared the most intense intimate experiences of my life with him and he's been nothing but honest and open with me. Why should it matter that he's talking about Maisy?

  He places the rest of the sandwich on the plate in front of him. "You're the opposite of her."

  That's not even remotely close to being an answer to my question but I'm actually relieved. I don't want to know if she's whimpering somewhere off in the distance because she wants to be back in his arms and bed. I can't imagine a scenario in which she's not torn apart by his rejection. There's a very real, and almost guaranteed, chance that this intense attraction between us will eventually hit a brick wall and we will part ways. I know that and I know even now that it will sting.

  "What's she like?" I half expect him to scowl at the question.

  "Smart, driven. I'd say she's focused," he begins before he takes a heavy swallow from the glass of beer he ordered with his dinner. "She works on Wall Street in finance."

  "Where did you meet?" My mouth thinks that's a good question apparently. It didn't give my mind time to tell it to shut the hell up.

  He tugs at the collar of his shirt. "We met at a bar. There's no story there. I saw her, bought her a drink and the rest is history."