by Anne Marsh
“I’m writing you another letter,” he said gruffly, his fingertips tracing letters against her skin.
“Really?”
“Uh-huh,” he drawled. “You can’t read my handwriting now? You want me to read this one out loud to you?”
He gently scooped her up in his arms and carried her over to the pickup, unfolding an old plaid blanket, before laying her out in the back.
“It’s clean,” he promised and she laughed. His worry was endearing. She liked the soft scratch of the wool beneath her bare skin, liked knowing that tomorrow there would be faint red lines on her skin. Secret marks. A badge of honor or a badge of shame. It depended on the girl.
“Do I look worried?” she countered, propping herself up on her elbows and watching as he stripped off his clothes. This wasn’t something they’d done before, this having sex almost in public.
She liked it.
The not-so-secret naughtiness of it was hotter than hell.
Then he lay down beside her and things heated up even more. His big shoulders blocked her view of the sky, but Sam naked was the best sight she could imagine anyhow. Broad shoulders and six pack abs he’d earned shoveling dirt on the front lines in Sequoia.
The back of Sam’s truck was both familiar and unfamiliar. They’d made love here, but always at night, wrapped up in the dark. She’d been glad, then, for the concealing shadows, because what he’d made her feel had been so new. So unsettling. Now, she held him in the same truck, but the feelings were even more potent.
He held on to what worked for him. She’d always known that.
And she was a letting-go kind of person. She’d tucked her desires away all those years ago, told herself she didn’t have the time or the right partner for them. Yet she’d been waiting and she hadn’t even known it. She’d shoved those desires right to the back of her head, locked them up in a little drawer marked private and then gone on about her life.
No more.
“You going to undress for me?”
Yes. Yes, she was. She wriggled out of her clothes, enjoying the way his eyes darkened and his breathing came a little quicker. She might not be eighteen anymore, but this body was hers and he made it clear he liked what he saw.
“You’re beautiful, honey.”
He sank down by her feet, his thumbs pressing into the arches. She breathed out. Relaxing. Aroused. Lying there on her back, staring up at the blue sky and soaking in the heat. The lazy pleasure was slower this second time around, but every bit as good.
His hands slid up her calves and over the backs of her thighs, his thumbs parting her firmly. “Yes?” he asked.
“Try and stop me,” she teased right back.
The tip of his penis traced an erotic path over her thighs and up her body. Another little connection, that warm, damp touch. He wanted her, too.
She gasped when his mouth discovered her breasts. Lowering his head, he pressed his face against her skin, tracing the red mark from her bra with his mouth. Kissing everything all better.
“You’re killing me,” she cried as he circled her nipple gently with his fingers.
“No,” he corrected. “Just setting you on fire, honey.”
He followed the first slow, heated circle with another one. Turned his head and opened his mouth over her. Tasting, he followed the decadent path of his fingers with his tongue.
He dipped south, parting her swollen folds with his fingers in decadent slo-mo.
“Don’t stop,” she warned and he laughed.
“No worries. I’d be a happy man doing this all night.”
He traced his finger slowly, so slowly towards her clit. His mouth followed, teasing her with the smallest of kisses and the erotic brush of his eyelashes. Butterfly kisses.
His hands on her hips grounded her, the firm pressure holding her in place, anchoring her as he stroked his tongue over her. When his tongue finally parted her, exploring more deeply, the hot, sweet wash of pleasure almost made her come on the spot. Each decadent pass up and down was a fiery jolt to her senses and then he drew her clit into his mouth, sucking gently. His mouth. Her clit. Soft flesh meeting, joining, until she couldn’t tell and didn’t care where she ended and he began. All that mattered was his tongue loving her. Moving over her and over her until the sensations built unbearably and she knew she had to let go soon. And yet he held her there, a willing prisoner to his deliberate touch. He rubbed his tongue against her, fucking her, penetrating the little hood sheltering her clit and her world filled with his slow, sweet rhythm.
“Do you want to come?” he asked.
“Please.”
“Absolutely,” he answered roughly, the heavy weight of his body pressing hers down. The truck bed pressed into her back. This was nothing fancy sex. This was what she wanted. Just him and her. His penis opening her up, reaching deep inside her as they moved together, finding satisfaction together.
Eventually, much later, the radio crackled in the cab. Sam had work to do. Places to save and lines to dig.
She got that. She really did.
He turned his head to look at her. The metal ridges of the truck bed dug into her back, the uncomfortable sensation making it impossible to forget where she was. Or who she was with. This ride would be tattooed into her back for the next hour or more, soft red ridges where the paneling had dug into her skin. A delicious secret beneath her clothes.
“I have to go,” he said.
“I know.” She did, too. Sam had spent years working fires. A man didn’t get rich doing that, but he paid his bills and he slept well at night.
“No regrets?” she asked, needing to hear his answer.
“Just the one.” His mouth brushed the corner of hers. “And she’s standing right in front of me, Olivia Albert.” The familiar name slipped right off his tongue, like some part of him had been waiting to say it again.
“You used to call me Livy.”
“I used to do a lot of things,” he drawled.
“Are you going to write to me this time?”
He sat up, pulled on the T-shirt they’d tossed to the side. She wanted to keep him naked. She didn’t want to let him go again.
“No,” he said, and there was no misunderstanding his blunt answer. So . . . this had been about sex and saying good-bye. And not a new beginning? How had she misunderstood him that badly?
She wrapped a hand around his thigh, savoring the warm heat of him. She didn’t want to let go again.
“You’re not waiting for me anymore?” She needed him to say good-bye clearly and unequivocally. She needed to hear him say that what they had was over. Her heart skipped a beat as she watched him watch her, all calm and self-possessed, and that was just foolish.
When he shook his head, that silly organ did a four-story freefall.
“I’m done waiting,” he said. “I was thinking it’s time to act.”
“Oh?” There she went, sounding hopeful again. Maybe she hadn’t misunderstood.
“Definitely.” A little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, part sexy—and part uncertain? “I’m thinking I’ve spent too long waiting. First in the crash truck at the end of the runway and then out here in the park. I waited for trouble to come to me and then I went in and picked up the pieces.”
“You always were good at swooping in to pick up the pieces,” she said lightly.
“But I waited on the sidelines,” he countered. “Until there were pieces.”
“So what are you saying?”
“That I want something different,” he said, and the fierce note in his voice had her traitorous heart beating out a danger-danger-Will-Robinson rhythm. This man was lethal to her peace of mind.
“This time,” he continued, “I’m going after what I want.”
“Which is?” She had to hear the words.
“You,” he growled. “I want you, Olivia Albert. I love you and I’m not going. You and me, we’re a reburn.”
“Really?” She sat up. “You’re talking firefighter now?”
He shrugged. “You think it’s hot.” He smiled. “And it’s accurate.”
“Okay.” She moved closer and his arms wrapped around her. She put her head on his chest, listening to the solid beat of his heart beneath her cheek. No matter how hotly they fought or loved, that steady rhythm was part of what she loved so much about Sam. He was dependable. He was there. She figured she’d want to yell at him plenty of times, but there’d always be this bedrock strength waiting for her at the end of the day. “Tell me more about this reburn,” she said, snuggling in.
“Sometimes,” he said, and his arms tightened around her as he leaned back against his truck, “you get an area that’s burned once. Fire’s gone through and burned like hell, but there’s still fuel left. Later on, fire comes back and everything reignites. A second chance fire. Maybe it’s bigger and hotter than the first one, maybe not, but the fire’s burning right when you thought everything was out, over, and done with. We had something good ten years ago, but I thought it was over. I was wrong. There’s still this spark between us.”
“More than a spark,” she objected. Little things came into sharp focus. Details of a moment she hadn’t quite dared hope for. The soft impact of Sam dropping a kiss on her hair. The wash-worn cotton T-shirt beneath her cheek that smelled faintly of smoke and Sam. And his fingers threading through her hair as the warm press of the afternoon sun beat down on them. Right now, she decided, was one of those moments you wanted to stretch on and on. Forever.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “I’m not giving up on this second chance. I’m not giving up on us.”
“I could like that plan,” she whispered. “A whole lot.”
“We’ll figure it out,” he continued. “My job. Yours. Those are details. Important ones, but what matters is us. This. The way I feel when I’m holding you.”
“I love you,” she said, finally giving him the words he’d been waiting for. “That’s what I wrote in that letter I never sent.”
“God,” he whispered hoarsely. “I sure hope so, Livy. It feels like I’ve been waiting a lifetime for those words.”
“No more waiting,” she promised. “Just doing.”
“Together,” he added roughly. “We fight this fire, we feel this together.”
“Yes,” she said, reaching up and cupping his jaw. “Together.”
She kissed him and he kissed her, two people who’d found a second chance and were seizing that moment with both hands.
Don’t miss the latest in Anne Marsh’s Smoke Jumpers
series, available now in print or ebook. Read on for an
excerpt from Slow Burn.
The need for an Advil reached kill-for-it status, the dull throb behind Faye’s eyes a warning last night’s adventure had not gone as planned. Her headache threatened to spiral out of control.
God. What had she done?
Little flashes of memory teased her, unfortunate reminders she didn’t really want. Ma’s bar. The positively lethal rum punches the leggy blond bartender had poured. Someone popping a quarter into the jukebox, and who’d’ve thought this town would still have an old-fashioned jukebox? She’d wanted to dance and sing and laugh.
She’d done the dancing, met a few folks—and then what?
Because she clearly wasn’t sleeping it off in the Corvette, as she’d intended. She dug her fingers into the lush softness beneath her. That was one hundred percent mattress. Instead of the Corvette’s plush leather, she was lying on cotton sheets.
Hell. She was fairly certain that Strong didn’t have a motel and that she couldn’t spare the cash even if it did. Hence her whole sleep-in-the-Corvette plan.
The sound of steady breathing behind her had her opening her eyes wide despite another stab of protest from her head. It was still early, the room wrapped in that not-dark-not-quite-light shadow. She was in a cabin of some sort, the dim outline of a bathroom half-visible through a partly open door. From the middle of the enormous bed where she lay, she could also see a stone fireplace. Two easy chairs. The collection of clothes dropped haphazardly on the floor included jeans and a pair of work boots. A man’s balled up T-shirt.
No, she definitely wasn’t alone.
She looked down. A man’s arm was a warm, heavy band around her waist. There was a military tattoo on his wrist, a dangerously sexy swirl of dark ink that branded that too-large, capable hand as the lethal weapon it probably was.
Great. She’d started off her grand adventure by hooking up in a bar. She wanted to think she’d been all bold and luscious, that she’d swept this man, whoever he was, right off his feet. Unfortunately, it was looking as if she’d been the drunk pickup instead, because here she was, parked in his bed, wearing only her panties and an unfamiliar, too-large T-shirt.
At least the panties were good ones—Betsey Johnson and all wicked black mesh with little pink bows. She’d picked them out for a weekend getaway with her husband—now ex—all part of a master plan to rekindle the romance that had somehow gone AWOL from their marriage. Instead, she’d come home that afternoon and found Mike in bed with another woman.
Now she was in bed with someone else herself. Rolling over carefully, she took stock. And what a man.
She remembered this version of big, dark, and sexy from the bar all too clearly.
Unfortunately, when his eyes snapped open, on full alert, Evan Donovan didn’t look as if he was enjoying this morning-after any more than she was. He looked pissed.
“You’re the firefighter from the bar.” She couldn’t keep the note of accusation out of her voice.
“That shouldn’t come as a surprise to you,” he grumbled. “The whole damn bar was full of firefighters, darlin’. I’m just the one you happened to fall asleep on.”
“I fell asleep?” That didn’t seem possible, but he kept right on glaring at her. Still, whatever had happened, he’d brought her here. He’d put her in this bed—she was suddenly damn sure of that—and then he’d put himself right there beside her. So he had no business acting so pissy.
“Yeah,” he drawled. “One minute, there you were, perched on top of Mimi’s jukebox. The next minute, you’d picked my chest out as your new pillow.”
Pieces of memories, pieces of last night, assaulted her. Since the best defense was attack, she forced herself to lean toward him. Plus, that chest of his was something else, all hard muscles and summer-kissed skin. She wouldn’t mind starting at the top and working her way down, kissing each tempting ridge.
“You’re a big boy,” she said coolly. “I don’t think you did anything you didn’t want to do.”
Lying in this unfamiliar bed—in his bed—felt deliciously wicked. This high in the mountains, the day wasn’t hot yet. Not like it would be later, when the sun climbed right on up the sky and got to work. The cotton sheet felt good. She stretched her legs, working out the aches.
He was so big, and she didn’t know him, she reminded herself. God, this was beyond foolish. She should get out of his bed, find her clothes. Leave.
Only, she didn’t know where she wanted to go.
And she’d wanted an adventure. Last night, when she’d first laid eyes on him—before he’d opened his mouth—she’d thought he was every big-brute fantasy she’d ever had come to life. If she’d been home, back in L.A., maybe she would have worried. Right now, though, in this sleepy little town, he represented possibility, and she could feel the anticipation building inside her. He didn’t know it, but he was going to be hers. Only temporarily, of course, but she was so very tired of not living. Of coming home to an empty house. Of having empty arms.
“What,” he growled, “do you think our next step should be?”
He clearly expected her to acknowledge her mistake and get the hell out of his bed. Where he’d put her for some inexplicable reason of his own, undoubtedly tied to those protective instincts so many men seemed to come with. He was a firefighter, and that meant he knew how to protect. To defend. To keep on fighting when all that stood between the flames and ot
hers was his body and his determination to defeat the fire.
She sensed he was the last person who would hurt her.
Why not ask for what she wanted, explore where this could go? He’d been standoffish last night, but then he’d brought her here. That had to mean something.
She put a hand on his arm, soaking in the warmth of his bare skin. God, he felt so good. Live in the moment, she reminded herself.
“You could kiss me,” she said boldly.
Julie Cheshire Photography
After ten years of graduate school and too many degrees, ANNE MARSH escaped to become a technical writer. When not planted firmly in front of the laptop translating Engineer into English, Anne enjoys gardening, running (even if it’s just to the 7-Eleven for slurpees), and reading books curled up with her kids. The best part of writing romance, however, is finally being able to answer the question: “So . . . what do you do with a PhD in Slavic Languages and Literatures?”
She lives in Northern California with her husband, two kids, and four cats. You can visit her online at www.anne-marsh.com.
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ISBN: 978-1-6018-3043-2
First electronic edition: July 2013
