by Anne Marsh
He tucked the hair away from her face, waiting. Her mouth opened. Closed stubbornly. Yeah, she wasn’t going to make this easy for either of them.
“Is it because I’m a hotshot?” he continued. “Because that’s as good a job as any and I do just fine in the off-season as well. You don’t have to worry about my taking care of you.”
“Idiot,” she growled.
“You might want to be careful,” he whispered, “passing out insults when you’re the one with your hands tied behind your back.”
He brushed his mouth against her neck, giving her a series of little kisses. She stiffened, then relaxed. His dick was iron hard, but he needed to know how far she would let him push her in this game they were playing.
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” she snapped.
“True,” he agreed, and kissed her ear. There. She made that husky, moaning gasp he loved so much. “But will you let me?”
“You going to let me take care of you?”
He thought about that for a moment, while he leaned in and kissed his way down her neck again.
“Sure,” he said finally, nipping lightly at her shoulder. “Why wouldn’t I want that? That’s what partners do, Sarah Jo. They look out for each other. It’s not a question of you can’t. It’s about I want to.”
Convince her.
“You know what a hot zone is?” He traced his fingers along her neck and did a little more kissing while he waited for her answer. When she shook her head, he continued. “When a fire really gets going, you can only get so close before someone gets burned. We keep the firefighters out of that zone so they all stay safe.”
“Are you saying you want to cool things down?” She bit back a groan as he trailed his fingers down her back.
“No, honey. I’m saying I want to stand between you and the flames.”
“You want to take care of me,” she repeated cautiously. Her fingers flexed between them, and he bit back a groan. Maybe she had no idea what part of him she’d just touched. Knowing his Sarah Jo, however, she probably knew exactly what she’d done. She’d know how that teasing brush of her fingers against his dick, just a light caress against his jeans, made him hard. Hungry. He wanted this woman something fierce, but he wanted more than a night of hot sex. He wanted all of her.
All he had to do was convince her.
“Let me show you,” he suggested.
Dade Johnson was a big, sexy, stubborn bastard. She flexed her wrists, but there was no more give in the plastic ties than there was in the man wrapped around her. He wanted something from her, and he’d made it perfectly clear what that something was. He wanted love. He wanted to love her and be loved in return. It was a sweet, sweet idea, this possibility of Dade caring for her like that. He’d make one hell of a partner.
And there was every possibility that she loved him.
She didn’t like being tied up. She definitely didn’t like not being in control. Hell, these feelings were almost as bad as the zip-ties.
“Sarah Jo?” He whispered her name like it was a question. The problem was, she didn’t know what he was asking for. Not really.
“Let’s try this, honey.” She didn’t miss the rough need in his voice. This apparently being sex while she was tied up. Holy hell. She wriggled again, but he wasn’t letting her put any space between them. Evidently he was serious about this whole opening up and trusting thing.
One quick, hard tug of his hands, and her shorts and her panties were sliding down her legs. Gone. He stepped away from the bed for a moment. The rustle of clothing hitting the floor was followed by the dip of the mattress as he climbed back onto the bed beside her. She didn’t like waiting for him to decide what came next; this was definitely not her kind of game.
When she tried to roll over, however, a firm hand at the small of her back held her in place.
“Stay put,” he growled. “Right where you are.”
Should she? Could she? She didn’t know the rules of this game, but it didn’t matter. His hands arranged her gently, on her knees, facedown.
“Dade—” Yeah. The protest sounded weak, even to her own ears.
“You know how pretty you look?”
She looked exposed. She was pretty damn sure of that. It wasn’t enough for him, though. He parted her thighs, one big hand on each thigh, gently pressing her farther open.
He touched her. No warning, just one thick finger sliding through her folds from bottom to top. All the way up her soaked slit until he found her clit and pinched lightly.
She moaned. Oh, God.
“You got something you want to say to me?”
“More?” She suggested, and he laughed.
“That, too.”
He repeated the caress, drawing his fingers through her slickness again.
“Untie me? I want to get my arms around you,” she admitted.
He fished for his utility knife, swiping his pants from the floor. “Don’t move,” he warned. That was the thing. She wasn’t going anywhere, because she was finally right where she wanted to be.
A quick slice of the blade, and her wrists popped apart. She rolled, taking in the intent look on his face. His big hands rubbed at the red marks the ties had left. “Shit,” he said. “I should have cut you free sooner.”
“It’s all right.” And it was. She wanted to cry and to holler and to climb all over that big body of his and make him feel the pleasure, too. Dade Johnson was her hot zone and her safety zone, and she was more than ready to spend fire season—and forever—in his arms.
“I’m okay,” she repeated.
He framed her face with his hands and kissed her, a hot, sweet kiss that had her heating right back up. “In that case—”
“Yeah,” she said, laughing. “You’ve got something to finish.”
“One thing first.” His face, watching hers, was suddenly serious. “I don’t want to finish here. I just want you to know that. Stay or go, that’s your call, but you should know that I’ll be here waiting for you. You don’t need to say anything, but I needed you to hear that.”
“You don’t mind? If I’m not in the mood for talking?”
“Honey”—he eased his hand along her shoulder—“this isn’t about what I want. You say what you need to say. Whatever you’ve got, you give it to me.”
“That’s it?”
He slid his fingers into the thick locks at the back of her neck, urging her forward for another kiss. “Probably not,” he admitted thoughtfully. “We’re going to fight. Kiss and make up.”
She walked her fingers up his chest. “Maybe it’s time for that kissing part.”
“Uh-huh.” She felt the low rumble of his laughter beneath her cheek. “I could do that.”
“I love you,” she said quietly. He heard her, too, because his teeth nipped lightly at her ear.
“Say you’ll stay the summer. The fall. I’ve got four seasons, and every one of them is for you.”
“I could do that.” She pulled his head toward hers, wanting his kiss. “You still looking for that hot zone, hotshot?”
He smiled slowly. “Could be.”
“Then sign me up.”
Reaching up, she met him halfway, her mouth joining his in a searing kiss.
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.
eKENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2014 Anne Marsh
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ISBN: 978-1-6018-3044-9
First electronic edition: January 2014
