Ash Rising (DEAd Series)

by Melissa Fox

  “Here.” He handed her a rag to wipe her hands and took her boots. She heard some banging and the trunk closing before he slid into the driver’s seat. Without his shoes. For some reason, on him, barefoot was…sexy. She swallowed and forced her eyes back to his face. Yeah. That was sexy, too.

  His fingers drummed on the wheel before he turned to her with a determined expression. “Listen. We’re closer to my house than we are to town. We should just go there and clean up, grab something to eat because I’m starving, and then I’ll bring you back to your apartment. Okay with you?”

  “Okay.” She wondered what she’d wear. She wondered what he’d wear. She wondered.

  “Okay.” He sat and stared at her. “Good. Yeah. Okay.”

  With a definitive nod, he started the car and ignored her when she slid her eyes to his frowning face. Dusk fell as they rode in silence toward the lake, and he eventually turned into the long, tree-lined drive of a sprawling cape-cod style home.

  “This is yours? It’s beautiful.”

  The gardens and lawn were well tended, the house sitting majestically amid flowering plants and bushes. The setting reminded Emma of an old English garden right on Lake Simcoe.

  “My parents’,” he said, pulling into the garage. “Mine now.”

  She followed him through the door that opened into the kitchen—lots of stainless steel and cherry cabinets. He tossed his keys on the dark granite counter, and her gaze wandered to his bare feet again. Feet weren’t sexy. Damn it.

  “There’s a guest room.” He gestured down the hall. “Has an attached bath. I can give you clean sweats and a shirt that should fit well enough until I get you home.”

  “Okay. Thanks. It’ll be good to get clean. Get the mud off, I mean. Not that I mind being dirty. Dirty’s okay sometimes, but—” With great willpower, she forced herself to stop babbling and walked resolutely in the direction he’d indicated. She didn’t have anything to be nervous about, just because she was about to strip down in his house, and, presumably, he was, too. Nope, no reason for nerves, imagining that long, luscious body naked with water sluicing over skin, trickling over sculpted muscle…

  A smile curved his perfectly shaped mouth. He followed her to the spare room and paused at the open door. “Use whatever you need, and let me know if there’s something I can do to you.”

  She glanced up sharply at the innuendo, wondering if she’d misheard, knowing she hadn’t. He gave her a bland stare and almost pulled the innocent act off, but the amusement in his eyes gave him away.

  “For you, I mean. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”

  Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded. After ogling his back until he disappeared down the hall, she stumbled into the well-appointed guest room and fanned her face. Mind. Gutter. Out.

  The attached bathroom was stocked with necessities and even included a hair dryer. Emma scrubbed until she was pink-skinned and squeaky-haired, used the dryer, and peered out the door with a towel wrapped around her naked body. Her bra was salvageable, having escaped the dousing in mud and muck, but she couldn’t bring herself to put her underwear on over clean skin. A pair of sweats and a man’s button-up shirt lay on the bed, and she grabbed them to her chest before darting back into the bathroom. The pants fit well enough—she was tall, and they had a drawstring waist. The shirt was a bit large but would work, so she buttoned the front and rolled the sleeves. Running a hand through her hair, she gave one last glance at her face in the mirror and grimaced. No cosmetics with her, so nothing she could do.

  She checked her weapon and slid the pistol into a drawer of the dresser along with her ID and phone. Following the muted sounds of a television, she padded barefoot down the hall to the wide family room. Her gaze snapped to Ash’s figure seated in a large leather chair when he turned the TV off and set the remote on a table.

  “Feel better?” he asked. “Find everything you need?”

  “Yes. Thank you. You have an amazing home, Inspector.”

  The leather furniture reflected a classic, comfortable design, and shelves filled with books, knick-knacks, and photographs lined the walls. She wandered over to the pictures when he didn’t reply but remained in the chair to watch her.

  A large, framed portrait of a man and woman held a place of honor on a middle shelf—obviously his parents. He had the woman’s coloring and the man’s eyes. Surrounding the photograph were a number of others showing him at various ages with the couple in the portrait, by himself, and with friends. She glanced across the room, hoping he hadn’t noticed her curiosity.

  He slouched in the overstuffed leather chair, long denim-covered legs extended and crossed at the ankles. She followed the lean lines up to his waist, where the heavy material formed fascinating wrinkles and bunches. Her mouth went dry, and she moved on to where the thin cotton of his white T-shirt clung to his flat belly and swelled over his upper chest. One muscled arm supported the elbow of the other on his stomach, and his long fingers rested against his full lower lip. Her focus lingered for a second, watched those fingers press and pull teasingly at that lip, before shooting up to meet his amused gaze. She flushed but held his stare, bluffing her way through the embarrassment of getting caught admiring him. Everyone had to admire him in some fashion or another. He was made to be admired. He was sex incarnate.

  “You look so young in these pictures.” Her voice sounded husky, as if she was aroused, because…she was aroused, damn him.

  He nodded slowly. He didn’t speak or move his stare from hers.

  “What were you—late teens? Early twenties?” Clearing her throat did nothing to rid herself of the traitorous heaviness in her chest, abdomen, and lower.

  He nodded again.

  She glanced back at the photographs on the bookshelves. He and his friends appeared young and carefree, like they were having fun—so unlike the silent, brooding man before her.

  “I’ll bet you were fun to be around back then.” She froze, and her gaze skittered away from his. She hadn’t meant to sound like he wasn’t usually fun. Well, not exactly.

  “You wouldn’t have spent more than two seconds in my company back then.” His voice was rough, like he hadn’t used his vocal cords in a while. She started at the sound, as she hadn’t been expecting him to respond. “I would have taken one look at you, made some comment I thought was clever but would have probably pissed you off, and you would have dumped me right on my fine ass.”

  She snorted. “Please, Beaulieu. Who says you have a fine ass?”

  Finger tapping his lower lip, he arched a dark brow. Heat warmed her face, but she gave him a grudging nod to acknowledge the silent rebuke. He did have a fine ass, and he knew it. Probably the finest she had ever seen. Conceited bastard.

  “You’re attracted to me.” The low rumble of his voice was as unexpected as his words.

  Emma caught her breath and went still, poised for flight across the room, but he held her with his gaze.

  “I’m attracted, too. Very much. Is that enough for you, Emmaline? Do you expect something more before you’ll have sex with someone? Promises of love, a relationship? You seem the type.”

  Oh, he was clever. So very, very clever. She mustn’t forget that. He poked her pride to get her to prove him wrong, to sleep with someone—him—who attracted her without all the pretty words and a promise of commitment. He thought he had her pegged, but she was clever, too.

  “What type do I seem to you?” she challenged.

  “You seem the type to want dark, desperate things done to you, to do them yourself at least once in your life. You want to experience a man taking you hard, taking you deep, taking you into pleasure so hot you forget who you are. You’d submit your will to that, so long as he can bend your mind and wreck your body, leave you weak and so completely sated you can’t wait to experience it again…and again…and again. You’d be willing, as long as he made it worth your while. And I can. I can do all those things, but I can’t promise you more. Is that enou
gh?”

  She stared at him where he sat across the room. He hadn’t moved, but he’d rocked her world. She panted in shallow, short breaths, and sweat slicked over her body from just his words. A quick, sharp shudder wracked her at the thought of what his hands, his body, his mouth would do to her. One side of his lips twitched when he saw her involuntary reaction.

  Conceited bastard, indeed.

  She lifted her chin. He didn’t intimidate her. Well, she wouldn’t let him know he intimidated her. Asher Beaulieu offered her heart’s desire, and despite his warning, those hungry words and promises of pleasure overwhelmed her defenses. The opportunity would not slip through her fingers, no matter the consequences. She was no fool; she knew they’d be severe. But that night, with him, alone in the charming, beautiful house, his bedroom only yards away, with him willing and offering… No red-blooded woman could refuse him, even if she did know better.

  “It is.” Her voice rang out firm and clear. Unmistakable. His eyes widened in fleeting response before he masked the reaction. She felt more balanced—more equal—to see he hadn’t been expecting her capitulation. “You’re right. That is what I want.”

  She left her answer vague on purpose. Let him decide what she meant. He certainly kept her guessing often enough. She wanted both what he offered and what he didn’t—the pleasure he could give her and the deeper attachment he couldn’t. She was an intelligent, generous woman. She’d take the one and work for the other.

  Studying her, his blue eyes were dark and intense, body unmoving but held in position with obvious tension. His hands tightened on the arms of the chair, preparing to stand, and Emma jerked with nervous, startled reaction. She tried to cover the motion by turning and pretending to examine the items on his bookshelves, but she’d seen the maddening smile on his face.

  “Are you nervous, Emmaline?” His voice resonated with seduction, smug and shrewd.

  “No,” she lied.

  “You should be.”

  “Look, Inspector.” Her ridiculousness made her pause, referring to him by his professional title after the dirty, amazing, hot things he had just said to her. The insulting things. “Beaulieu—”

  “Ash,” he corrected, his voice a deep, dark stroke. He still hadn’t moved.

  “Ash,” she repeated impatiently. “I know you think you’re all…” She waved her arms at him. How could anyone adequately describe the sexy jackass? “But you’re—”

  “Come here.” His voice broke through her tirade, soft and beguiling.

  “What?”

  “You’re wasting all that remarkable energy standing over there. I want to feel your heat. Come here, Emmaline.”

  “What? Are you…? Seriously?” She started to give him well-deserved hell, but his tension registered through her outrage. His arms were bunched, his fingers clenched into the leather of the chair. Satisfaction broke through her irritation when she noticed the obvious swelling between his legs. After giving the bulge a considering once-over, she raised her eyes to his. “No.”

  He arched a brow and stood suddenly, uncoiling his long, lean body. She wavered but held her ground, straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. His steps were deliberate and unhurried as he prowled across the room, and she fought to keep her eyes steady on his as he approached. Stopping only a few inches away, so close she could smell the crisp fragrance of his laundry detergent, the warm heat of his skin, the subtle scent of his desire, he extended his arm.

  She lost the battle and stared at his proffered hand before placing her fingers in his palm. He inhaled sharply and lowered thick lashes when, startled at the sound, she snapped her gaze to his. Soft lips brushed across the back of her hand and skimmed her knuckles in a warm, feathery caress.

  She trembled.

  His mouth trailed over the sensitive skin of her arm, tongue glided along the crease of her elbow, and her skin prickled. Deliberate, firm kisses covered the inside of her biceps before he moved in for the kill, placing his mouth on the side of her neck where the swell of muscle met the thin, vulnerable skin of her throat. Holding his lips there for a long, drawn-out second, he carefully, deliberately, set his teeth into her flesh, flicked his tongue out to taste, sucked ever so slightly, so gently. She gasped and shuddered, and her fingers sank into his shoulders when she lost strength in her knees.

  “Come with me.” His breath tickled the curve of her ear. “Come with me, Emmaline.”

  Warm hands ran down her sides to curl over her hips and pulled her into his obvious erection, the firmness divine against the soft give of her belly. She somehow met his gaze, but that didn’t help the bewilderment his touch ignited. His clear blue eyes went slumberous with desire—desire for her—and no way could she refuse him. No way she wanted to refuse him. She managed to nod, and a slow smile curved his full mouth. Taking her hand, he walked backward, never faltering or hesitating as he led her down the dark length of the hall to his bedroom. He paused in the doorway and gave her one last chance to decide what she wanted.

  No question. She wanted him.

  Emma leaned up for a kiss, craving that full, expressive mouth on hers. She’d explode if she didn’t have his taste, if she didn’t experience the toe-curling sensation of his tongue slicking across hers and soon. She’d thought about kissing him for weeks…oh, hell, she’d thought about kissing him ever since she first saw him in the clearing months ago, standing over the body of Rico Salvatore. The attraction and awareness been instant and completely inappropriate, but she couldn’t deny the fact he’d intrigued her from that first moment.

  He had a mouth made for kissing, for wet, wonderful things, and she wanted to experience all he had to offer. She had him, finally, in the dark, wanting her and willing. She’d start with kissing and move on from there.

  His head ducked, and his lips swept under her ear. Not where she’d expected them, but the sharp, sweet sensation that flooded her when his mouth caressed her skin sent her intentions spinning out of her head. He moved to the bed, a large, dark expanse behind him in the shadowy room. Emma couldn’t make out any details, but he was the only thing she wanted to see anyway. He lowered himself to the edge of the mattress and cradled her on his lap. He was hard and ready underneath her thigh, and she gave an experimental wriggle, thrilled at the evidence he wanted her just as badly.

  His glorious face mere inches away reminded her how much she wanted to kiss him, so she slid her hands into his short, soft hair and tugged. Her breath hitched at the first exploring touch of his lips. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her jaw, and her throat before deftly unbuttoning her shirt—his shirt that she wore—with one hand. Strong fingers stroked as he exposed each inch, feathered over her stomach and between her breasts, slipped around her ribcage to ease the catch of her bra free. Both hands slid under the cups to the inner swells of her breasts, circled her aching nipples and caressed the heavy undersides, each touch winding her tighter and tighter until she thought she’d go mad.

  The tie loosened on her cotton pants as he slowly drew the thin cord out and away from her body. She let out a sob of relief as the heat of his hand opened over her belly, and he tugged at the sweats until they slid off her legs. She sat sideways on his lap, naked from the waist down, with only an open shirt and loosened bra to cover her. The rough rasp of his jeans under her bare bottom…Oh. Amazing and erotic. She squirmed, seeking more friction, and a low, quiet sound rumbled through his chest.

  Settling her against his shoulder, he exposed her, urged her legs apart so one fell over his knees. Her breaths came in quick, harsh pants as her body tensed, screaming for his touch and the pleasure he promised with every decadent stroke. Her loosened bra slid up at the urging of his fingers to reveal her breasts, and the tempo of his breathing increased as he stared for long seconds. Finally, he placed his hand on her skin and traced a path from her breasts to between her thighs. She held her breath, waiting, wanting, and the air whooshed from her lungs in a sharp, almost-gasp when his mouth covered her hardened nipple
at the same time his finger stroked along intimate flesh. She did cry out when his teeth bit just as his finger penetrated, her back arching and then stilling abruptly so she didn’t dislodge his mouth and hand. He licked and stroked until she writhed in his lap, caution forgotten as she reached for the lure of satisfaction hovering closer and closer. His hands, his skill, his expertise and knowledge of her body were better—were more—than she ever imagined. Helpless as he gave her pleasure, tossed on waves of sensation, she’d thought herself well aware of the heights her body was capable of reaching. He showed her how little she actually knew—using only one hand and his mouth.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured as she came apart on his lap. “So beautiful.”

  He held her securely until the clenching of her body around his fingers slowed and eased. Only when she sighed, slow and deep, did he remove them, sliding fingertips over her stomach to her breasts to hold one and then the other to his mouth for a last long kiss to each. She shivered at the damp trail his hand left on her skin, and he leaned over to pull the comforter and sheets back.

  Safe under the covers, she roused herself to watch him undress. No way she’d miss a second, not after fantasizing for so long. He grasped the bottom of his T-shirt and pulled the material over his head before tossing the shirt on the floor. Emma propped herself up on an elbow, her eyes greedily taking in his bare chest. She couldn’t see as much as she’d like in the dark, but she could discern firm, mouthwatering muscle. He paused so she could look, not quite long enough—would never be long enough—before his hands went to the buttons on his jeans, releasing the top one and pulling the rest free. Denim rasped down his legs, and he kicked the jeans off so he stood in only dark knit boxer briefs. Just when the frantic beat had settled after her shattering climax, her heart started pounding again at the sight of him so close and with so few clothes. She placed a hand on his hip when he started to push the briefs off, his skin surprisingly warm and silky under her fingertips.