From the Ashes (Southern Heat Book 1)

by Jamie Garrett

  Sloane reached for the bottom of his t-shirt and tugged it upward, her fingers brushing against the warm skin of his stomach. His muscles clenched at her touch, then he was helping her, pulling the t-shirt over his head.

  His firm chest was on a level with her eyes, and she looked her fill. Mason stood still, letting her stare. She placed both hands against his pecs and his heat sent waves of pleasure rippling through her. Sloane pressed her lips in the center of his chest, her palms lightly skimming downward along his skin, tracing the contours of his ribs until she wrapped her arms around his waist. He groaned softly and wrapped his arms around her waist, then downward to cup her buttocks. She pressed herself against him. His erection was full, hard . . . and big.

  For a few seconds after that, everything was a blur. Her shirt came off, her breasts exposed to his admiring gaze. One of his hands gently cupped her, squeezing softly, his thumb swirling around and brushing across the tip of her nipple. It grew hard beneath his ministrations.

  And then a hand reached down to untie her pants. His or hers? Hers. He towered over her, his mouth devouring hers, their tongues twisting together, his hand worshiping one breast while the other struggled to push her pants down past her hips. Her breath grew faster, her chest rising and falling with increased desire. Her entire body grew hot. Wetness slicked her thighs. Then his hand was there, his thumb pressing gently against her clit, his fingers exploring her lower lips.

  Her knees nearly buckled and only Mason’s strong arms held her upright. He laughed softly, adjusted his position, and guided her toward the bed. Sloane sat down, quickly shedding her pants. Her skin tingled with the lingering sensations of his touch. His hard cock was outlined against his jeans, and she made short work of unbuttoning the metal button and sliding down the zipper. Impatient, she tugged at his pants, her desire intensifying as he reached down and helped. His cock almost bounced upward as it was freed from the constraints of his jeans.

  Before he could take charge, Sloane dropped to her knees and took him into her mouth with sure and practiced movements. This, her body remembered. She had done this before. Many times, with him. Her tongue slowly lathed the head, one hand firmly gripping the base of his shaft. She rolled her tongue slowly down along the length. Mason groaned, wrapping his fingers in her hair and standing frozen for several moments. Then his hips shifted slightly and the next moment she felt herself lifted and laid on the bed, her hand still gripping him.

  They lay facing one another, her breasts pressing against his chest as she reached her hand down to cup his balls. Mason caressed one breast, tweaking and thumbing the nipple while his mouth found hers again, softly sucking her tongue. Her pulse pounded in her veins. His free hand trailed slowly down her abdomen until it cupped her, gently kneading while his fingers found her slick center and then dipped inside. The stroke of his finger matched her ministrations on his cock. As her hand moved faster over him, Mason let out a low groan and then pressed his palm firmly against her clit, grinding against her.

  Lost in the throes of pleasure, Sloane shed all flashes of memory and focused only on the sensations he evoked within her. She kept her own hand moving, their hips both rocking faster, both impatient. His movements became more desperate, more carnal, heavy breathing the only sound that filled the room. Then she felt it, the white hot flash of ecstasy, her core clenching around his finger nestled deep inside her, her hips thrusting against his palm. He moved faster, adding a second finger, and within seconds, as she succumbed to the pulsating waves of her climax, Mason’s hot cum ejected onto her hand.

  They lay together, unmoving, for what felt like forever but was only a few moments before he shifted, turning slightly to reach for the box of Kleenex on his bedside table. She rolled onto her back, eyes closed, relishing the sensations thrumming through her body, riding the waves of lethargy as her body relaxed, all the tension and the fears from the day fading like an early morning mist warmed by the sun.

  13

  Mason

  Mason lay in bed, arms crossed behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. Sloane lay beside him, breathing deeply, sound asleep. Damn, he was tired, and it wasn’t just the sex. The sex had been great, amazing. With Sloane, it always had been. Of course, like any new couple, back in the day it had taken time for them to get used to each other’s likes and dislikes, rhythms, and responses. But that had been ten years ago. Yet it seemed as if nothing had changed. The moment he swept Sloane up into his arms and carried her into his bedroom, it was like déjà vu.

  Still. Despite the great sex, the familiarity, the connection that they had always seemed to share, his brain wouldn’t shut down. Something was wrong. No, nothing would be right until he found out what was going on. He didn’t feel guilty about what they had just done, but what if she had a husband? What if she was engaged? But then, she’d felt a pull toward him, she’d even said as much. Wouldn’t she have sensed that, remembered that somehow, too? The way she had responded to him with such a depth of passion made him wonder.

  Did he even want this? A relationship—a renewed relationship with her? Mason had long ago thought that door had closed and he had put the past behind him. For her, everything was new again. In a way, it was for him, too, but he was also wary. He’d had relationships in the last ten years, of course, but nothing that had gotten serious. He’d never wanted to commit to anyone else. Mason frowned, shifting in the bed. Had he really moved on at all? After Sloane left, it’d taken him a long time to get over it. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t been ready to take thing to the next level. He still missed the hell out of her. But was he ready now? Would he be able to make a commitment to her that would last a lifetime? He was older now, and had to grow up faster after the death of his parents. She had to have changed in the last decade, too, and yet she seemed exactly the same.

  Mason didn’t play the field. He’d gotten used to living by himself. Preferred it, actually. To open himself up to a real relationship would be a challenge. Oh, he enjoyed sex just as any other man did, but it wasn’t as important to him as it used to be. Sex with Sloane, now that was familiar. Intensely satisfying. But it wasn’t just the sex. It was the feeling of familiarity, of contentment, of knowing her.

  But you don’t know her. Not for sure.

  He wanted to punch himself every time he had the thought, but he had to acknowledge it. The fact that she was embroiled in this mess was another point that was driven home as solid as a hammer strike to a nail. As much as he wanted to bury his head in the sand and then bury his cock deep inside her again and forget about everything else, he couldn’t be that naive. Doing that would only put them both in more danger. He didn’t know this Sloane, the antiquities buyer and world traveler. She wasn’t the same. He wasn’t, either.

  Time, experience, and maturity had changed them both. What if—Sloane sighed in her sleep, moved restlessly on the bed for a moment, and then settled again. He turned, watching her profile in the wan stream of moonlight from the bedroom window. So much the same, and yet everything so different.

  She shifted under the covers again, and then startled, gasping. Sloane sat up, apparently forgetting that she was naked beneath the sheets. He got a quick glimpse of breasts outlined in the darkness and felt a tightening in his groin. Her eyes flew open and she seemed to realize where she was, gasped again, and quickly pulled the sheet up to her throat, glancing down at him.

  “You okay?” He spoke quietly, keeping his voice low so as not to startle her. “You have a bad dream?”

  “I . . . I think so,” she stammered.

  Was she embarrassed to find herself in his bed? He wasn’t. “I don’t want you to feel awkward—”

  “I don’t feel awkward,” she interrupted, then turned to sit up and reached down for his t-shirt, which was lying at the foot of the bed. She pulled it over her head. “I’m going to get up for a little while, maybe watch TV for a bit. I’ll put it on mute. Go back to sleep.”

  With that, she rose abruptly and left the bedroo
m, closing the door halfway behind her. Damn. Should he follow or leave her be? He heard the click of the remote control, the volume quickly lowered, mulling his options. Fuck it. He wasn’t going to go back to sleep, either. Mason threw the covers back and pushed himself up from the bed. He walked naked to the closet where he grabbed a pair of sweats off the shelf and then stepped into them, leaving his feet bare as he padded softly to his dresser. From the second drawer he pulled out another T-shirt and pulled it on over his head. He stepped from the bedroom, but stopped in the hall, eventually turning into the bathroom instead of heading out to where Sloane sat in the living room. Gently closing the door, he flipped on the light switch and stared at himself in the mirror.

  What the hell was he doing? He looked himself over. Tousled hair, two days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks. Eyebrows pulled down into a frown. He focused on relaxing his facial muscles, at least, so it didn’t look like he was scowling, and then left the bathroom.

  Sloane sat on the couch in the living room, her feet up on the coffee table. She stared at the screen, but he doubted she was watching anything. Her eyes were half glazed over. He glanced at the television. The Weather Channel, muted.

  He spoke softly. “What are you thinking about?”

  She snorted. “What am I thinking about? Nothing much. I had a bad dream, that’s it.” He sat down next to her and she shifted slightly toward him, her eyes drifting from the screen. Had she moved intentionally or just reacted to him? Before he could ask if she’d rather him sit elsewhere, Sloane spoke again. “But I’m not sure if it was a dream or a memory.”

  Mason was guessing memory, and a bad one, from her reaction. “Want some coffee?” She shook her head. “Want to talk about it?”

  Sloane sighed, placed the remote down on the couch next to her, and then shifted her position again, tucking her feet up underneath her. Her long, bare legs were barely covered by his t-shirt. His cock grew hard again at the sight, but he tamped it down. She needed someone to listen now, not a horny asshole jumping her again. He sat, unmoving, giving her space, waiting. After several minutes, she spoke.

  “I think I’m beginning to remember . . . just bits and pieces here and there. Some of them are just flashes from my childhood. You were in one of them . . . but it was like watching a movie; a movie with actors, not me. And then I remember being in a fire, but not the aftermath of the explosion in Savannah, but the one before that. Here in Monroe.”

  Mason stared at her for several moments. He didn’t want to barrage her with questions, but this was important. “What exactly do you remember?”

  She frowned and sighed again, a heavy sigh filled with frustration and disappointment. “It’s not so much what I remember, but the feelings that go along with it. Mostly, it’s the smells. Smells that seem to trigger these bits of memory. I smelled smoke, but it wasn’t like the smoke at the restaurant when your car blew up. I didn’t get any hint of motor oil in my dream, or whatever it was. That’s why I think it was a memory of the auto shop, where you found me. There, all I smelled was the overpowering odor of gasoline.”

  Mason spoke softly, trying not to sound anxious. “Do you remember anything about why you were there?” She shook her head. She looked so despondent, so lost. Should he tell her? He mulled it over for several moments and then decided she had a right to know. “While you were in the shower earlier, I called a friend of mine at the sheriff’s department.”

  She looked at him, waited for him to continue. “And?”

  “He said he was in contact with someone at the Justice Department.”

  “The Justice Department?” Her eyes were wide now, mouth open in surprise.

  “From what he said, someone at the Justice Department has noticed some oddities regarding the business dealings of Novas Antiquities and your boss.”

  “What kind of oddities?”

  “I don’t know. He couldn’t tell me. He wasn’t able to find out much, either, because he doesn’t have a direct connection to your case.”

  “Oddities,” she murmured. “Did he say anything else?”

  “Just something about questions regarding some shipping invoices.”

  “Shipping invoices,” she repeated, her frown deepening.

  “Does any of that ring a bell?”

  She shook her head. “When you go to visit Detective Bascom tomorrow morning, I want to go with you.”

  He was about to shake his head and then decided against it. She should be involved. He wanted her well away from the case, from any more danger, but this was her entire life. The more she knew, the more she would be able to protect herself. The more she knew, the greater the chance that that knowledge might trigger a memory.

  “Sloane, I know this is difficult for you, but you have to do whatever the police suggest. You realize that, don’t you?”

  She looked up at him, brows drawn downward again. “What do you mean, whatever they suggest?”

  Damn it. He had to just say it, before he could change his mind. “Depending on what this is all about, and whether your memory returns or not, chances are that the cops are going to find something. Two attempts have been made on your life. It’s obviously a serious situation. It may even be serious enough to put you into the Witness Protection Program.”

  “Witsec?”

  He was surprised she said that. He was about to ask how she knew the nickname for the program when she turned away from him, swallowing hard. She stared at the television screen, displaying a graph of the week’s forthcoming temperature ranges.

  “What have I done?”

  He tried to reassure her. “I don’t believe it is anything you’ve done, not anything bad, anyway. But until we know more, one thing is certain. Your life is in danger. Mine too today, apparently.” He lifted his hand to break off her comment. “It’s not your fault, Sloane.” At least, he hoped to God not. “But we have to face the fact that I may not be able to give you the protection you need. So I’m just telling you, be prepared. If the cops suggest a safe house or even something as drastic as witness protection, then you have to go. Protect yourself. I need you to.”

  14

  Mason

  The next morning at eight fifteen sharp, he and Sloane arrived at the police station, where they were ushered into Bascom’s office. Bascom greeted them, and then he gestured toward a room down the hall. “We’re going to meet in the conference room,” he said, watching Sloane carefully. “We’ve put together a small task force. One of the people here today is a member of the state troopers’ office from Savannah. We’ve got an agent from the FBI, due to your car bombing, and of course, us.” He glanced at Sloane. “Are you up for this, Miss Maxwell?”

  She offered a slight shrug. “I have to be. Things can’t go on like this. I can’t put Mason in any more danger. I want to know what’s going on as much as you do, believe me. Even if I . . .”

  Bascom watched her until he realized that she wasn’t going to finish her thought. Once again, he gestured and looked at Mason. “Shall we?”

  In a matter of moments, Mason and Sloane had seated themselves at a large wooden conference table. Bascom introduced the FBI agent, Jeremy Matthews, from the Savannah field office, along with a Georgia State Patrol officer named Adam Hanson. Of course, Sloane and Mason already knew Bascom and his partner, Detective Larry Williams.

  “Thank you for coming in today,” the FBI agent started. He glanced first at Mason, and then at Sloane. “We understand that you’re dealing with a bit of amnesia,” he commented.

  Mason got the impression from the way that the FBI agent phrased the question that he wasn’t quite sure if he should believe it or not. Neither he nor Sloane said anything.

  “Nevertheless, for the record, our record at least, I need to ask you some questions.”

  “Good luck with that,” Sloane muttered, then apologized. “Ask me whatever you want. I’ll do my best.”

  “What were you doing in Monroe?”

  “I don’t know.”

 
“You work for an antiquities dealer.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Sloane offered a slight shrug. “That’s what I’m told.”

  “We were told that you had leased an apartment in Savannah. But here’s something interesting. We spoke to the managers, the groundskeeper, and neighbors of the apartment that’s rented under your name. We showed them all your photograph. No one recognized you.”

  Sloane frowned. “How can that be?”

  Mason leaned forward, forearms resting on the polished surface of the table, his gaze riveted on the FBI agent. “Are you telling me that no one, no one recognized her photograph?”

  The agent shook his head. “Not a soul.”

  Mason glanced at Sloane, who looked up at him in confusion. He turned back to the FBI agent. “What else?”

  “Then there’s the question of some shipping invoices.” He eyed Sloane. “Were you responsible for making any arrangements for shipping or receiving the antiques, or whatever it was that you did at the company?”

  Sloane stared at him a moment and then shook her head, her frown deepening. “I don’t even remember what I did as a buyer, or what I possibly could have been doing in Monroe. And no, I don’t think . . . at least I don’t remember being involved in anything regarding shipping details.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Now listen here—”

  “Mason, settle down,” Bascom interrupted. “These are questions that have to be asked.”

  “But she doesn’t remember!”

  “Let’s let her answer the questions, okay?”