He ran his outsize hands down her sides, shaping the slope of her waist. Tingles shot all the way to her toenails.
“Sure as sugar,” she added.
It sounded so goofy, she put a hand over her mouth to stop the laughter. Rock cocked his head and chuckled along with her. The movement of his strong throat muscles made her dizzy. Everything about him made her head spin. When their laughter had died down, he raised his hands to cradle her head in his warm grip. He had the hands of a million-dollar massage artist, magical, powerfully gentle hands that held her steady while he lowered his mouth to hers. Time seemed to stop during that long journey; at any rate, her breath did. She lost herself in the fierce black eyes coming closer and closer, the firm mouth set on claiming its prize; he was a marauder, an ancient conqueror come to life.
When their lips touched, it was as if firecrackers exploded in a July sky. After the initial shock, she gripped his wrists and leaned into him, giving back stroke for stroke, pressure for pressure. He growled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, and tilted her head to take even more thorough possession of her mouth. He explored it with a dedicated intensity that wiped her mind clean of any thought except him. Him and more him, and the taste and feel and scent of him.
As she surfaced from the drugged glory of that kiss, she congratulated herself on not having collapsed on the floor. Then she realized there was a good reason for that; her feet were no longer on the floor. Just as she’d fantasized in the restaurant, he’d swooped her up in his arms and cradled her like a baby.
“You’re . . . quite strong,” she pointed out, in a husky voice that seemed to drip with sexual need. It would have embarrassed her, if she hadn’t been beyond embarrassment by now.
“The better to pleasure you, my dear.” He waggled his black eyebrows.
“I’m not exactly a lightweight.” Her friend Vader had picked her up a few times, but he’d always complained and held his back in mock pain afterward.
“You’re perfect.” Further proving his superior strength, he held her with one arm while he used his other hand to run his fingers through her hair. “Down to the last hair on your beautiful head.”
The tenderness in his voice gave her a quick pang. What would it be like to have a man like Rock actually love her? Actually be tender with her, as part of a, well, a relationship?
She shoved the thought to the back of her mind. This wasn’t about a relationship. This was about hot, sweaty sex at its finest. She extracted herself from his grasp so she could reach for his belt buckle. When that was undone she pulled his shirttails from under the belt and snuck her hands into the firm heat that lurked underneath. Muscles carved from iron rippled under her touch. She followed the bulging ridges up his chest to his massive shoulders, luxuriating in the rough curls she encountered along the way.
Rock made a harsh sound and set her on her feet. He ripped his shirt off and stood before her in all his muscular glory. Holy Mother, he was incredible. Like an ancient statue of some discus thrower twice the size of a normal person. His chest rose and fell with his rapid breaths. His eyes practically burned holes through her thin tank top.
“Can I please take your top off before I die?”
Between the two of them, clumsy with lust, they got rid of her top and the plain cotton bra underneath. Naked to the waist, she quivered under his blazing black scrutiny. He made her feel like a goddess come to life, as if she’d been formed solely to bring this powerful man to his knees.
“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said in a heartfelt tone.
She swallowed hard. “So are you.” She couldn’t stop devouring every detail of his physique. Her gaze followed the line of black hair that marched past his half-open belt buckle. Underneath, boxers. Under those . . . Good Lord Almighty. The thick rise of his jeans, the unmistakable arousal underneath, made her body vibrate with anticipation. Her nipples hardened to fierce little peaks.
He put his hands to his zipper. She held her breath. Then he stopped.
“Damn it.” With a wild look, he ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t have protection with me. I never even thought about it.”
Well, damn. “I don’t either.”
Breathing fast, half naked, they stared at each other.
“Brad!” Sabina said suddenly.
“What?”
“The maître d’. He’ll have some. He parties every night after his shift. Be right back.”
Sabina would never forget the smug look on Brad’s face, or his efforts to extract a promise to tell him every detail in exchange for a handful of condoms. “Waste not, want not,” he said with a wink.
She stuffed them in her purse and raced back up the stairs, too anxious to wait for the elevator. What if Rock had changed his mind? What if this wasn’t such a good idea? What would he think of a woman who rushed off to get condoms from a gay maître d’? Was this the craziest way to spend Thanksgiving ever?
As she reached the third floor, her steps slowed. Was she really about to have sex with a man known only as “Rock”? A man who was clearly hiding his real identity and knew her only as “Jones”?
By the time she reached his door, she was in an agony of regret and pure sexual frustration. Of course she couldn’t do this. She didn’t have sex with strangers. Besides . . . a man like that . . . he’d be too hard to forget come morning.
She scrabbled in her purse for a piece of paper but all she found was the ticket from the Reno PD. She tore it in half, making sure she kept the part with her name, found a pen, and scrawled one word.
Sorry.
Not much of an explanation, but it was all the ticket had room for. She pushed it under the door of Rock’s suite and fled.
Chapter Four
It could have been worse, Roman decided as he performed a slow circle in the middle of his new house, a cozy tract-style home with a shake shingle roof, two bedrooms, and French doors leading out to a sunny backyard. “Jones” could have actually cut off his balls. He’d been straight with her. He’d admitted his attraction. Even though he’d known better, he’d given in to it. But she must have been planning to make a fool of him the entire time. At least she’d done it with flair.
He stepped into the backyard. He’d have to put on a new roof, of course. Shake shingles were a fire hazard—so was all of Southern California if it came to that. Eighty degrees at the end of November. No amount of backyard sprinklers could disguise its true desert nature. The thought of sprinklers led to thoughts of a shower, which made him remember the cold shower he dove into when he’d realized he was alone in his suite with a gigantic boner, a ticket, and a fake apology.
Damn, why did every thought lead to the ruthless tease Jones? If she’d been trying to get revenge for her ticket, she’d chosen a uniquely frustrating way. Though funny enough, he had to admit. The humor had finally sunk in after his massive hard-on had died down—hours later, it seemed.
So this pleasant, sunny bungalow was his home for the next . . . well, for as far as he could see into the future. Luke would like it—or at least the Luke of a year ago would have. The current, thirteen-year-old version of Luke was a lot harder to please. Roman devoutly hoped this move to California would be a new start for the two of them. He’d already scoped out the neighborhood, delighted to discover a park with a couple of ball fields filled with kids and a potentially acceptable Italian restaurant.
Speaking of Luke . . . He dialed his parents’ number.
“How’s the house, Papa?”
“I think you’re going to like it. Your bedroom looks out on the backyard.”
“A yard. Awesome. What are the people like there?”
Gorgeous, sexy cock teases.
“Like people anywhere,” he said instead. “Maybe a little tanner. They seem to smile more here.”
As they’re making an ass out of you.
“Did you have a nice Thanksgiving with Nonno and Nonna?”
“Yeah. Nonna made that pork dish you like.
And pignoli tart.”
Roman’s mouth watered. Suddenly he missed New York so much he wanted to hit something. His punching bag would do. But it was in the moving truck along with the rest of their things and not due to arrive until tomorrow.
“Nonno wants to take me to a Green Day concert next summer.”
“What?” He’d misheard that, right? “You’re barely thirteen. And your grandfather’s over sixty.”
“And you’re way too strict. He likes them. And he says you’re too ‘stodgy’ for a single father. You need to loosen up.”
“He said I need to loosen up?” Roman knew for a fact that phrase did not exist in his Italian father’s vocabulary.
“Not exactly. But he said something about la dolce vita. Doesn’t that mean relax and enjoy sh— stuff? And not be so strict?”
Roman decided to ignore the whole line of conversation. “Did they book a cab for the airport yet?”
“Don’t worry, Papa, of course they did. Nonna’s been cooking food for the trip the last two days.”
“Good. And you’ll have a flight attendant watching out for you too.” He already knew how stressful Luke’s solo flight would be—for him, not for Luke.
“I’m not a baby, Papa.” Luke heaved a mortified sigh. Roman supposed it wasn’t the easiest thing to be the son of a hyper-protective single father. But nothing in this world was going to bring harm to his son if he could help it.
“I better go, kid. Gotta get to the uniform store.”
“Give ’em hell, Papa.”
“Excuse me?”
“Didn’t Harry Truman say that first? If it’s okay for a president, why not me?”
Roman grumbled. “Ti voglio bene, Lucito,” and hung up before Luke could protest the Italian diminutive he hated.
Sabina stopped by La Piaggia on the way to work. Anu bustled around the kitchen, badgering the breakfast chef, who looked grateful to see Sabina arrive.
“Get yourself a double espresso, I’ll be out in a minute,” Anu ordered, tossing her black braid over her shoulder. A tiny diamond dot sparkled in one nostril, and the red bindi on her forehead proclaimed she was married, though Sabina rarely saw her husband. Apparently he worked a lot, and they had a friendly if passion-free marriage.
Typical Anu, specifying the drink Sabina was to have. What if she’d changed her usual order and opted for a cappuccino instead? But Sabina didn’t mind; Anu was the only person stubborn enough to insist on being Sabina’s friend despite her constant wariness.
She took a gulp of espresso and looked at her watch. Her shift started in ten minutes. A warning nagged in her memory, telling her today something important was happening and she shouldn’t be late. But Anu plopped down in the seat across from her in a flurry of saffron-yellow sari silk.
“I believe I have talked my parents into adding mango lassi to the menu.”
“Really? An actual Indian dish? Should I call the Channel Six news?”
“Very amusing. We’re going to call it mango gelato.” Her full lips quivered with humor. Anu had the brightest, most intelligent eyes of anyone Sabina knew.
Sabina snorted. “I think your parents need to give San Gabriel more credit. Have you forgotten about Bombay Deluxe?”
Anu’s eyes sharpened. “Be quiet. Do you want my parents to overhear?” San Gabriel’s only Indian restaurant, run by Pakistanis, was a sore point with Anu’s family. “So . . . did you meet anyone interesting in Reno?”
Sabina nearly swallowed the lemon twist that came with her espresso. “You’re freaking eerie.”
“I knew it! As soon as I saw you I knew it. You have that perfectly dreamy look.”
“I have to go.” Sabina set down her tiny cup on its saucer and rose to her feet.
“What was his name? What does he do? Would I like him?”
“Don’t know, can’t imagine, and have no idea.”
Anu stared, her shining eyes going wide. “Didn’t I tell you about anonymous strangers?”
“So you did. And look—I have a few of these left over.” She pulled out the stash of condoms she still had in her purse.
“Put those away,” hissed Anu, whipping her head around to watch for her highly conservative Hindu parents.
“Fine. More for me.” Sabina smiled, feeling like a cat with a bowl of cream. Teasing Anu was always so much fun.
Anu shook her head scoldingly, trying hard not to laugh. “You now owe me every detail, Sabina Jones, you wicked girl. Come tonight and I’ll make you some chana masala.”
“Throw in some naan and you’ve got a deal. But it’ll have to be tomorrow. I’m on shift tonight.”
“Patience I will practice.”
They parted after a quick hug. Sabina dashed to her car. Damn, she was going to be late. That bit of memory lurking in her brain raised the alarm again. Today was a big day for some reason.
Her cell phone rang, but she let the call go to voice mail.
At Fire Station 1, she screeched her El Camino into her usual parking spot and flew through the side door, which opened into the apparatus bay. It was empty but for the sparkling fire engines and a spooky silence. She took Brent’s coat out of Engine 1, stashed it in his locker, and put her own gear in its place—the official signal that she was now on shift and he could go home.
She checked her watch. One minute after the start of lineup. No problem, she’d just sidle in the back, join the guys as they listened to Captain Kelly talk about new safety bulletins and who was getting overtime this week . . . Suddenly she remembered the nature of the big thing happening today. The new training officer was starting.
He was rumored to be a total hard-ass. They’d been told they’d meet him at lineup.
She rushed to her locker, grabbed her uniform, ran to the female dorm area, and changed in record time. From the kitchen she heard a deep, unfamiliar voice. Tightening her belt, she dashed down the corridor. Maybe she could sneak in at the back of the crowd. Maybe the new training officer would never notice her. Maybe . . .
She skidded to a halt next to Vader, pinned to the spot by a pair of smoldering black eyes glaring at her from what seemed an impossible height.
“You’re in trouble now,” whispered Vader out of the corner of his mouth.
He had no idea.
It took every ounce of the self-control he’d developed from being the most feared fire captain in the history of Brooklyn fire stations for Roman to hide his reaction to the sight of the elusive Jones.
She looked different, of course. Her lovely hair was constricted into a braid that flew behind her as she dashed into the room. Her uniform hid the lithe figure that had haunted him every night since she’d run out on him. But he’d never forget those eyes, which were now wide with shock in a face gone suddenly white.
Good, he thought savagely. Let her quake in her shoes for a while. Captain Kelly continued going over the names of the crew members who hadn’t yet introduced themselves. They were all a vague buzz until it was Jones’s turn.
“I’m Firefighter Jones,” she said in a subdued voice.
So at least she’d given him her real last name. That made things a little better.
“Are you in the habit of being tardy?”
“No, sir.”
The big guy next to her spoke up. “I can second that, sir—”
“This isn’t a democracy,” Roman barked. “This is a firehouse. Firehouses require discipline.” He stared down the assembled firefighters, who looked slightly shocked. He had to admit they were a good-looking bunch, save for one older man who had quite the belly on him.
Captain Kelly, a mild-mannered veteran who was filling in as the scheduled overtime duty, better known as “SOD,” captain until a permanent replacement for Captain Brody was named, finished introducing the crew and gestured for Roman to take over.
Roman stepped forward. “I’m Battalion Chief Rick Roman, the section commander in charge of the Training Section, specializing as the department’s safety officer and hazmat s
pecialist. Fire Chief Renteria has asked me to run the section and act as the training officer at Station 1 for the time being. I’ll be riding with all the companies as needed for training purposes and to observe.
“I’m here for another purpose as well. I’ll be filling in for Battalion Chief Drake, who will be stationed here as soon as he recovers from knee surgery. Which brings me to my real job, which is to whip this place into shape. The fire chief wants more discipline here. This firehouse has become a national joke. I hear they call you the Bachelor Firemen of San Gabriel. You’ve even been on America’s Next Top Model. Girls infiltrate the premises so they can meet you.”
The big-bellied guy spoke up. “The girls don’t do that so much now that Ryan’s gone.” He added under his breath, “More’s the pity.”
Roman drilled him with a long stare, which had the result of making more words flow from the rattled fireman’s mouth.
“That’s Ryan Blake, Hoagie to us. You probably read about his wedding. They had it on the news. Marzipan cake with butter cream frosting. Him and Katie are on their honeymoon right now. Camping in Mexico—”
He closed his mouth abruptly as Roman stalked over to him. “Have you read the Rules and Regs, Section D, subsection 24 lately?”
The man’s eyes scuttled from side to side, as if searching for a manual. Roman didn’t enjoy making people uncomfortable, but the issue was an important one.
“Firefighter Breen, you know the regs, right? Remind Firefighter Lee of this section.”
Stud looked as though he’d rather throw himself into a tar pit. But under Roman’s relentless gaze, he mumbled, “Firefighters shall maintain a level of fitness suitable for performance of their duties. Regular testing of such shall be administered at random intervals determined by the station commander.”
“Random intervals,” Roman repeated. “Could be today. Could be tomorrow. Are you ready, Firefighter Lee?”
A wave of red slowly crept up the man’s face. Roman took a step back; he’d made his point. He addressed the entire group. “After lineup, we’ll do some drills. Over the next few weeks, I want to see how each of you performs basic fire ground operations—hose lays, ladders, search and rescue, ventilations, rapid intervention, forceful entry. I want to be impressed. I expect to be impressed. Station 1 is a top-performing fire station, despite the tabloid crap.”
Sex and the Single Fireman: A Bachelor Firemen Novel Page 3
