Sex and the Single Fireman: A Bachelor Firemen Novel

by Jennifer Bernard

  “I’d look forward to it.” His laugh made his chest rumble under her hand. The vibrations traveled up her arm directly to her heart, which turned fluttery as a trapped moth. “But go on. You lost me at transsexual. You didn’t like being stuck in this beautiful, delicious, sexy, desirable, strong, flexible, sensual . . . I’m out of adjectives. I need a thesaurus.”

  He stroked the slope of her hip with his fingertips, then dipped down to the valley between her hipbones. “Go on.”

  She shivered but soldiered on. “I always felt like I’d stumbled into the wrong existence. I was a tomboy. All I wanted to do was run wild and play.”

  “Like Taffy.”

  “Yeah, her character was a lot like me. But playing Taffy was boring. Memorizing lines and standing around while they set up the shots. I wanted to be doing something. I used to watch TV for the commercials because that’s how I thought ordinary people lived. You know, the Tide mom tossing her little boy’s muddy baseball clothes into the washing machine. That sort of thing.”

  “A TV star watching commercials to see how the other half lives, huh?”

  “I know, it sounds weird. I never had anyone to really talk to. My mother . . . well, you have some idea of what she’s like. My only other friends were kids who were on the show, and they came and went. Once one of the lighting guys brought his daughter to work and we got to be friends, but my mother didn’t approve because she wasn’t very pretty and had no future in show business.”

  “Seriously?”

  “She’s very single-minded. Especially back then, the only thing that mattered to her was furthering her career. Our career, since we were cast as a mother-daughter team.” That sounded too harsh, so she added, “She loosened up a little once the show became a hit and we had some money. Does it sound like I don’t love my mother? Because I do, I swear. We were so close for all those years. So close. I wish we could . . . “ She shook off the wistful thought of having her mother back, without the Hollywood trappings. “I can’t go back to her world.”

  He nodded gravely. She wondered if she sounded selfish, too worried about herself. “People think it’s glamorous being on TV, but I didn’t like it at all. You’re always worried about what you look like. And people have all these funny ideas about you before they’ve even met you. Then they do meet you and they don’t want to get to know you. They just want Taffy. The first time I walked into the Firefighter Academy and no one recognized me, I nearly cried from relief. I know it’s hard to understand.”

  He put a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. “Relax. I’m not judging you. I just want to know what it was like.”

  Sabina lost herself in those dark eyes as they scanned her face in a slow, thorough scrutiny. He really meant it, she realized. He wanted to get to know her. Her. Not Taffy, not Annabelle’s daughter, not the wary, guarded firefighter, but her.

  Strange thought.

  “Do I sound like some spoiled Hollywood actress babbling on about myself?”

  He snorted. “You’re off base with that one. You want to make me happy?”

  “I’ve been trying,” she purred, caressing his leg with her foot. “Haven’t I been succeeding?”

  “Hell, yes. I can’t argue with your methods.” He smoothed his hand across her chest, spanning her nipples with his hand. A helpless, melting sensation made her limbs feel heavy. “But what I’d really love is some more of that babbling. I want to know everything about you. I want to know how you came out of such a crazy upbringing with your head screwed on right. I want to know if you liked anything at all about Hollywood. I want to know your favorite commercial besides Tide. Everything.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Don’t make me tease it out of you.” He held one nipple between his thumb and forefinger and gently rolled it until her vision blurred.

  “If you put it that way . . .”

  So she obliged him and dredged up some Hollywood memories, discovering in the process that she hadn’t hated everything about her old life. Working with Beau Bridges had been pretty cool. Not to mention the PSA she’d done with Clint Eastwood. She’d been to Skywalker Ranch and Neverland, though she’d never witnessed anything unusual there. She was a huge fan of Julia Roberts, who’d always been very nice to her. If she’d been born a little later, she would have loved to star in a Harry Potter movie. “Even a little part, like a Hufflepuff student or a Quidditch player.”

  “So you like movies.”

  “Of course I do. Just because I don’t want to be in them doesn’t mean I don’t want to watch them.”

  “I see what you mean. Just because I like putting out fires doesn’t mean I want to be in one.”

  “Right.” She seized the chance to change the subject. Time for his turn in the hot seat. “What was your first fire—”

  “Speaking of fires, I feel like starting one right now.”

  Playfully, he flipped her around so she lay on her stomach and tickled her sides and the tender skin of her ass until she begged him to stop. Her attempt to get him to talk disappeared in an all-consuming sexual blaze.

  He settled himself over her, spreading her open and seeking her heat with his strong fingers. She bit the sheets to keep from moaning too loud, but she couldn’t help it, it felt so good the way he moved his fingers against her sensitive flesh. When a thumb snuck inside and skillfully pressed a spot she didn’t even know existed, she bucked hard against his hand, twisting and groaning while he wrested the last spasm of orgasm from her body. Then he eased himself inside her—God, he felt even bigger from this angle—and reduced her to helpless babbling with a few feral strokes of his cock.

  After he exploded into his own intense, groaning orgasm and rolled next to her, she drew her knees to her chest, curling up like a baby. How many condoms had they gone through by now? They couldn’t seem to get enough of each other. It was almost scary.

  “We should take a break,” she whispered raggedly. “Get some sleep.”

  “I can’t.” He flung an arm across his eyes. His chest rose and fell, his breath coming in great, jagged bursts. “Damn you.”

  “You’re blaming me?”

  “I can’t stop looking at you. And when I look at you I want to touch you. And when I touch you I want to make love to you. It’s all your fault.”

  She sighed, too wrung out to argue. After that they must have slept for a bit. When she woke up the sky outside the window was starting to get light. A bolt of panic brought her upright.

  A new day meant a return to the rest of the world. They were both off for the day, but Luke would be back, and she probably shouldn’t be here when that happened, because how would they explain this to him, how would they explain it to anyone? They couldn’t, not if they both wanted to stay at the San Gabriel firehouse. This could never happen again, could it?

  She burrowed her head into the great hunk of hot male flesh next to her. Never before had she realized what a comfort it was to have a man sleeping in her bed. She’d always maintained a wary, no-strings attitude toward relationships. Intimacy meant sharing secrets, and she couldn’t do that. But Roman already knew her secret. He knew all about her now.

  But she didn’t know anything else about him. She’d done all the talking.

  She made a move to get out of bed, but a heavy arm flopped across her waist and pinned her down.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Roman rumbled sleepily.

  “Um . . . bathroom.”

  “Come right back. It’s cold in here without you.”

  “Okay,” she whispered, and slipped out of bed. In the bathroom, she stared at herself sternly in the mirror. The smartest thing would be to hightail it out of there and not get in any deeper than she already was. She’d opened herself more tonight than she ever had. And he’d told her exactly nothing in return. She didn’t know much about relationships, but that sounded like a recipe for heartbreak.

  But the thought of walking away from the warm nest of his king-size bed a
nd his emperor-size body was simply intolerable. Not when she’d been alone for so long.

  She’d give herself this one night. Surely her heart would survive one night with Roman.

  Back in his bedroom, she snuggled next to him, wrapping his arms around her and glorying in the heat radiating from every part of him. Roman put out a lot of BTUs. Maybe they could measure a man’s hotness with thermal units, and if they could, he’d be off the charts . . . and she needed his heat, after an entire lifetime of being cold . . .

  She fell asleep again.

  Night snuck out of the house like a restless guest on its way to another party. Roman had no idea how much rest either he or Sabina had gotten, but it couldn’t have been much, in between delving into Sabina’s past and savoring her luscious body. He found both those activities dangerously addictive. He could happily watch her talk and move and sleep for a thousand more nights like that.

  But, judging by the peach-pink light filtering into the room, the sun had risen. The incessant murmur of mourning doves greeted the new day. Any minute now the neighbor’s sprinklers would go off. Newspapers would land on sidewalks with a thump. Cars would begin leaving driveways, life would go on.

  Last night, or another one just like it, would probably never happen again, though he could barely form the thought without pain. She’d been so generous with her confidences, allowing him a glimpse inside the true Sabina, sweet and open and lovable. Why hadn’t he done the same? Why hadn’t he told her about Maureen, about the most important events of his life?

  He didn’t know why. Maybe it was because he wasn’t much of a talker. Ask Luke. Ask any of the counselors who’d offered their help after 9/11. Ask his parents, his crew. Even Maureen would have agreed. Talking wasn’t his style. But he could do something else for her.

  He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, pulled on a pair of loose cotton drawstring pants, gave the sleeping Sabina one last lingering look, and made for the door. In the sunny kitchen, he ground some of his favorite coffee beans and tossed olive oil into his best cast-iron pan. Not just any olive oil, of course. Extra virgin olive oil straight from Lucca, Italy, where he was convinced the very best olive oil was pressed.

  He chopped some black olives—Greek, because, he had to admit, the Greeks out-olived the Italians. Wild mushrooms, scallions, some goat cheese, tomatoes . . . oops, he’d forgotten the toast. Back in New York, he often went to his favorite bakery, Pietro’s, for a baguette first thing in the morning. He hadn’t yet located such a place in San Gabriel, but there was still hope. He was pondering the possibility of luring Pietro to California for the sunny climate—he was getting old, after all—or maybe sending Anu to Brooklyn for some baking lessons—when a sleepy voice greeted him from the door of the kitchen.

  “If only the guys could see you now.”

  He looked over his shoulder at her. She’d located one of his New York Fire Department T-shirts and wore it like a dress. Below the hem, her long legs emerged. The plain cotton and her bare limbs made an intoxicating contrast—innocence and sin. He raised one eyebrow. “Is that a threat? You planning on blackmailing me?”

  “I think it’s weird that you can cook like a demon but don’t take a turn in the cooking rotation. They’d love you forever if they could taste your tomato sauce.”

  He turned back to his omelet and flipped it over. “I don’t let just anyone taste my sauce.”

  She snorted. “That sounds so naughty.”

  “Don’t get me going.” He shot her a dangerous look over his shoulder to drive home his point. The woman was going to drive him mad. Especially when she was rubbing one foot against the back of the opposite calf in that slow, seductive way. “Seriously. I’m cooking you an omelet here. They’re tricky.”

  She dropped the provocative stance and hopped to his side. “Can I watch? No one’s ever cooked me an omelet before. Well, no one I knew personally. Anu doesn’t trust eggs.”

  He held up a hand as a barrier. “You can watch, but give it some space. Omelets can be very sensitive. I make mine with extra egg whites to make them fluffy.”

  “Fluffy.” She made a sound suspiciously like a snicker.

  “Is that funny?” Intently, he lifted one edge of the omelet and let the liquid spill over.

  “It’s not every day you hear a big, sexy hunk of a fireman say the word ‘fluffy.’ ”

  He frowned. “Why not? Fluffy bunny, fluffy hair, fluffy snow. Fluffy fluffy fluffy.”

  She let out a hoot of laughter and jogged his elbow, making the spatula tear the just-forming omelet. After that he banished her to the kitchen table until she could get control of herself.

  Dio, she was fun to be with. Every moment in her company made him realize how lonely he’d been since Maureen’s death. How isolated. He hadn’t joined any counseling groups, any 9/11 widowers’ groups. He hadn’t wanted Maureen to be defined by the way she’d died. He’d kept his horror and grief private, even from his family and the guys at the firehouse.

  His way of honoring Maureen had been to keep doing the job they’d both loved. Raise their son, put out fires, keep putting one foot in front of the other. All the joy in his life had come from Luke. He hadn’t had another adult to laugh with until . . . well, now.

  Roman had gone quiet while he finished the omelet. Sabina could practically see an imaginary wall being erected around him. Not that she’d complain about the fact that a bare-chested, gorgeous man was making her breakfast. She couldn’t keep her eyes off his ass, those tight buttocks draped in thin cotton, unless it was to travel up the smooth curve of the ridged muscles along his spine to the broad, powerful shoulders bent over the stove.

  Incredible smells drifted from that stove. Earthy mushrooms, rich butter, virile man . . . Mouth watering, she feasted her eyes on him.

  He flipped the omelet onto a plate and added a piece of buttered toast. Sabina licked her lips as he brought her his masterpiece.

  “Do you know the first time I ate actual butter was after I left home? My mother had very strict policies about dairy products.”

  He shuddered. “Life without butter. I don’t want to think about it.” After arranging a parade of jam jars in front of her, he poured her a cup of coffee. “Cream?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  “That’s the attitude. By the way, this omelet is known as a Rapscallion Omelet in my family.”

  “A what?”

  “I learned how to make it from my Zio Paolo, my uncle, who used to call me a rapscallion. I thought he meant the scallions he threw in the omelet.”

  “Cute.” She smiled a little sadly—she’d always wanted uncles and aunts and cousins—and took a bite. Her eyes closed in bliss. “I never knew a rapscallion could taste so good.”

  “You make that sound so naughty.”

  She laughed through her mouthful of omelet, then put up a hand calling for silence. She didn’t want anything to distract from her single-minded appreciation of his creation.

  “You like it?” He sounded so vulnerable, so eager, like a little boy asking for his mother’s approval. So endearing, she could barely stand it.

  “Um . . . yeah. I like it. I love it. It’s incredible. You’re incredible.” She dropped her eyes, embarrassed, and spooned a dollop of cream into her coffee. Her first sip elicited a new groan of ecstasy.

  “You know, nothing is quite as satisfying as watching someone enjoy my cooking. Not even putting out a fire.”

  “You must be very satisfied right now.”

  “Oh, I am.” He waggled his eyebrows at her in a piratical leer that made her stomach tighten. He went back to the stove to make his own omelet. They ate the rest of the meal in reverent, companionable silence. A sense of utter rightness and harmony made Sabina’s heart sing. Sitting here with him, eating the omelet he’d made for her from a family recipe, an omelet with a family joke name, was a dose of heaven.

  It took the edge off the fact that he hadn’t opened up to her last night the way she had.

 
; Maybe the Rapscallion Omelet and Zio Paolo would be the just the beginning. Maybe soon she’d know all his secrets too, and the invisible wall around him would topple.

  When Roman finished eating, he sat back with a sigh and reached for the remote. “Let’s see if they had any calls last night.”

  When he clicked on the little TV that sat on the kitchen counter, Ella Joy’s perfect face appeared. Sabina squinted at the banner headline at the bottom of the screen. “ ‘Scandal at the Firehouse’? What’s she talking about?”

  “Can’t be good.” Grimly, Roman turned the volume up.

  “A fellow Lush patron caught the entire incident on his cell phone.” The TV screen filled with a blurry, grainy video of Roman slamming his fist into Vader’s jaw. Damn, he’d hit him hard.

  “Battalion Chief Ricardo—Rick— Roman and Firefighter Derek Brown are seen here duking it out in a local bar. Not just any bar, but one of San Gabriel’s best-known gay bars. Clearly, there’s a story here, but no one’s talking, including Fire Chief Rent-a-Mirr— that is, Fire Chief Renteria. Attempts to reach Chief Roman have been unsuccessful. Brown’s only comment consisted of a profanity we can’t repeat here, per FCC regulations. But”—the anchorwoman winked—“it began with an F, ended with an F, and had two words.” Ella Joy paused, giving viewers time to figure it out. “More to come on this developing story as the day progresses.”

  “I believe the phrase she means,” said Roman, hurling his toast at the television, “is ‘fuck off.’ ”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Did I somehow give you the idea that you were hired to make things worse?”

  Grimacing, Roman held the phone away from his ear. He couldn’t blame Renteria for his angry rant. He just wished he had something to offer in the way of an explanation.

  But the fire chief didn’t even pause to listen to the lack of one. “On Channel Two they’re saying the two of you were fighting over a woman. On Channel Six they’re hinting at a homosexual affair. I’m surprised someone isn’t saying two-headed aliens were involved.”