Obtaining permits and funding and during the renovations, dealing with all the paperwork involved in starting the business of creating a shelter, she hadn’t run up against much opposition. Oh, a few disgruntled comments from the neighbors on the quiet street, until she reassured the City Council and neighborhood residents that she had no intention of providing shelter to criminals out on parole nor to pedophiles or anyone involved with drugs. She was not a halfway house. She was a shelter intended for battered women, runaways, the homeless, and for the temporarily down and out. She had held another small meeting after that with the neighbors of this street at the local library, again assured them that each of her boarders or residents would be held to strict rules when it came to smoking, drinking, and guests. No one had really put up much of an opposition after that.
She could understand their concerns. Children lived on this street. It was a quiet neighborhood; mostly lower middle class. Decent people. The neighborhood was not known for drugs or crime. As a matter of fact, no unusual incidents or trouble had occurred on this quiet, suburban street, at least as long as she had lived here.
Her tennis shoes made little sound on the floorboards as she made her way back toward the kitchen. The stairway rose on her right, the dining room on the same side, the kitchen to the left. When she stepped into the kitchen she clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with alarm.
“Oh, my God!”
7
Liam
Liam spun around, startled. It took a moment to register. “Meg . . . Miss Devers, what are you doing here?” He frowned, lifting the clipboard in his hand as he stepped toward her. “You shouldn’t be back here until I’ve completed my investigation.”
“I heard what you said,” she replied, her gaze passing over the destruction in the kitchen.
He felt a wave of pity. He’d learned a bit more about her and her business from her residents after she had been taken to the hospital. He’d talked to a few of them before the Red Cross had arrived to help with a temporary relocation. Apparently Meg had worked furiously to create this shelter. She hadn’t been up and running for long, maybe eight months or so, and here she was, faced with a potentially devastating loss. She stood, still dressed in her lightweight pajama bottoms and T-shirt, and formerly white tennis shoes, taking in the damage. The thin shirt clung to her every curve, her nipples poking under the thin fabric. Liam quickly pulled his gaze upward. What the hell was that all about? He had to stop ogling the poor woman! But damn, he’d never experienced such instantaneous sexual attraction to any woman, not even his ex-wife. So why Meg? Why now?
Her eyes shone with tears again and he cursed himself for making her cry. He spoke again, softer this time. “Meg, you shouldn’t be in here.” She ignored him.
“Do you know what caused it? Was it something wrong with the wiring?” She looked at him, eyes wide. “I had it all checked out. I’ve got the proof—” She waved her hand around, before her shoulders sagged in defeat. “Well, somewhere.”
“The wiring looks fine.”
She looked down at the floor, stared hard at it. “Downstairs, was that . . . did that body belong to Tim? Was he smoking? I saw the ashtray down there. I have strict rules against smoking.”
“I don’t know if the body was your resident or not. I don’t think they’ve made a positive ID yet.” She looked at him, either not comprehending, or dazed, or still in shock. Possibly all three.
“Was it cigarettes? Was it a cigarette that started the fire?”
“Meg, I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation.”
“This is my home! I have a right to know!”
Her raised, trembling voice, coupled with a firm stomp of her for foot against a floorboard surprised him. Everything must be catching up with her now, the adrenaline fading but not the memories. Being awakened in the middle of the night by fire. The fear of being trapped up in the attic, followed by a scary rescue from the busted-out attic window. The discovery of the body downstairs, followed by her ride to the hospital and then an interview at the GBI office. He was surprised she was still standing. She had to be running on a short fuse, her emotions in turmoil. He’d often seen these reactions in victims. Victims, not usually suspects. Their emotions could be uncontrollable, often volatile. Gut-wrenching depths of confusion and despair as a person experienced their world collapsing around them. He took a step toward her.
“Meg, I understand.” He extended his hand and reached for her elbow, intending to guide her out of the kitchen. “When I finish my investigation, you’ll be the first to know.”
She jerked her arm from his grasp and glared at him. “No I won’t,” she snapped. “Those detectives from the GBI will. They think that I—” her voice choked and she paused to inhale shakily. “They think I set the fire, for insurance money.”
She looked at him, her eyes glazed with tears, her lips trembling.
“I didn’t,” she insisted, shaking her head. “I didn’t do that . . . I would never do that . . .”
She began to cry. Another typical reaction, but for some reason, the sight of her tears streaming down her cheeks touched him like it never had before. “Meg, it’ll be all right.”
“No, it won’t,” she muttered, standing with her shoulders slumped, head bent, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. She moaned and her knees began to sag.
Liam quickly tossed the clipboard onto the kitchen counter and reached for her, pulling her into his arms. All the while he told himself he shouldn’t, he should let go, insist that she go outside. But the sight of her—so despondent, so crushed—compelled him to wrap his arms around her. He couldn’t stop himself. What was it about her that drew him to her? He’d been in the presence of many women dealing with the aftermath of tragedy. He’d never felt compelled to do more than offer them verbal comfort.
But this woman . . . Meg . . .
The minute he wrapped his arms around her, her arms wrapped around his waist. She fit against his body perfectly. They pressed together, almost in a desperate need for contact. Liam stood there, almost cradling her, for several moments. He told himself repeatedly to release her, to let her go, but his body wasn’t listening. Finally, he eased his position, trying to give her an out if she decided to take the hint and move away. She didn’t.
Meg wept, one hand grasping his shoulder, unconsciously kneading the muscles there. Once more his body ignored his brain and Liam lifted one hand and placed it on the back of her head, gently stroking her hair, murmuring wordless sounds of comfort. She whimpered against his chest and pressed herself harder against him. Fuck. He couldn’t help it. His dick responded. The blood rushed south, and the heat, the pressure of her breasts against his chest, her warm breath caressing the base of his throat, it all conspired against him and his self-control. Without thinking, he leaned his head down closer to hers, his lips gently brushing against her ear.
That was all it took. In the next instant her face had lifted to his, her lips seeking his. Or was it the other way around? It didn’t matter. Her body pressed up against his, he felt every curve of her breasts, her hipbones, her thighs, pressing against him. Her body was so close to his she couldn’t mistake his erection for anything else, but she didn’t pull away. Her arms pulled him even closer, her breasts squashed against his chest. The voices in his head told him to walk away. He ignored them. Surely she didn’t want this? Once she realized what the hard ridge pressing against her stomach was, she’d push him away, disgusted. But she didn’t.
She moaned low in her throat, almost grinding herself against him. Liam groaned as her hand strayed from his shoulder to the back of his neck, then the side of his head, encouraging him to turn his face toward hers. She lifted herself onto her toes and kissed his lips, tentative at first. Gentle, feather soft at first, and then deepening. Her lips were soft, luscious, and they knew how to kiss.
Pull away, God damn it!
His lips ignored him, too. The kiss, alternating between heated and passionate, ha
rsh even, then easing toward a gentle nuzzling, captivated him. He’d been kissed before, no doubt about that, but not by a total stranger—a stranger that felt perfectly comfortable in his arms, like she belonged there. Her tongue darted out and tentatively touched his lips, prompting him to open his mouth and let her tongue inside. God help him, he did. And responded in kind. He leaned down over her, enveloping her in his arms, returning the same pressure she did with her mouth, allowing her to set the tone. He gave her full control, let her guide him to provide what she needed. What she wanted.
Mewling sounds escaped her throat. The kiss sent his blood racing, his already thickening dick throbbing with desire, growing harder by the second. His blood surged through his veins. How long had it been since he’d kissed a woman? Six months maybe? He’d lost track. This—this moment, was what he’d obviously been waiting for. The pressure of her lips on his made him forget anyone else.
He was caught up in the moment. Her hands were everywhere. Clasping his head, then his biceps, as if she wanted to memorize every contour of his body. One hand grasping his bicep, she slid the other to rest on his pec, but not for long. That hand slowly slid downward along his thigh then up along the inseam of his pants, seeking the outline of his cock. She groped, gently, slid her hand along its length and then to his crotch, rubbing where his balls had hardened. She squeezed gently a couple of times and then her hand returned to his cock, rubbing slowly, languorously along its length. God, he was going to explode in his pants like a teenager.
He stood there, keeping his hands to himself for the moment, allowing her the control. What he wanted to do was pull that T-shirt over her head and suck her breasts. What he wanted to do was get her out of those pajama bottoms and bend her over the kitchen table. To grab her ass cheeks and watch as his cock slid into her wet core like a knife sliding into its sheath. He wanted to feel her muscles clamping around his dick, eliciting those mind-numbing sensations that transported him to another place. A place of pleasure, contentment, of a deep, satisfying union that was only satiated with passionate sex. What he wanted to do was get down on his knees and lick her—
She groaned and ground her hips against his.
His pulse pounded in his veins. He felt it throbbing in his neck, and more in his groin, ever stronger, in tune to his heartbeat. He placed his hand gently over the mound of her breast and then paused, giving her yet another chance to break it off. When she didn’t back away, he slid his palm over her nipple. It hardened instantly into a solid pebble. He did it again, this time with his thumb. He inched his hand under her T-shirt, relishing the texture of her silky smooth skin, so warm to his touch. His hand lingered at her waist, stroking her softly. Meg let him for a few minutes, then impatiently, she grasped his hand and guided it upward toward her breast.
The minute his palm cupped her, she moaned again, thrust her hips against his groin again, as if she couldn’t get close enough. He held the weight of her breast in his palm and then caressed the skin, his fingers tracing the contours of her areola before gently pinching her nipple. She made a strangled noise in her throat, her tongue still tracing the contours of his mouth. His tongue seemed to have a life of its own now, tangling with hers, playing hide and go seek.
It didn’t seem possible, but she pressed her body even closer. He didn’t think there was room to slide paper between them. Her hands roamed over him, almost in desperation, clutching, grasping, stroking. All the pent-up emotions of the past twelve hours exploding in these intense moments of . . . of what?
One last time he gave her an option to break it off. Slowed the movements of his tongue, slid his hand off her breast and down to her waist, but she was having none of it, at least at the moment. Crap, it wasn’t like he objected, other than on an ethical level. He knew that he should not be crossing this line, but when she ground her hips against him again, Liam couldn’t bring himself to care. Again she took the lead and he followed. She placed a hand on the back of his head, gently tugged him downward while she stood on her tiptoes, offering her breasts to him. He reluctantly withdrew his tongue from her mouth and then placed his mouth over the clear outline of her nipple and blew warm air onto it. She moaned. Slowly, giving her a chance to once again change her mind, he lifted the bottom of her T-shirt. Not fast enough or high enough. No, she helped him, one hand reaching down to yank her shirt up, exposing perky breasts, nipples hard and distended with desire, areolas dark pink and obviously aching for his touch.
Liam stared. She was glorious, her breasts plump and inviting. He dipped his head lower and sucked a nipple into his mouth. He suckled, first firmly, taking the entire areola into his mouth, and then more gently, releasing his grip, allowing his tongue to slowly circle the hard little nub. Then suckled again. The fingers of his other hand tweaked and teased the other nipple. Her arms wrapped around his waist, slightly bent backward, holding on for dear life as she moaned, eyes closed, and lips tilted upward. Her soft moans encouraged him. His lips worshipped one breast, one nipple, then the other. Then, all rational thought gone, his desire to touch her pussy overwhelming, his hand dipped to the waistband of her pajamas. He easily slid past the elastic waistband and in small increments, dipped lower.
The sounds escaping her throat made his cock grow impossibly harder. He fought for self-control. His hand made its way down to her mound and then his fingers found her slick wetness. He slid his fingers between her lower lips, just brushing against her entrance, and then back again. Meg’s head fell back and she spread her legs a little bit further apart, inviting his caresses. Liam didn’t make her wait. He stroked his fingers along her wetness, then dipped his middle finger inside. Small increments at a time, his thumb circling her clitoris. She began to thrust her hips against his thigh, against his engorged cock. His eyes closed for a few seconds and he let out a low groan.
His fingers explored, teased, and pleasured. She was so wet, so hot with passion. She began to gyrate slowly on his hand. He nearly came then and there but somehow managed to hang onto his self-control. This was about her. For her. He was handy—no pun intended—to help her release pent-up energy. That was all. The adrenaline rush had given way to the survival instinct. The desire to celebrate and cling to life. The thrill of survival from near-certain death. Relief. Stress relief. Call it what you will; it was nearly instinctual. He realized that. Regrets, if he had any, would come later. For now, he focused on giving her what she needed. That she craved without having to say the words.
He was no stranger to women, or to pleasing them, but Meg . . . God, she was passionate, responding to every swirl of his tongue on her tits, every dip of his finger as he slowly slid it in and out of her pussy. His lips left her breast and found her mouth again, suckling on her tongue, setting the same pace with his finger dipping in and out of her slit. Sucking on her tongue and then playing tag with it, he held his finger deep inside, his palm now pressed against her flesh, the very tip of his finger massaging the smooth, slick muscles surrounding it while her hips gently gyrated and rocked.
The sounds erupting in her throat came faster and her breath filled his mouth, his senses intoxicated with every aspect of her. Her hips pumped faster and then suddenly stopped. She arched upward, grasping onto his arms tightly, fingers pressing deeply into his biceps. He felt the contractions inside her pussy clutching rhythmically at his finger. He suckled harder, holding her pressed close up against him with his arm, her entire body in contact with his. She shuddered, froze, and then, ever so slowly, sagged in his arms.
Liam waited until the pulses of her body stopped completely and then he slowly slid his finger from her core. He pulled up her pajama bottoms, and then wrapped his arm around her waist, holding her up. Literally. Meg leaned against him for support, as if every bone in her body had evaporated and her body was liquid. She needed him, and he was more than willing to give her whatever she desired. He held onto her for several minutes while she regained her composure, until her breathing slowed. And then he felt her stiffen. It didn’t
take as long as he thought it would.
As if waking from a dream, he heard her gasp. Stiffening even more in his embrace before she took a step back. He loosened his grip and let her go, stared down at her while she stared up at him in stunned amazement. Not embarrassment. Was she as startled as he? Maybe thinking the same thing? What the hell had just happened? He’d never allowed his own emotions or desire to run roughshod over him. His cock still throbbing with desire, he cleared his throat and like her, took a step back. They stared at each other for several moments, her face flushed with the heat of passion, her eyes wide, her pupils still dilated with the aftermath of her orgasm.
And then . . . the moment passed. She blinked, cleared her throat, and glanced around. Damn, she’d been vulnerable and he’d taken advantage. He should have stopped her. He moved and her scent wafted over him. She should be furious with him, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
8
Meg
Her body still thrumming with sensation, Meg stared at Liam. Did her confusion match the startled expression on his face? What the hell had just happened? And more importantly, why? She had never, ever done such a thing in her life! Never thrown herself in the arms of any man, not even her husband. Certainly never allowed a perfect stranger to . . . well, to do what he had done. In fact, she had never experienced such thrilling, invigorating, awe-inspiring passion. It might be cliché, but it was true. Not even her ex-husband had ever made her feel so . . . so alive. So desired. Just the thought of Liam’s fingers—no, don’t go there again. Even as she refused to allow her memory to venture backward, she felt the muscles in her pussy contracting with renewed desire.
Fighting the Flames (Southern Heat Book 2) Page 5
