by Anne Calhoun
She wanted it as much as he did but that didn’t stop her from alternating between scraping her nails very gently along the shaft and cupping his balls as she eased the condom down. When it was on, he captured her wrists and pinned them to the bed above her head.
“You’re a tease,” he growled as he spread her legs with his knees. “A dirty tease.”
“Dirty, yes, but I don’t see how you can call me— she started, but then his thick cock slid inside her, stroking over nerve endings screaming with unfulfilled stimulation. The rest of her sentence disappeared into a helpless little whimper. Her legs drew up against his hips when he began to move, but sweat eased the friction between his hair-roughened skin and the grippy patent leather.
“Still feel like arguing?” he asked as if he didn’t already know the answer.
It was deliciously primitive, the sight of his hard body poised over hers, his arms rigid as he pinned her wrists by her head and took possession of her body with a heavy, purposeful thrust. His dark, possessive gaze roamed from her hair to her mouth, pausing to watch the soft flesh of her breasts jiggle with each deep thrust, drifted over the disheveled red velvet rucked up to expose her mound, then lingered where their bodies joined.
A low groan reverberated in his chest. Sweat trailed down his torso, plunked against her breasts. Need crested inside her, made her struggle in his grip. In response he went to his elbows, stretching her arms overhead; the change in angle sent his cock gliding over the sensitive bundle of nerves inside her sheath. Darkness closed around her until her gasping release, ten times more powerful than the last, flung her into the void. With a harsh grunt Ronan ground against her as his own orgasm wracked his body.
Why? The question surfaced from the blackness. Why was it more powerful with him inside her?
It’s intimate. The connection between blood and bone binds you together. Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. And the two shall become one. Remember?
Ronan gently disengaged their bodies, then collapsed beside her. “I love Christmas,” he said to the ceiling.
The unexpected remark, a spontaneous expression of sentiment about the holidays, was so uncharacteristic of Ronan that she froze.
Unaware of her response, he gave a pleased chuckle, then rolled off the bed and headed for the bathroom. By the time he returned she’d struggled upright, the simple task made nearly impossible by the languid heat loosening her muscles. She flattened the bodice against her ribs and reached around to fumble with the zipper.
“Let me get that.” With those gentle words he sat beside her and zipped up the dress. When she stood, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her back to the bed, a task made easier by her weakened knees. He brushed her tumbled hair over her shoulder, then kissed the bared skin. “I’m glad you came over tonight.”
Her heart knocked hard against her ribs, but she forced herself to meet his eyes. He hadn’t seen her in a couple of weeks; between her after-hours work at the data center and his rotating schedule at the firehouse, they hadn’t been able to get together. Hook up. With Christmas bearing down like a speeding truck, she’d just turn the music up louder, make the sex steamier, until she made it to New Year’s Eve.
“I’m glad you found me helpful,” she said, but the words didn’t come out as lightly as she wanted.
“Speaking of helpful, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“What?” she asked, and tried to stand again. This time her legs held her, but Ronan also didn’t stop her. Instead he looked up at her.
“I know you’re covering shifts for Brent and Lisa so they can spend time with their families over the holidays, but you should get one day off. How about making it Christmas Eve? I usually decorate my tree then. Want to help me this year? Since you’re feeling all helpful about Christmas,” he finished.
Her heart turned over in her chest at his crooked, hopeful grin, but as the seconds ticked by his smile faltered, then disappeared. “Ronan,” she said gently. “Let’s not do this. Let’s not make the holidays into something they aren’t for us.”
He stood and folded his arms across his bare chest. “Is it too soon?” he asked brusquely.
She looked into his now-shuttered eyes. “It’s been two years. It’s not too soon,” she said, and brushed by him to find her coat.
He caught up with her in the hallway. “What’s wrong? Jesus, Thea,” he said and put his hand on her arm to prevent her from shrugging into her patent-leather shell. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset,” she stated calmly.
“The fuck you’re not,” he said. “I saw it when I opened the door, but you unbuttoned the coat and my brain shut down. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
Ronan the Rescuer loomed over her, big and tough and willing to throw himself at whatever fire appeared, literal or metaphorical, but this wasn’t hot flames. This was the cold fire of hell no one could rescue her from, because nothing was wrong, except her husband was dead. Had been for two years today. Her therapist prattled on about the stages of grieving, the importance of moving through them. If Thea heard coming to terms with your loss one more time she would go stark raving mad. She didn’t deny Jesse’s death. She made no bargains, felt no pain or guilt. She felt nothing at all. He was two years dead, the victim of an Ohio snowstorm and an arrogant moron in a Tahoe who thought four-wheel drive meant he could speed on ice.
They’d loved Christmas, blended traditions from his big Catholic family and hers, made great gingerbread and horrible fruitcake, hung lights, sent cards, shopped for gifts together, sponsored a down-on-their-luck family every year. Switched from their ongoing exploration of alternative and underground music to an all-Christmas-all-the-time playlist. A professor of anthropology, Jesse believed in the power of metaphor, so they’d lit candles everywhere. Created light, and love, in the darkness of the year. But two years ago fat red and green Christmas candles gave way to slim cream tapers at a Catholic funeral mass.
Thea hadn’t lit a candle since.
“Nothing’s wrong,” she said, and stepped away from him to pull on her coat. “I’m sorry I’ve given you the impression that this means more than it does,” she said as she swiftly buttoned the coat and snugged the belt around her waist.
“Given me the impression?” He wasn’t mocking her. Disbelief and a refusal to accept what he heard rang in his voice. “You’re the most complicated woman I’ve ever met. You’d never give anything so weak as an impression. One look from you hits me like an express train blasting through a local station, and you’re not even trying.”
Darkness had weight, but the concept was ridiculous, given that she felt as unsubstantial as air. Desperate to get away, she twisted the deadbolt and hauled open the door. “Thank you for the invitation, but I think it’s best if we end—
“Thea.”
She stopped. Stopped saying the words she couldn’t take back, stopped walking away. The firm command in his voice stopped her in her tracks, the elevators framed in the doorway.
“I just had you under me. You think I don’t know what this means?”
The bluntly sexual words sent shivers racing up her spine. She turned to face him, standing shirtless in the hallway, jeans zipped but not buttoned. “You think sex tells the truth?” she asked gently.
Air huffed mockingly from his nostrils. “You think our bodies tell lies?”
Never challenge an alpha male. Even she knew that, and the bulk of her experience was with beta males—Jesse the bookish scholar, the guys who worked in IT with her. Ronan was a different breed of man all together, good for filling the void inside, not supposed to be interested in anything more.
“I don’t know,” she said simply. “But sex is all this can be, and that’s the truth.”
The lie hung in the air as she closed the door. She had her headphones on by the time she pushed the button for the elevator.
Copyright © 2012 by Anne Calhoun
ISBN-13: 9781460386101
Working With Heat
Copyright © 2015 by Margaret McGrath Cowan
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