Slow Burn (Smoke Jumpers)

by Anne Marsh

  Hollis Anderson swallowed nervously, as if maybe he was finally realizing that this approach wasn’t working out for him. And yet he still didn’t shut the fuck up, just kept right on yammering about all the reasons he should get what he wanted. “I’ve done the coursework. I’ve got a couple of practice jumps in. Give me a chance.”

  “This isn’t a fucking classroom. You want to learn, that’s good. Out there, in the middle of a wildland fire? That shouldn’t be your first choice.” Kid not only possessed bad timing, but he was stupid. He’d be dumb enough to die out there, chasing the blaze he thought he wanted to fight.

  Fingers flexing by his sides, Ben turned away. Yeah, he was pissed. Wanted to hit something. Instead, he practiced maturity, sucking in air and breathing out until the urge to pummel something—someone—subsided.

  Mary Ellen’s hand slid into his. “This,” she said quietly, laughter lurking beneath the surface of her words, “is where I’d be telling my boys to walk away.”

  “Go,” he said shortly to Hollis. “You want a new job, check the job boards. Jack’s going to be fine.”

  Hollis opened his mouth. Closed it. “Sir,” he said. His right foot slid backward.

  Mary Ellen’s hand pulled Ben along, and he went. If Hollis Anderson wanted to stand there and keep jawing with himself, he could do that, too. Ben was officially off the clock.

  Evan turned the key and kicked open his cabin door, making straight for the bed.

  “Strip,” Faye ordered. “Show me you’re okay.”

  Yeah. He was so on board with that. His hands made short work of his clothes, unlacing the steel-toes and stripping off his T-shirt, pushing the jumpsuit and jeans down and off. He wanted inside her right away, because he needed to reassure them both that everything was okay. He wasn’t dead. That was a plus.

  Her eyes devoured him, and he knew he wasn’t a pretty picture. Not after a day and a half in the field. He was more eau de smoke right now than he was Polo. “I should shower.”

  “Later,” she said. “Right now, stay here.”

  He could do that. That was no problem at all. He loved the way she stared up at him, doing an inventory of his face. Her eyes got that soft expression, and her hands were reaching for him. She smelled good, too, unlike him. All female and flowery soap. He didn’t know the names of flowers—she could have been sporting peonies or roses, for all he knew—but, damn, she smelled good. Like a sun-warm garden where she happened to be waiting for him. And that waxing-poetic crap was the kicker.

  She scooted over on the bed, making room for him, and her hands got busy on the buttons of the little sundress she was sporting. The dress was some kind of pink plaid thing with a whole row of white buttons marching past her breasts and down her belly. Real pretty. Buttons parted as her fingers flew—she was feeling greedy, too—and the top half of the dress came apart in her hands, giving him a good look at her breasts hiding in the lacy cups of her bra.

  He was done looking—he wanted to be doing. He lowered himself onto the bed and pulled her beneath him. She came willingly, laughing as she rolled into the hollow created by his weight.

  She wasn’t going anywhere now. She was all his.

  “Welcome home,” she said, watching his face.

  “This is good.” His brain wasn’t sending clear instructions to his tongue anymore. The feel of her was short-circuiting what was left of his thinking. He thought just enough to worry about crushing her—she was a tiny thing compared to him—bracing himself over her on his forearms, his legs pinning hers to the mattress. One hand tangled in her hair, while the other took over the rest of the buttons. He flicked open her bra with his thumb, and she spilled out into his hands. The sight of her framed by all that pretty pink and lace was something else.

  God. He was a lucky son of a bitch.

  “Are you okay?” Her hands ran inspections on his body now, and he heated up all over again as her fingers petted his shoulders and back. Tracing a ticklish path down his ribs to his front.

  “If you can talk, darlin’, then I’m not doing this right.” Shut down his emotions and get the job done—that was how he worked. Now, when he touched her, he was feeling things that had nothing to do with sex. Which was plain crazy.

  Lowering his head, he took her mouth. He kissed her as if he’d been out there fighting fires for a year. His mouth was hungry and knowing, his tongue parting her lips and stroking deep inside her to tease and taste. She pushed right back, rubbing against his tongue. The feel of her laid out beneath him, skin to skin, framed in the undone dress, was undoing him. She was something else.

  She was his.

  To prove that point, he moved on down. Her nipples were hard, welcoming little points, and her fingers tightened in his hair when he kissed them. He sucked and tongued them, showing her with his mouth how much he wanted to please her. All she had to do was let him give her this, and he would be a happy man.

  Her hands pulled him closer, her hips rocking his erection in the best possible way, as if she couldn’t get close enough, either. “I worried about you,” she admitted. “Damn it, Evan. You made me worry.”

  “I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, his voice rough with need and unfamiliar emotion. “I can take care of myself, darlin’. I always have, always will. You don’t need to worry about me.”

  She tugged his head up and planted a fierce, hard kiss on his mouth. Her teeth nipped his lower lip—a bright sting of pain and then sweet, sweet pleasure, her mouth sucking gently where she’d hurt. “I want to take care of you, Evan.”

  Well, hell. That was—unfamiliar. Not unwelcome, just not something other women, other lovers, had wanted to give him. Taking care of her was his job. That was what he did, who he was. She rubbed against his dick again, though, and he forgot how to think, inhaling sharply at the pure pleasure of her.

  He kissed her again.

  She liked that. Christ, he did, too. His dick was painfully hard, straining against her thigh. That part of him wanted inside her in the worst possible way. That little brush of her soft skin against him made him want to pounce. Instead, he moved down more, feeling the muscles in her belly quiver in anticipation. Yeah, she knew right where he was going.

  “You like these?” he growled, fingering the tiny straps of her panties.

  “My favorite,” she gasped.

  “Then lift up, darlin’.”

  She lifted obediently, her lace-covered mound teasingly close to his mouth, and he slid the panties off.

  Faye’s panties disappeared down her legs. Evan’s hand tugged, and the little scrap of white flew through the air, dropping onto the floor beside the bed.

  The mattress was soft, and it felt so decadent to lie there and let him take care of everything. To do nothing but enjoy him and the pleasure he gave her. His shoulders parted her thighs, spreading her open. Those big, warm hands cupped her hips and ass, keeping her right where he wanted her.

  “I bet you taste real sweet.” He grinned and lowered his head.

  His thumbs opened her up where she was already aching for his touch, and she whimpered. He was going to make her go slow.

  “Please,” she groaned.

  “Oh, I intend to, darlin’,” he said, and his mouth found her in a kiss that was so, so good. His tongue drew circles where she was wet and needing, licking long, lazy strokes up her folds, as if she was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

  Then he found her clit and painted the same wicked path there, too. Over and over, as if he had all the time in the world and there was nothing he wanted to do more. Just taste her and love her. More and more until her hips were rolling gently, putting her clit right where she wanted his kiss.

  A lazy energy woke up in her, and she could have spent the whole night like that, lost in the sweet pleasure of his kiss, but his mouth closed over her, sucking, and the pleasure was building, and the “slow” disappeared, replace by hot urgency. Now. She wanted him in her and on her now.

  “May I?” he whisp
ered against her, and she felt his words there, where he was touching her, kissing her, easing her toward some other point and place. He left her long enough to slide a condom on, and then he was right back there, pushing into her.

  “Please.” She pulled him toward her, and he obliged, her legs falling open around him as he lowered himself on top of her, giving her as much of his weight as she could take. When he entered her, her body welcomed his. This was what she’d wanted, the long, sweet moment she’d been striving for. Homecoming. Welcome. An end reached. The orgasm found her, bursting through in a bright ripple of pleasure.

  He moved, pushing deep inside her, and she lay there beneath him, watching his face work in the darkness. He was reaching for something, too, something special, and she saw when he found it, when his hips picked up speed and he drove himself into her again and again. He stiffened and groaned, planting himself deeper, and she held on to him.

  Right now, he was hers. Just hers.

  For one long moment, he pinned her to the mattress, his weight pushing her down, his legs spreading hers almost painfully wide. Then he slid carefully out of her.

  She wanted to say something, but she didn’t know what. He pulled her into his arms, but there was all that silence that needed filling up, and she ached inside where he’d been.

  She opened her mouth, closed it. Tried again. “Evan—”

  “Go to sleep, Faye.” He sounded tired. He’d been out there in the field, working nonstop through the night. That was all those words meant. Behind her, the sheets rustled as he left.

  Getting out of bed.

  “Where are you going?” she blurted before she could stop herself.

  “I’m going to shower,” he said, and that tiredness was back in his voice.

  She didn’t want him to go. What if the shower was merely an excuse to get up and leave? Logically, she knew she was in his bed, in his cabin. Where would he go? He had to come back to her.

  God, she needed him to want to make that return journey. She closed her eyes, pretending the sleep train had come for her and that she didn’t feel every dip and sway of the mattress as he stood up and headed for the shower.

  Evan was more like her former husband than she’d wanted to admit. He was another big, silent, strong man whose kisses were hotter than hell—and who was always headed out the door and into danger. He didn’t want to talk. That was a bad recipe, because eventually kisses weren’t enough. Mike had met someone else. Someone who’d done a better job than she had of filling up those empty spaces in his heart and his head.

  She couldn’t do this. Not again. Rolling over, she hugged his pillow to her stomach. The water kicked on in the bathroom. She wasn’t looking for marriage and babies, not right now, but she needed something more than really, really hot sex.

  And Evan Donovan had walked away.

  Her boys were home. All four of them. Ben was as stubborn as the other three, and wrestling him into his pickup and getting him back to his place had been a bit touch-and-go. For a moment there, Nonna had thought he was going to go after the hotshot who’d been arguing for his chance at making the jump team.

  That was Ben. Fiercely determined, fiercely loyal. It had been a long day of firefighting, and he was filthy and reeked of smoke. He needed a shower and sleep. And she was so very, very glad to see him. He’d spent the last thirty-six hours out there, directing a hotshot crew. She knew the ABC basics, but that hadn’t kept her from worrying.

  “I need to clean up,” he said, when they pulled up in front of his place in Strong. Even that short drive had been too long. She wanted to scrape that top layer of dirt off, see for herself that he was okay all the way through. She knew her men. Any injury they could hide, they would.

  “Sure do.” Her feet didn’t stop moving, though. Just kept following him up the steps of his porch and into his house. He had, she realized, a clear view of her own front door. She should go there. He’d clean up and be out soon enough. And yet she didn’t want to let him out of her sight—and it wasn’t simply because she was dying to do an injury check.

  “Come on in,” he said, opening the front door and stepping inside. He hadn’t locked it. Maybe he never did. Not that it would have mattered. She’d known for years where he kept the spare key.

  He kept on moving, through the living room and down the hall, pausing long enough to open a cupboard and snag an armful of towels. When he hit the bathroom, good manners said she should stop. She wasn’t his wife or his girlfriend or any other female entitled to wait around while he undressed. She belonged outside. Nevertheless, her feet took her closer. Some primal part of her still wanted him where she could see him and to judge for herself that he wasn’t hurt.

  He didn’t seem to mind, either. He simply shot her a glance she couldn’t interpret and turned on the water in the shower with a deft flick of his wrist. All that hot water soon had steam filling up the small space. Apparently, he still wanted heat even after his night in the forest.

  “You might want to look away.” His hands tugged the T-shirt over his head. “Or not. Lady’s choice.”

  “You take that shower, and you’ll look better.” She could feel the little smile tugging at her mouth, but she pulled a bottle of shampoo from his bathroom cupboard, placed it on the side of the tub, and then went down the hall to fetch him clean clothes. Ben’s bedroom was as neat and masculine as the man himself. Big California-king bed with a silky brown coverlet. Two large pillows, but no decorative throws. There wasn’t too much in the picture department, either. Just the silver-framed wedding photo of him and the wife he’d lost to cancer ten years ago.

  When she made the return trip, he’d stripped off, dropping the dirty clothes on the floor, and disappeared inside the shower. She picked them up, folding them carefully before flipping the lid down on the toilet seat—what was it about men?—and parking herself on the fuzzy seat cover.

  “I’ve got your clean stuff here.” She figured she should announce herself, in case he hadn’t noticed the blast of cooler air when she’d opened and closed the bathroom door.

  “You sticking around, after all?”

  Maybe he’d thought she’d left. She touched the dirty clothes gently. One go-around with Tide wasn’t going to be enough. He didn’t sound disappointed that she’d come back, so she’d stay a little bit longer. She didn’t want to go home. Not yet.

  “Sure am,” she said, then asked what she’d been dying to know. “Tell me about it. Tell me all about the fire.”

  She’d always loved Ben’s openness. He wouldn’t fill her in publicly, where there were others who could hear, but once she got him alone, he’d tell her about the fire calls he’d gone out on. What he knew, she knew. Tonight, he gave her the lowdown on the fire, sharing all the details he had. She didn’t like to think about her family out there facing down such an inferno, but it was harder when she didn’t know the facts. This way, she only feared the stuff that needed fearing.

  Sure enough, he gave her all the details. It took two rinse cycles, too, as he got busy with the soap. The fire was big and hungry, but, so far, more or less contained. They’d lost two lines—her boys were going to be pissed about that, because they prided themselves on holding their line no matter what the fire dished up—but the third one was holding, and the tankers were making new drops right now. In the next eight hours, he hoped things would be finally under control. Right now, though, the Strong contingent was taking its mandatory break, so if she was lucky, that fire would be out before her boys had to head back into the field.

  “That one was Mother Nature all over.” His hand reached around the shower curtain, feeling for the shampoo bottle, and she hooked him up. “Probably a lightning strike that simmered for a while.”

  “How many acres?”

  There was a pause on the other side of the curtain and then the sound of a washcloth getting busy. “We won’t know for certain for a few more days. Nine hundred so far. We’ve still got multiple teams working the firelines up ther
e, and it’s looking good. Real good. Unless the wind shifts on us tonight or we have sleeper fires, we might have this under control.”

  “Good.” She wanted to say something else, but some things were hard to put into words. “The hotshot who stopped you on the way home tonight—”

  “That was obnoxious, wasn’t it?” She could hear him moving around in the shower behind that curtain as he answered her. What would he do if she reached out and nudged the curtain a little to one side?

  “Maybe he’s ambitious,” she offered.

  “And stupid,” Ben snorted. “You don’t pitch yourself for a job five minutes after you learn someone’s been injured.”

  “So he’s not Mr. Sensitive,” she agreed. “That’s not a crime. Still, what kind of person does that, Ben?”

  “He’s hungry, all right. And his timing certainly sucks.” He killed the water. “I’m coming out.”

  She had the towel waiting for him when he slid the curtain back. Sure, she kept her eyes on his face—mostly—because she was being a lady tonight. Just until she’d made up her mind about where she wanted this thing with Ben to go. Maybe he hadn’t noticed her peeking. Much. He didn’t say anything, though, so it had to be okay.

  She went out into the living room, and Ben followed, pulling on the clean clothes she’d left folded up on the toilet seat.

  “Actually, I’ve been watching Anderson for a while,” he said grimly, picking up their conversation where they’d left off. “He’s been ready to go out on far too many calls. And he’s always hanging around the jump team. He’s punched overtime every week.”

  “He can’t be the only one.” She was all too familiar with boys who had the fire bug and who wanted desperately to be firefighters. “Maybe he thinks this is how you get what you want, how you make the team. If he shows a little initiative, then—boom—he’s in.”

  “Sure,” Ben said, as he sank onto the couch. “But I’m watching all the firefighters in Strong, looking for a possible arsonist. I got ten names left on that list of mine, and I’m keeping my eye on every single one of them. He shot to the top of the short list tonight. God, sitting down feels good. I’m too old for this all-nighter crap. Come over here and join me.” He closed his eyes and held out a hand. She debated the pros and cons of his offer far too briefly before she went to him. That was where she wanted to be, anyhow, and he’d asked. Just a little friendly comfort. “Maybe,” he continued, “the boy likes fire. God knows, I do. Jack and Evan and Rio—they’re the same way. Maybe that’s Hollis, too, but if so, he picked a damn poor time to make his case.”