A relaxing drive to a scenic spot on a clear, warm, moonlit night sounded like a good way to press reset. He turned on the radio and something halfway between pop and country flowed through the truck’s speakers. She seemed to unwind a little with each passing mile. He followed her directions and steered the truck up the gently curving road that ran parallel to the Ohio River. Breaks in the trees offered periodic views of the moon’s reflection on the water below. Nice. The prospect of doing a little necking in the front of his truck sent his blood pumping southward.
She turned and caught him staring, and slowly smiled. A smile filled with infinite possibilities. It had been a while since he’d made out in a vehicle, but they could probably get to third base—all the way home if he could convince her to climb on his lap, and he was careful not to bounce her head against the top of the truck.
The route got a little steeper and windier. Vegetation thickened. Lots grew wider, with houses planted farther apart. He concentrated on the road. “Are we headed to Bluelick’s version of Lookout Point?”
“Not exactly, though in high school a bunch of us used to come up here after football games or dances, sneak beer, and mess around.” After the words left her mouth, her eyes darted his way, and he realized Roger had certainly been one of the “friends.” He had no desire to sour the mood and push her for a list of names.
“I knew you were a bad girl.”
“Ha. I was the one who had to be home by midnight—and never missed a curfew—if that tells you how wild we got. But I’ve always loved the view from here. This road comes to a cul-de-sac up ahead. Bear right before you reach the end. You’ll see a driveway. Take it.”
He spotted the driveway and made the turn. Curious, he proceeded slowly down the short drive. Gravel crunched under his wheels, adding another rhythm to the mix. A small cottage came into sight, or more appropriately, a neglected structure that had once been a cottage. Dingy white paint peeled away from bricks and wood. Boards blocked the windows and doors. He imagined raccoons and other types of nasty rodents living in the rafters and suppressed a shiver. Beyond the cottage was an overgrown backyard. Beyond that, a view of town, just pinpoints of light at this time of night, studding the hillside and twinkling along the banks of the river.
“This is my favorite spot.” She sighed and settled back against the seat, but instead of looking up at the stars, or across the river, she stared at the cottage.
“I’m with you on the view, but I would not have guessed you had a thing for condemned houses.”
“The cottage always breaks my heart a little. Ginny’s grandpa built it for her grandma a long time ago, but he died unexpectedly, before construction was complete. She couldn’t bear to sell, but she didn’t have the money to do much more than pay the taxes. She passed a few years ago and Ginny inherited, but decided to sell because she didn’t have the time or resources to fix the place. The Buchanans snapped it up, and talked with Tyler about doing a fix and flip, but then the housing bubble burst and they figured there weren’t a lot of buyers in this market. So the poor little house continues to rot on its foundation. Such a shame, because Grandpa Boca built the place with love and care. Now it sits here, empty and unused—a monument of unfulfilled potential.”
“Not to mention a fire hazard.”
“Hey.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “Don’t be so quick to condemn my dream house. I haven’t given up on it yet. I still hope the right person comes along, appreciates its charms, and takes it on.”
A quaver in her voice left him with the uncomfortable feeling she was talking about more than the cottage, and effectively killed any notions he’d entertained of necking or baseball, or anything resembling a continuation of Tuesday’s adventures. It was too crowded in the truck. Some asshole named Roger was sitting between them, fucking with his night.
…
Who needed a boss with unpredictable office hours to mess up a promising evening? Not her. She could cock-block a perfectly good fire chief all on her own.
Josh kept his thoughts to himself on the drive back to her house, which left her brain free to indulge in the mental equivalent of chasing its tail. Why had she said those things about the cottage? Nobody knew her fondness for the house. Not Ginny, not Roger. Nobody. Clearly, she should have kept it that way. Getting misty-eyed and sentimental over a pile of bricks didn’t set a sexy mood.
When he pulled his truck up to the curb in front of her house, she turned to him, hopeful the dim interior hid any traces of the crazy going on in her head. “Thanks for dinner, and the drive. I had…fun.”
He gave her a look she couldn’t decipher, but all he said was, “I’ll walk you up.”
“Uh, no. That’s okay. You don’t…have…to.” The words hung in empty air, because he’d already stepped out of the truck. She stared down at her knotted fingers and forced them apart. A second later the passenger door swung open and his hand entered her line of vision. She took it and let him help her out, then led the way up her front walk. At the door, she stopped, took a quick, stabilizing breath, pasted a smile on her face, and looked up at him. “I’ll add a thanks for walking me to the doo—”
His mouth covered hers, effectively cutting her off. Astonishment froze her for a moment, but the kiss thawed her just as fast. It was exactly like their last one, only…more. Her eyelids drifted down, her hands drifted up and found the broad, reassuringly solid shelf of his shoulders—a good thing, because the rest of her tipped completely off-balance. The fact that she only had one leg under her and the other wrapped around his waist might have had something to do with the precarious feeling, but she couldn’t make herself release him because the position aligned the bone-dissolving weight of his erection with the part of her most desperate to feel it.
When his tongue swept past her lips and into her mouth, she clung to him and moaned, “Hurry.”
“No hurry,” he replied between kisses, and backed her up against the porch railing.
She kissed him back hard and fast, not bothering to hide the urgency building inside her. Apparently he picked up on it, because his mouth left hers to trail down her throat while his hands sneaked under her skirt. She threw her head back and let her whirling thoughts fly, uncensored, out her mouth. “Please, hurry. It’s been so long. Even before Roger and I broke up—”
His mouth and hands left her so abruptly she nearly fell over. Her eyelids popped open and their gazes collided.
He stared down at her, all calm and controlled, except for a hint of a frown tugging down the corner of his mouth. “I’ve heard that name a lot tonight. You sure you’re ready to move on?”
“Yes.” She tried to imbue the word with all the certainty she could muster, because she was ready. More than ready. One night with Josh promised to be the hottest, most passionate experience of her life. Heck, Tuesday night already claimed that honor. She’d never felt this relentless, physical need. Why she kept sabotaging her golden opportunity to satisfy it was completely beyond her. “I’m ready. The past is the past. Roger and I are over. O-V-E-R. Done. Finished. Kaput.”
He traced her lips with a fingertip—probably to shut her up. “Fine. That means there’s no need to rush things. No deadline saying we have to make this happen tonight. I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going anywhere.”
Oh, but she was. She could feel it. She was headed right back onto the shelf she’d been occupying for all of her adult life. Not again. Not without a fight.
She fingered the first button on the bodice of her dress and then flicked it open. The move captured his attention. His eyes dropped to her chest.
“Bluelick, what are you doing?”
“Something I fantasized about all night.” She undid another button, unsnapped the front clasp of her bra, and got on her knees. His attention remained riveted on her exposed cleavage. When she reached for his fly, he didn’t protest.
“You fantasized about putting on a show right here on your front porch? Is that how you like it?”
<
br /> After 10:00 p.m. in Bluelick pretty much guaranteed them all the privacy they could ask for, but the idea of someone happening along sent an illicit little thrill right through her.
“I fantasize about all sorts of things. How about you, Chief? Have you been doing any fantasizing?”
He laughed, but the sound held little humor. “I’ve been fantasizing about you since day one. The things I’ve done with you”—his voice deepened—“to you, in my mind, would burn your Southern-belle image to ashes. And right now, Miss Merritt, you are playing with fire.”
Fine by her. She wanted the fire. Wanted the heat, and the burn, and was past caring what got ruined in the process—including her Southern-belle image, which would definitely go down in flames in the admittedly unlikely event someone happened by. The element of risk made the situation all the hotter. She undid his fly with shaking fingers, shoved his jeans and boxers down to his knees, and then she had him in her hand. Every hard, smooth, jutting inch of him. Their groans overlapped as she closed her fist around his shaft, pulling it away from his stomach, testing the strength and resilience of his erection. When she let go, he sprang back, longer and harder than ever. A pass—with flying colors.
“Jesus,” he muttered, and reached for her with one hand. With the other, he reached for his hard-on, and she realized if she didn’t act fast, he’d take charge.
She leaned away, until her back came up against the railing. “Grab the porch column,” she said. “Right now. Both hands.”
“Hold on one damn second.”
He reached for her again, and she feared he was going to pull her to her feet, and even worse, wish her good-night. But he didn’t. He snagged the straps of her dress and yanked them down, giving him a clear view of her bare breasts. The night was hot, and his gaze even hotter, but her nipples pebbled anyway. She shrugged the straps out of her way and took him in her hand again. He hissed in a breath as she squeezed, getting a firm hold, and then tugged him forward.
“Jesus,” he said again, watching her through narrowed eyes.
His obvious appreciation thrilled her…and made her bolder. She scraped her nipple up his shaft, along the flare of his head, and then up to the very tip. His thigh muscles clenched. His hips came forward, seeking more.
“If you want more, you’ll get your hands on that column. Right now,” she added when he didn’t move a muscle.
Slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, he reached up above her head and wrapped his hands around the turned wood post. A compliment on his obedience hovered on the tip of her tongue, until he added, “Better put me in the sweet spot, Bluelick. The longer I wait, the longer I’m going to make you beg when I take my turn.”
His turn? Her heartbeat kicked up in anticipation. She positioned his erection between her breasts and used her upper arms to trap him in her cleavage, experiencing an unexpected jolt of pleasure at the sensation of skin touching skin—the warm, oddly comforting weight of him nestled there.
“God, that’s so fucking good. Squeeze those pretty breasts. That’s it,” he added when she did as he asked. “Nice and tight.”
“Tighter?” She cupped her breasts and pushed them together, so the flesh plumped around him.
“Christ, yes. Brace yourself.”
She pressed her heels and shoulder blades against the backstop of the porch slats. He rocked his hips forward. The sweat beading in her cleavage provided some lubrication, but the friction of his shaft riding the cleft between her breasts raced through her, scorching a path from her chest to her core. In reaction, her inner muscles contracted so hard she actually went weak, and she loosened her grip on her breasts.
“No.” The head of his erection disappeared down the tunnel between her breasts, and then surged out again. “Lick it. Suck it. Make it nice and wet, but keep me tight. I want you to feel me there tomorrow. That’s right,” he encouraged when she lowered her head and did as he asked, reveling in the feel of his wide, blunt head pushing past her lips, seeking attention from her tongue. She nearly moaned when he pulled back, suddenly robbing her mouth. Then he shoved forward again, and again, pumping his hips so fast and hard she barely had time to flick her tongue over him at the apex of each thrust.
Every aching, action-starved muscle inside her fluttered and clenched in a relentless rhythm, as if to punish her for delegating their rightful duty to her tender breasts, and the involuntary spasms sent rippling aftershocks along her nerve endings. She moaned.
“Your heart is pounding against my cock. Does it turn you on, watching me do this?”
“Yes.” No point playing coy. The whole thing had been her idea, and she was turned on. She tore her attention away from the action and looked at his face. To her astonishment, his attention was fixed directly on her. He didn’t have his eyes tightly closed, as if to block out reality and focus on some inner landscape. If she didn’t know better, she would have sworn he was getting off on watching her. But she did know better. His staring at her meant something was wrong. Otherwise, he’d be oblivious to everything except chasing fulfillment, wouldn’t he?
“Do you want me to…do something else?”
“Fuck no.” He gritted his teeth and then resumed thrusting with renewed fervor. “You’re going to kneel there with your heart racing, and your body aching, and finish me. Then it’s my turn. You’re going to hold on to this porch rail, straddle my face, and count out how many licks it takes for me to make you co—”
His body tensed, his head fell back, and his words died off in a low, ragged groan. Heat pooled between her breasts, branding the truth on her skin. Melody Merritt, dutiful daughter, patient fiancée, and all-around good girl, had just seduced a man on her front porch with the kind of naughty sex people around here assumed would give her the vapors. She hugged him in her cleavage a little longer, just to savor the moment—the sense of accomplishment—which only intensified when another long, low groan reached her ears. He slowly slipped free, and then leaned in until his forehead rested against the porch rail.
“Jesus,” he murmured. “I can barely stand.”
Rather than risk his seeing her beam with pride, she kept her head down and concentrated on digging the pack of tissues from her purse. She felt him move. Heard the shuffle of clothes and the rasp of his zipper, and then long, quick fingers snagged the tissue pack from her hand. The move surprised her, and she looked up at him. “I’m happy to share. All you have to do is ask.”
“Sharing’s not my strong suit. Get up.” But then, instead of waiting for her to get to her feet, he grasped her arms, hauled her up, and braced her against the porch column. She might have suffered a twinge of self-consciousness, standing before him half naked while moonlight glistened on the damp cleavage he hadn’t given her a chance to clean, but something primitive and territorial in his expression held the self-consciousness at bay.
“What is your strong suit?” She hoped the question sounded sassier to his ears than it had to hers.
“Don’t worry. You’re about to find out. But first”—he took two tissues from the packet he’d swiped from her, crumpled them, and trailed the absorbent wad between her breasts—“I make a mess, I clean it up.”
Yes, he did. Slowly. Methodically. Very, very thoroughly. Her breath caught as he ran the wispy edges of the paper along the underside of her breast, up the swell, to the ever-tightening crest. She was so sensitive the soft, barely-there touch caused her to moan.
“Sore?” he asked, and feathered his way toward the other breast.
The pulse between her thighs pounded so hard, her legs threatened to give out. An echoing pulse throbbed in each nipple. She couldn’t think past the exquisite agony. “Y-yes.” Oh God, wrong answer. What if he stopped? “I mean…no.”
His laugh trailed over her skin. Another small torture. “Which is it, then? Yes or no?” He rubbed the tissue over the tip of her nipple, less gently this time, and her voice completely failed her. The low, needy noise coming out of her throat didn’t qualify as speech.
“What if I put my lips right here?” He trapped her nipple between his thumb and index finger. “Would you scream?”
She just might, but the risk didn’t stop her from getting a two-handed grip on the porch rail behind her and arching toward him.
“Damn, you make a pretty picture, with those bare breasts bathed in moonlight. Don’t move.”
And then his lips were on her. Lips, teeth, tongue, alternately teasing, tormenting, and soothing until she couldn’t stand still anymore. He simply clamped his hands around her waist and lifted her onto the porch rail. Before she could catch her breath, he doled out the same sweet punishment to her other breast.
Desire coiled sharp and tight. She parted her legs and twined them around his, trying to pull him closer—to pull him into her and feel the press of his body where she needed it most. But he was stronger, and he resisted her efforts. Instead he raised his head and whispered in her ear.
“Uh-uh, Bluelick. No shortcuts. I let you have your way with me, but I told you what I’d do when it was my turn. Now you’re going to learn I’m a man of my word. Come over here.” He pointed to a spot in front of the porch column. Then he stepped back and waited.
She jumped to follow his instructions, even as her desperate mind scrambled to remember his words. Something about counting…
“Face the column.” Once she did as he instructed, he came up behind her, grabbed a handful of her dress and tugged. The fabric shivered over her skin and pooled at her feet, leaving her in nothing but her panties and heels.
He danced his fingertips along the lace trim of her panties. “Pink. I should have known.”
“They match the outfit.” She struggled not to squirm under his touch.
“The outfit. Yeah. You aimed to twist my dick around your little finger when you put on that dress tonight, didn’t you?” His fingers followed a path down the center seam of her panties.
Light Her Fire Page 8
