by Lisa Childs
He nodded. “When the Hotshot team gets called in, I go—wherever we’re called, wherever we’re needed.”
And it was that simple to him, putting his life at risk. He was called and he went.
Panic at the thought—at the potential loss—had pressure settling heavily on her chest. “I shouldn’t have come here,” she murmured. It had been a mistake.
“Why did you?” he asked. “To get back at ol’ Howard?” He wriggled his dark brows above blue eyes that glittered with amusement.
Was the man ever serious about anything? Or was he just a tease?
She was tempted to call his bluff—to see if he would actually let her use him, or if he would back down if she acted interested. Wyatt Andrews might not be the playboy she’d thought he was.
As he’d already pointed out, there were no mirrors on his ceilings, and from what she could see of his bedroom through the open door, no black satin, either. A flannel quilt covered the mattress instead.
“I came here because I wanted to talk to you about Matthew,” she said.
“We talked this morning,” he reminded her. “I gave you my advice.” He had been careful to keep that to her relationship with her brother and not his actual application, though.
“I want more than your advice,” she admitted.
He wriggled his brows again and stepped closer to her. “What do you want, Fiona?”
Him.
She wanted him—and not to get back at Howard. If not for his incessant texts, she wouldn’t have given the accountant another thought. Sure, he was a jerk. But only her pride was a little wounded that she hadn’t been enough to keep him satisfied.
Maybe it was that wounded pride that had her lifting her hand to Wyatt’s chest. Instead of pushing him away, she stroked her fingers over the soft material of his black Forest Service Fire Department T-shirt. She could feel his muscles rippling and his heart beating beneath her fingertips.
“Fiona…”
“Help me,” she implored him. “Help me convince Matthew that he’s not cut out to be a firefighter, let alone a Hotshot.”
He shook his head. “I can’t talk to him about this. But you don’t need to worry about him. It’s—”
She pressed her fingers over his lips. She didn’t want to hear it—whatever protest or excuse he might give her—like his delusion that what he did wasn’t overly dangerous. She had the statistics, so many statistics, to prove him wrong. But he’d already made it clear that he considered her stats a joke. He’d also made it clear that he wasn’t going to help her with Matthew.
But maybe she could change his mind.
So she slid one hand around the nape of his neck, tugged his head down and replaced her fingers with her lips. She pressed her mouth to his and kissed him. But his lips remained in a tight line. He didn’t kiss her back; his mouth didn’t move at all. And she felt the tension in his neck.
Tammy was wrong. Fiona wouldn’t be able to sway Wyatt with sex. She couldn’t even tempt him. He had obviously just been teasing her. He didn’t actually find her attractive—at least not attractive enough to want her.
*
GOD, HE WANTED HER. But Wyatt knew what she was up to—what she was willing to sacrifice to protect her brother. Matt wouldn’t appreciate her interference. And it was unnecessary anyway. Her brother wouldn’t get on to the team. But he couldn’t share that with her without risking a lawsuit against the department.
He had no business telling her anything. But he understood how much she loved her brother—so much that she was willing to sleep with Wyatt. His hands shaking a little, he grasped her shoulders and held her back. His muscles contracted; he wanted to pull her closer—wanted to hold her against him.
Not away…
“So you’re all talk,” she murmured with a sigh that almost sounded disappointed. If the blush on her skin meant anything, she was also embarrassed.
Or aroused.
But he hadn’t touched her. He hadn’t kissed her back. He wanted to…
Oh, God, how he wanted to.
“But when I call your bluff…”
“Is that what you’re doing?” he asked. “Just calling my bluff? Seeing if I’m all talk?” She could be messing with him. For as much as he’d messed with her, he deserved it.
“Are you?” she asked. Despite his hands on her shoulders, she leaned in—pushing her breasts against his chest. “You’ve been flirting with me. Kissing me…”
He couldn’t deny it. So he nodded and admitted, “That I have.” He leaned down, close enough that his nose nearly touched hers, and he added, “But then I like playing with fire.”
She sucked in a breath. It was his breath—he was that close, his lips nearly touching hers. He could feel the heat—the softness…
But he denied them both that contact.
“And we would create a firestorm,” he said, “we would burn up the sheets.”
“Wyatt…” she murmured. And she reached for him again, her fingers sliding into the hair at his nape.
“But you don’t like playing with fire,” he reminded her.
Her brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t…” she said softly. “I don’t want to get burned.”
He was afraid that he was the one who might get burned. And he was usually so careful. He had never brought a woman like her home before—one who openly disapproved of his job, who had already called it too risky.
A woman like her would give him ultimatums, would make him give up the job he loved more than anything else. He needed to let her go. Hell, he needed to throw her out the door and hope that she forgot where he lived.
But his hands still clasped her shoulders. He couldn’t let her go, let alone throw her out. But maybe he’d said enough. Maybe he’d scared her into remembering why she wanted nothing to do with him.
He was too great a risk.
But her hands tugged his head down again, closing that small space between their mouths. Her lips met his, moving like warm silk across his own. He didn’t resist. He couldn’t.
His control snapped and he kissed her back with all the passion burning inside him. He parted her lips and dipped his tongue inside, sliding it over hers.
She was so damn hot. Her mouth wasn’t enough. He needed more. He needed to be inside her body. He picked her up.
She gasped in surprise. And maybe fear. He tensed, struggling for control over himself. His voice gruff with desire, he asked, “Who’s bluffing now?”
8
FIONA’S PULSE RACED with fear—and desire. Her legs dangled over the arm beneath them; his other arm wrapped around her back. He held her easily, as if she weighed nothing. And maybe to Wyatt, who lifted weights regularly, she didn’t weigh much. She could feel the muscles in his arms, hard and bulging.
“Were you just bluffing, Fiona?” he asked her.
She was used to his wicked grin, to the amusement dancing in his blue eyes. But he was serious now. Tense. A muscle twitched beneath the stubble on his tightly clenched jaw.
He was right. She didn’t play with fire. She was afraid of getting burned. So she should have wriggled free of his grasp and run for the door.
Instead she wrapped her arm around his neck and clung to him, pressing her lips to his jaw. “No…”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
She hadn’t sounded it. She had sounded tentative and scared even to her own ears. And she was scared.
But she wasn’t going to back out now. She told herself that it was because of Matthew. Because she would do anything to stop him from making a mistake.
But who was going to stop Fiona?
Not her.
She kissed him again, this time on the lips. She slipped her tongue out, just the tip, and traced his mouth.
He groaned and deepened the kiss.
She felt the thrust of his tongue and tasted his passion. And her head grew light as he carried her. With his long strides, he only took a few steps to cross the living room and pass through the
open bedroom door.
He laid her down on the flannel quilt. And she was glad. If he’d put her on her feet, her legs might have buckled. They trembled. She trembled all over. She’d never felt that way before—so nervous and excited and aroused.
And he’d barely touched her. He’d only kissed her.
But he touched her now. Lightly. His hands trailed down her sides, tracing the indent of her waist, the curve of her hips and down along her thighs and legs. He tugged off her shoes. The heels dropped with loud clunks onto his hardwood floor.
The sound startled her into sitting up. Maybe it should have brought her to her senses. But he kissed her again with such passion and possession that she wanted more.
She needed more.
She helped him undress her, shrugging out of her jacket and tugging her sweater over her head. The pins in her bun caught in the wool and pulled free of her hair. It tumbled down around shoulders that were bare but for the thin straps of her lacy bra.
He groaned, the sound almost tortured. He stared at her so intensely that she felt his gaze like a caress, sliding over the slopes of her breasts. “You are so damn beautiful…”
She knew she was pretty. While she had her father’s coloring, she had her mom’s delicate features—the face that had attracted men like Wyatt, men who craved danger and excitement.
And for a moment, she worried that she would disappoint him. She must not have been enough for Howard. Maybe those doubts played across her face because he cursed.
She glanced up at him.
His voice thick with desire, he murmured, “The accountant was a jackass.”
She had never wanted Howard the way she did Wyatt. She reached for him, pushing his coat from his shoulders—his broad, strong shoulders. Her hands ran over them in a light caress.
And he shuddered.
Even before she took off his T-shirt. Her fingers teased up his washboard abs and over his chest as she rolled up the soft fabric before pulling it over his head.
“Damn, woman,” he said. “And you called me a tease…”
“I called you a flirt,” she corrected him. “And I’m not a tease…”
If she was, she would have kept it to kissing. She would have just implied she’d make love with him if he helped her with Matthew. But she wasn’t a tease.
She was probably a fool, though.
But then his hands were there, easily undoing the clasp at the back of her bra. A chill raced over her skin as she acknowledged his expertise. He’d had a lot of women before her. He would have a lot more after her.
Despite his talk of exclusivity, she knew and accepted that this night was probably all she would have with him. A one-night stand.
She hadn’t had one—at least that she’d realized before making love with the man. This time she knew. And maybe there was comfort in that—that this wasn’t serious.
Her heart wasn’t at risk. She wasn’t going to fall for Wyatt Andrews. She was only going to sleep with him.
She reached for the buckle of his belt. But his hands covered hers.
“Not so fast,” he said.
And he pushed her back onto the bed again. His fingers found the side zipper of her skirt and tugged it down, and then he tugged down the skirt, too. So she lay on his flannel quilt in only her lace panties. But he quickly disposed of those, as well.
He groaned again as first his gaze caressed her. Then his hands followed the path his eyes had. “Fiona…”
She touched him, too. She skimmed her palms over his chest and shoulders and arms. All those muscles rippled…
But she wanted more.
His mouth replaced his hands, his lips trailing down her neck and over her collarbone. She shifted on the bed as tension began to wind inside her. His mouth continued up the slope of her breast until his lips closed around a nipple.
She moaned as sensations raced through her. Her skin heated and her heart pounded. She ran her fingers through his hair. She’d once thought it too long. But she loved the softness of it, loved tangling her fingers in the silky black strands.
Then she clutched at his shoulders as he continued to tease her, tugging at that nipple, nipping it gently with his teeth. She nearly came.
“You are a tease,” she accused him. And she reached between them and found his belt again. He didn’t stop her this time as she undid the buckle and the button of his jeans. Metal sighed as she lowered the zipper. Then she sighed as, even bound in his boxers, his erection sprang into her hand.
He groaned. Then he was kissing her again—deeply. His tongue thrust inside her mouth the way she needed his cock inside her body. She needed him.
She pushed down his boxers and wrapped her hand around the silky thickness. It was every bit as impressive as the rest of him. “Wyatt…”
But he pulled back. Maybe he needed to find a condom.
He didn’t reach for one, though. Instead, he slid down her body, his lips whispering along the valley between her breasts, across her stomach and over her hips until he settled between her legs.
“Wyatt…”
He teased her with just the tip of his tongue against her clit, flicking back and forth. She whimpered as sensations raced through her. Her skin heated, and her pulse quickened, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it beating in her breast. She had never felt so much…need. He was driving her crazy!
He continued to tease her with his tongue. And with his touch. His hands moved over her body, caressing her naked skin. He cupped her breasts and teased her nipples with his thumbs.
The tension built, winding so tightly that she felt as if she might snap in two. She arched her back, and he gently squeezed her breasts. She needed him. She reached down, intending to tug him up—but her hands clenched his shoulders instead.
Then his tongue slid inside her.
And, her nails digging into his skin, she came—screaming his name. He didn’t let up. He slipped two fingers inside her while his tongue went back to flicking over her clit. Before her pleasure even ebbed, the tension built again. She couldn’t catch her breath. She couldn’t slow the pounding of her heart. She had never felt like this—had never felt this much this quickly. Usually it took a while for her to find release. But her panting became a low keening moan as she came again.
Finally he moved back.
And she expected to find him chuckling over how easily he’d aroused her. How quickly he’d satisfied her.
But there was no humor in his eyes—only intense desire. He slipped off his underwear and rolled on the condom he’d found. It had to be extra long—like he was. Her heart began to pound even more frantically. Then he was there—between her legs. He planted his palms next to her head, his arms bulging as they supported his weight. And he leaned forward. As his mouth lowered and covered hers, his body lowered, too. And she felt him there, his hips against hers, as his erection rubbed against her clit.
His lips parted hers as the kiss grew in heat and intensity. She could taste her own passion, taste how much he’d already pleased her. His tongue slid inside her mouth—deeply. He moved one hand and reached between them. The tip of his erection stroked her clit again, and she moaned in anticipation, wanting more—wanting him.
She spread her legs wider and arched, and finally he thrust inside her—gently at first, just teasing her. She clutched at his shoulders then ran her hands down his back to his butt. It was as tightly muscled as the rest of his gorgeously masculine body. She grasped his butt, pulling his hips toward her. So he thrust again, harder.
He was so big—so thick and long—that he filled her and then some. She arched her hips again, trying to take him deeper—trying to take all of him.
“You are so damn hot,” he murmured as he kissed her again.
He brushed her tongue with his, kissing her deeply as he entered her over and over. The tension was building in her again…
Finally breaking the kiss, he lifted her legs so that she took him deeper still. And he thrust—hard and fast.
She clung to him, her arms locked around his back. And she matched each move—until her body tensed and then shattered. This orgasm rocked her, curling her toes and making her scream as she came and came.
A few moments later he tensed and a groan ripped from his throat. Before she could find her breath again, he pulled up and rolled off the bed. Her legs would have folded beneath her if she’d tried to walk away—as he was walking away. Her body trembled in the aftermath of the intense pleasure he’d given her. But he wasn’t even fazed.
Was that how he was? He got what he wanted and would then throw her out?
Through the open door off the master bedroom, she heard water running. Was he already showering her off his body?
Embarrassment rushed through her, heating her skin. But before she could recover enough to scramble for her clothes, he was back. He lifted her.
Maybe he intended to throw her out—as she was—naked.
But while he held her in one arm, he jerked back the quilt with the other. Then he laid down and covered them both with it, his strong arms bulging with muscles wrapped around her. “Give me a few minutes,” he said.
“Few minutes…”
To show her out?
He nodded, his chin bumping against the top of her head. “And we’ll do it again…”
Her heart rate, which had just begun to slow, raced again. Do it again? Would she survive another time? She couldn’t risk it.
First his breathing slowed from the panting that had matched hers moments ago. His chest rose and fell softly beneath her head. He’d fallen asleep.
She could have been insulted. Or irritated. Instead she was just relieved. She waited a few moments longer—not because it felt so wonderful, so perfect snuggling against his hard, hot body. She waited to make sure that he wouldn’t easily awaken. Then she slipped from beneath his arm and beneath that quilt. She quietly and quickly grabbed her clothes and shoes and carried them into the living room, where she dressed faster than she ever had. She found her purse and ran out of there as if she was the one going to a fire.
But she wasn’t going to a fire. She was running from one.
