by Anne Marsh
“You feel so perfect,” he whispered harshly. “So goddamned perfect, baby. Yes, move just like that,” he groaned as she wrapped her legs on either side of his hips. Moving with him. He laid his face against the side of hers, and every breath he took pushed him deeper inside her, dragged her scent deeper.
“That’s so good, Jack,” she whimpered, her eyes drifting closed. “I need more.”
She pulled him impossibly closer, wrapping her legs fiercely around his waist, and held on. He stroked in. Out. His hands reaching beneath her to cup her ass and hold her closer as he fought for control. Fought to make sure she found what she needed before he let go.
“Just like that,” he praised. Bracing a hand beside her head, he kept his full weight off her. His whole body was tightening, his cock desperately hard. Christ, she was killing him, her body milking his. Tiny spasms rippled through her, each small pulse sending an answering spike of pleasure through him.
He tensed, then moved faster, harder as her hands clutched at his back. Guiding. Demanding. “Now, Jack.”
“Baby, you can have whatever you want.” He slid deeper, losing himself in her sweet, wet heat. Stroked in and out of that sweet, hot pussy as he drank in her little groans of pleasure. Her nails dug into the tense muscles of his shoulders as he took them both to the edge. Pleasure tore through his body in a fiery shock of sensation, his whole world narrowing to this woman and where the two of them were joined. Her eyes watched him take her, widening with the helpless, fiery pleasure of it all.
“Come for me, baby.” He dropped a hand between them, finding her. His back arching, he drove them both over the edge, and his body tightened, pressed tightly against sensitive nerve endings as she dissolved around him and he shuddered out his pleasure in her arms.
Lily came awake, her neck protesting its unfortunate angle. Sometime during the night she’d sprawled over Jack’s bare chest. With each breath she inhaled the clean, spicy scent of him. He hadn’t left, and he hadn’t taken a fire call. Maybe that was a victory. Maybe it was because they’d slept on the daybed on the screened-in porch. Either way, she knew things would never be the same between them again. Last night had made their relationship more than a one-night stand.
Jack, of course, was still Jack, and he’d still be leaving at the end of the summer. No matter how naughty or hot the sex had been, some things hadn’t changed. Jack was still a temporary kind of a man, a ride-in-ride-out cowboy.
She still wasn’t sure she was ready for a summertime romance, but it sure looked like she’d gotten herself one. So she’d enjoy Jack Donovan, take everything he had to offer. When summer was over and his job here was done, she’d finally have her memories of him. After the last two nights, she knew she wasn’t going to be prudent. Wasn’t going to send him on his way any sooner than she had to.
She wasn’t hiding anymore. She’d live her life, see where it took her.
For years, she’d fantasized. Now she had the real deal, all six foot plus of him. It was still early, the sun barely creeping above the horizon. The light in the yard was watery and pale, the crickets still singing their drowsy summer song. There was just enough light to make out every delicious inch of Jack asleep on her sunporch. Long and lean and sexy, he sprawled on the cotton sheets. One hand was over his face, while the other tangled in the orange fur of the barn cat. The cat had snuck in and was curled up now against Jack’s side, trusting the bed’s larger occupants not to roll.
Yeah. One summer was better than nothing. Jack’s bare chest was peaceful. Beautiful. With the windows all open and his face turned toward them, he seemed to drink in the cool morning air. It would be hotter than hell in a matter of hours, but right now the morning was still cool and pleasant against her skin.
The sheer sexiness of the man had that lazy heat building in her again. The cat cracked an eye when she slipped off the mattress and padded across the floor, but the man didn’t stir.
Question was, how had this man become what she really wanted? When she’d come home, she’d sure thought she knew exactly what she wanted. To be safe. To not get burned. Jack was the antithesis of everything she’d believed should be on her wish list. She wanted roots and a home of her own. She wanted a place where people looked out for one another and greeted each other by name. Knew each other’s stories, even when that was enough to drive you crazy because those stories always followed you. That curiosity meant that folks were interested, plain and simple. You were part of the fabric of the town, for better or worse, and gossip certainly wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to her.
From all accounts, her mother had loathed the unabashedly small-town feeling of Strong. She’d always been looking for an exit ticket, but instead she’d found a series of failed businesses. Yellow-pages advertising, time-shares, even a wine-of-the-month club—she’d tried them all before Lily was five—and failed—until she’d decided the best business decision was dropping her daughter on Ben’s porch and hightailing it out of Strong for greener, more urban pastures.
Jack had hightailed it, too, and he’d made it perfectly clear that Strong was merely a stop on his tour of duty. So how did she deal with the inescapable fact that she wanted to nudge the cat aside and crawl back onto the daybed with Jack, spoon up against him? Lose herself there. Shaking her head, she backed out of the sunporch, flinching at the soft whisper of sound as the latch clicked into place. The cat’s ears flicked, but Jack Donovan slept the sleep of the dead.
From the kitchen window, she eyed the fields surrounding the house. Right now, as summer got under way, those fields were an intense blanket of color. This early in the morning, the scent was powerful, almost suffocating in its sweetness. The incessant drone of the bees getting a jump start on their own day was a familiar chorus.
A good day to harvest.
Pouring coffee into her favorite mug from the pot she’d set on auto-timer, she added cream and a heaping spoonful of sugar. Sweet and strong, the coffee was perfect. Wandering out onto the front porch, she plotted her plan of attack.
Growing good lavender required two things. Sun and water. People were more complex.
On impulse, she liberated one of Jack’s T-shirts from the duffel he’d dropped inside the door to the porch. She’d take a little piece of him out to cut lavender. Sliding her feet into her flip-flops, she shoved her hair into an elastic tie and hit the door.
Harvesting lavender was hot, satisfying work. With each new breath she took, the heady perfume threatened to overwhelm her senses. Armed with a pair of small hand shears, she carefully cut the spikes from each plant, just as they were opening. Usually she’d have waited until the late-morning sun had dried off the dew, but since these were for grower’s bouquets for the florist, she could cut early. Methodically she cut long stems for the bouquets, bunching and tying each handful with rubber bands.
When Jack had come charging on up her driveway, a knight errant she hadn’t asked for, he’d brought other, hidden dreams back to her. She’d carved out a good life for herself, and she would, she acknowledged to herself, fight tooth and nail to keep it. More than money, the farm represented the future she was trying so hard to achieve. Each plant she set into the ground was a promise.
Maybe there were promises she and Jack could make each other. Maybe not. The last two nights had been some sort of a start, though.
Jack smelled of smoke and man and something spicy Lily couldn’t name. If summer had a scent, that scent would be Jack Donovan. He’d come home. Bronzed and muscled from the work he’d done firefighting, her Jack was determined as hell to keep her safe. Yet all she could do was remember the fear.
Every time he smelled like smoke, she remembered.
She was afraid. She could admit that to herself now. She’d been afraid when the first fires started, but they’d been little. Easily dismissed by everyone, so she’d ignored her instincts. Instincts that screamed: run. She should have listened to those instincts. What had happened had been far more than a trash can f
ire or a carelessly tossed cigarette. Now just the smell of smoke was enough to make her breath catch and her heart race. A hundred-plus miles and there still wasn’t enough space between herself and San Francisco. Wasn’t enough to make her forget the heart-stopping moment when she’d woken up.
The room was too warm. Maybe the AC had gone out, but some instinct told her no. This heat was different, a suffocating blanket weighing down the thick air. No light came through the curtains covering her bedroom window. All she heard was a rapid-fire crackle, a sound almost like sticks clattering together or water running. The sound was all wrong. That sound didn’t belong in her home, any more than the high-pitched, regular ping of the fire alarm did. Oh, God.
Dropping out of bed, she staggered to the kitchen and saw that the door was impassable. And then the horrifying sight of her books burning in the sink, the flames spreading throughout the kitchen. Back in the bedroom, she crawled helplessly to the window and the fire escape. For a long moment the window stuck, resisting her shaking hands, and then the sash shot up, and she tumbled out into the smoke-filled night air.
The red-and-blue pulse of police lights strobed through the night sky, the heavy rumble of the fire trucks greeting her. Help was coming. Clinging to the fire escape that ended twelve feet above the alley, she scrubbed her eyes with her hands, distantly startled to realize she was crying. It could have been the smoke making her eyes tear. Her hair and her skin, her clothes—the sharp, gunpowder tang of smoke permeated her to the very bone. This smoke wasn’t the familiar scent of a just-struck match or the flicker of just-doused candlelight. Everything was unfamiliar. Acrid. She had to get away.
And then, the man down there, down in the alley behind her town house, made a noise. A harsh little noise of indescribable pleasure, and she looked. She couldn’t see his face, concealed by the shadows, just the thick, jutting threat of his cock. He’d unzipped his chinos and stood there, legs spread, one hand on his cock and the other massaging his balls as he watched the fire eat up her home. Above them both, glass blew out of her kitchen window and rained down on the dark, flame-lit space.
She sucked air into her lungs, and she didn’t know what to do. He was between her and the alley’s exit. The fire was above her, and no one was coming. Then his head turned, really slowly, and he looked at her.
“Your fire’s absolutely lovely, Lily,” he said, his voice a harsh, damaged creak of sound. His hand moved faster, slapping against his skin as he strained. “Don’t you like my little present?”
He took a step toward her, the semen spurting from the end of that cock in a thick stream, and she found her voice and screamed and screamed.
Afterward, she’d come back to the place to walk through the damage with the insurance adjuster. The adjuster had been professional but sympathetic, commiserating with her on her loss and assuring her that she was in good hands. He’d had no idea. These were more than just things. This was her home.
Had been her home. Now he’d taken that home away from her.
The fire’s heat had blistered the cabinets, scorching a deadly calling card on the wall separating the kitchen from her bedroom. There were holes where flame-heated nails had burst free, and everything still recognizable was wet and smoke-singed. Curling and blackened. The heat had warped the window frames, rendering them as molten as well-used candles, and all the glass had blown right out. The fire, the adjuster noted clinically, had been fast and hard.
But here she was. Alive. The adjuster promised to cut a check so she could get on with her life, rebuild when she was ready.
How could she ever be ready?
The fire had destroyed the kitchen—and so much more. She’d lost dishes and towels, pots and pans. It wasn’t as if she was sentimental about the appliances, but Ben had given her the blue glassware vase that had belonged to his mother. “Something blue,” he’d teased in a parody of the wedding tradition when he’d handed her the vase to take with her to her new home. A little piece of Strong for her very own, because he didn’t want to wait until the day she married to share their family pieces with her. The blue glassware was gone, consumed by the fire or overrun by the firefighters. It was silly to cry over something so minor, but those were her memories, damn it.
And that vase had been a reminder. She’d looked at the colored blue glass every morning, and she’d remembered the loving uncle she had, the place she’d come from.
When she’d paused, stricken, in the doorway, the insurance adjuster had simply assured her the smell would come out. Take it down to the studs and rebuild, he promised. Give the place new Sheetrock, electric, cabinets, and paint. Dry it all out. The fire would be a memory in three months. No one would ever know a terrible thing had happened here.
She, on the other hand, knew she’d never forget.
Least of all the man fisting his cock as he watched her home burning.
This fire hadn’t been an accident. The most terrifying confirmation of that came long before the police report had identified the source as suspicious. She’d been staying with friends, but she’d received a package. An anonymous cardboard box with no return address that held her favorite coffee mug—a mug that had been sitting on the draining rack in her kitchen. The oversize pink ceramic cup with its cheerful kittens was kitschy. Fun. She’d had it since her college days, and it had held the four cups of coffee she made every morning.
I thought you’d want this, the note had said.
What she’d wanted was to toss the box, the note, and the mug into the trash and pretend none of this had happened. Instead, she’d dutifully taken the mug and the box to the police station. She hadn’t even liked having the package in her car. Her mind raced, creating end-of-the-world scenarios. And, after leaving the box at the station, she’d just kept on driving. Kept on driving until she hit Strong and realized she’d come home.
She’d used the adjuster’s check for a down payment on her farm and cleaned out her 401K for the rest. The nightmares had dwindled, but they never disappeared. Just as she never quite managed to forget the scent of burned wood. Burned dreams.
Now here Jack was, stirring things up. Making her remember.
She let the thoughts and worries go, losing herself in the soothing rhythm of cutting and binding the fragrant stalks. She wasn’t going to figure Jack Donovan out in a morning—or even a night or two.
He was summer romance, as sweet as the flowers surrounding her. She’d enjoy every moment, soak in the heat and splendor. When fall came and he went away, she’d put those memories away and move on with her life.
Chapter Nineteen
Buying the old firehouse was the craziest thing Jack had ever done. He had no idea what had gotten into him.
“You sure you want to do this, boy?” Ben was watching him like he was committing the error of the millennium. That disbelieving gaze didn’t help his nerves any, but this made sense. Felt right.
“Yeah. I do.” Before he could chicken out, he signed his name at the bottom of the stack of papers. And then again and again, initialing each page in the stack. Disclosures. Addendums. Dire warnings that the old firehouse wasn’t the soundest structure in Strong.
Hell. He probably should just set the place on fire and let the boys use it for practice.
One hundred forty thousand dollars. He could afford it, but this was more than money. He’d bought property before, but never in Strong. Never as more than an investment.
And no one—no one in his right mind—would consider the old firehouse an investment. Not unless there were oil wells gushing underneath the crumbling foundation or a streak of gold ore a mile wide. Which—he examined the last page—he apparently hadn’t purchased the rights to anyhow. Anything valuable belowground belonged to the town, free and clear.
Hell.
He didn’t know why he was doing this, but the Realtor was already gathering up the papers. “The title will be recorded this afternoon.” The Realtor hesitated, then stuck out his right hand. “Congratulations.”
“Best of luck, you mean,” Ben grumbled behind him. “This place will take a shitload of sweat equity. Any moment you’re not fighting fire is gonna be spent right here, wrestling drywall and termites.”
The Realtor dropped the key into his hand. “No reason you can’t move on in right now. She’ll be yours as soon as I get back to the office.” Which was five buildings down the street.
Tilting his head back, he let his head rest against the peeling paint of the firehouse’s porch as the Realtor scampered down the sagging steps with the check and the paperwork. “You think I’m not pressing you into service, Ben, you thought wrong.”
Ben snorted. “I figure I owe you that much, since I’m the reason you’re here.”
Nonna had made the call on Ben’s behalf, sure enough, but coming back hadn’t been just for him. Or her. Sure, he’d wanted to help out an old friend and mentor, but he’d had business here. Personal business. He hadn’t known it, but he wasn’t hiding from the truth anymore.
“Part of the reason anyhow,” Jack said.
“Right.” Ben tested the wood of the balcony, and the paint flaked off in his hands. “Plenty to do here.”
Shoving away from the wall, Jack opened the door. The lock stuck and took a little finessing before the door finally opened up and let him in. An unexpected sense of possession filled him. He had himself his own little piece of Strong now.
A piece that smelled strongly of mildew.
The floors inside creaked with each step. The place wasn’t so big that he didn’t know where to head. He passed the two bays for fire trucks and skipped the upstairs loft for off-duty firemen. He poked his head into storerooms and a dressing room. Pegs for the guys to hang their jackets and drop their boots. In front of him was the old firehouse office. On a hunch, he realized there was something he wanted to check out. He’d bet no one had wanted to be the guy stuck behind the rusting metal desk that greeted him when he forced that warped door open. He’d have wanted to be out where the action was, first on the scene.
