by Anne Marsh
“I think he believes you’re his.” He was sure of it. That sense of possession explained the fires. The need Lily’s stalker had to hurt her.
“Then he’s crazy.” She looked sideways at him. “I don’t belong to anyone.”
“No, baby,” he agreed quietly. “That’s true.”
Something flashed in her brown eyes, but he didn’t stop to try to figure out what it could have been. He needed her to understand what was at stake here. “But we think he’s the one stalking you. So we’re watching for him.”
“Okay,” she said, surprising him. He felt suddenly off balance, unsure of himself. Somehow, she was turning the tables on him, being unusually accommodating. “You want me to make a spectacle of us, draw his attention? Is that the reason you’re here, Jack?”
“Lily—” He damned sure didn’t have any words to give her. He didn’t know how to explain to her that she’d upended his entire world, and he didn’t know where he was or what to do.
“You smell good,” she whispered, leaning closer to him. “No smoke.”
He inhaled, too, and the familiar cherry and vanilla scent of her filled him. “You, too,” he said.
When she breathed, this close, her breasts brushed his hands, hands aching to hold her. He almost cursed, because they were in public, but she was moving closer, leaving not an inch to spare between them.
She smiled up at him. “Dance with me, Jack.”
As he had every evening for years, Ben walked over to her place, two lemonades in hand. Nonna couldn’t remember the last time he’d missed a night. Rain or shine, there was Ben. Once he’d picked his course, he stuck to it. He dropped into the chair next to her. Familiar. Comforting. The porch was empty until he got there. He gave his usual little huff as he stretched, letting his body curve into the chair. There he was, on the wrong side of sixty, and he couldn’t bring himself to rock the boat any more than she could.
But she wanted that change, she realized. She was lonely, and she was wondering if it wasn’t finally time to nurture the seeds time had planted between her and Strong’s fire chief all those years ago.
Every evening like clockwork he’d climbed the stairs to her porch and dropped into the seat beside her. It felt good to sit down in the evening and let the remainder of the day wash gently over her. Even better, she thought with sudden clarity, to be sitting there right beside Ben. God willing, he’d be sitting beside her for years to come.
He handed her the second beer and popped the top on his own can. “Our Jack and Lily, they’re almost ready, Nonna.”
“Don’t,” she said suddenly.
“Don’t what?” Even he hadn’t missed her interest in hooking that pair up. She’d thrown them together every opportunity she had. Horse had left that barn, so it was too late for her to start regretting and second-guessing now.
“Don’t call me Nonna. That’s not my name.”
“You’ve been Nonna for years,” he objected. “Just about ever since you brought those boys home to stay. Why would you mind the name now?”
“It’s not my name,” she said slowly, the words suddenly coming to her. “It’s what I am. Some of the time.”
“Fine,” he groused. “You want I should call you Mary Ellen? I can do that.”
She knew he could. Ben had always been capable of anything he set his mind to. “Mary Ellen will do just fine.” The paint on her Adirondack chairs was starting to peel—she’d need to refinish them before too long. Maybe even choose a new color for them. Those chairs had been a pale lilac for longer than she could remember. “Chairs are getting worn out,” she said out loud, running her fingers along a curl of paint.
“You let me know when you’re ready to paint.” He looked over at her, hoisting his cold beer in a silent toast. As if he could read her mind. “I’ll come over and help.”
“Maybe next weekend.” She thought for a moment. “A new coat of paint would be good.”
“You thought of a color?” His eyes challenged hers.
She’d wanted something different, hadn’t she? A slow smile creased her face. “Red,” she decided. “Fire engine red.”
“I’m touched.” He took another swallow of his beer and settled back in the chair as if he belonged there.
Chapter Twenty-one
The open window brought her a burst of lavender with each breath she took. The scent of lavender and, beneath that, on her skin, on her tongue, the hot, wild scent of Jack. He was her warrior man, hard and strong. It was all too easy to imagine him on some battlefield, fighting for their country. Jack had always defended what was his.
Even a temporary, summertime lover.
While he effortlessly carried her up her stairs, she indulged in that little fantasy, drinking in the strength and the heat of him. She needed more of him, needed to touch those strong forearms, stroke the hard muscles beneath the faded cotton of his T-shirt. Each subtle brush of his skin against hers as he carried her to her bed set nerve endings on fire, had her sinking into sensual bliss. The darkened house was slowly filling with moonlight, starlight from her farm. As her eyes adjusted, the dense darkness outside faded, resolving into familiar shapes: the greenhouse and the rows of lavender plants. His now-familiar face looked down at her, watching her and not the steps he mastered so easily. He was so strong and male, with dark stubble shadowing his jaw.
He was so damned sexy.
She wanted to reach up and touch that face, wanted to turn over and find him lying beside her every morning. Forever.
Problem was, Jack wasn’t a forever kind of man.
He was the heat and lightning of a summer storm, all thick tension. A dominating presence promising heat and power but no rain.
Heat unfurled low in her belly now as she watched him. She could enjoy the heat, though. Just for this one moment, this night in the string of nights he’d give her, she could enjoy Jack Donovan. She certainly wasn’t going to fight the fire he woke in her.
He swept the white coverlet back, laying her down on her cotton sheets. If this was all she could have of Jack Donovan, this would be enough. She’d make it enough. “Take your shirt off.”
She slid a hand up his arm, beneath the sleeve’s frayed hem. The old cotton was soft with washing, the lack of color stark in the moonlight. “I want to see you, Jack.” She wanted to take him as thoroughly as he’d taken her.
“Whatever you want, baby.” He pulled the shirt over his head in one smooth movement, dropping it carelessly to the floor.
“You look good enough to eat.” When her tongue traced her lips, his eyes followed, and heat jolted through her, a visceral, feminine response to the raw arousal in his eyes. “I’m going to taste every inch you can give me.”
“Lily.” His harsh groan told her clearly enough just how much he liked the notion. He leaned over her, threading a hand through her hair. “You’re going to be the death of me, baby.”
“Only the good kind, I hope,” she teased. Her voice was husky, unfamiliar even to herself. When she stretched, his eyes followed the feline movement, and she loved how sexy she felt, imagining herself through his eyes. Seeing the pleasure he didn’t hide from her. His other hand pulled open her top, baring her.
“You’re not wearing a bra, Lily.” Those strong, knowing fingers of his cupped a bare breast. Stroking. Learning her anew.
She hadn’t bothered with a bra. She’d wanted that wicked freedom. Wanted to know that only the thin cotton of her romper top separated her from him. From the sweet, hot sensation unfurling inside her.
“I hoped you’d be coming home with me tonight,” she whispered, drawing his scent deeper inside her with every breath she took.
His mouth raked the bare column of her throat. Hot and demanding, he began exploring each sensitive curve as she shivered in delight. Anticipation. That wicked mouth moved up, over her jaw, the curve of her face. Finding and capturing her mouth in a long, slow kiss that had her melting, reaching for more as she stroked her tongue deep into that wicked
mouth. God, she loved the taste of him.
The low growl of thunder echoed across the hills, and his head half turned toward the open window. “We might have more sleeper fires,” he whispered against her skin. His tongue licked a wicked path along her collarbone. “All that thunder. Lightning. But not tonight, I hope.” He trailed his knuckles along her damp flesh. “Christ, not tonight.”
“Good,” she groaned.
Somewhere, somehow, she’d accepted the firefighting side of him. Soon, too soon, he’d be right back out there, fighting fires.
But tonight—tonight, Jack Donovan was all hers.
Jack lowered himself down onto Lily, giving in to the primal satisfaction of pinning her sweet body between his throbbing erection and the mattress of her bed. The approaching storm was making its presence known, the air thick with heat and tension, but the electric sensations streaking through him had nothing to do with the storm.
Had everything to do with the woman in his arms.
Staring down at that familiar face, he knew he was going to give in to the need. He wanted to be here, with Lily. He couldn’t deny that truth any longer. She meant something—everything—to him. She’d woken some side of him he hadn’t known existed, and now, plain and simple, he couldn’t get enough of her.
He wanted to give her the words, tell her how she made him feel, but he’d never been good with words. She deserved a damned sonnet or an epic poem. Instead, he was speechless.
“Are you going to kiss me,” she asked, “or just watch me?”
He could have watched her all night, just stayed there, braced on his elbows, his mouth a breath away from hers. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper into the sweet, heated cradle of her thighs.
“You’re playing with fire, baby.” She didn’t like what he did for a living, who he was. But she wanted him. That was going to be enough, he decided. Had to be enough.
“I know,” she whispered. “But you like that fire, Jack. You were born to fight fires.” He didn’t miss the sad acceptance in her eyes.
That sadness made him want to howl, but there was nothing he could do to change the truth. He was who he was, and some things weren’t changing. Tomorrow—tonight, even, if that storm kept right on rolling over Strong—he’d be right back out there. Front and center in the firestorm. All he could do now was kiss her until she forgot the danger for a moment.
Threading his fingers through her dark hair, he spread the lazy curls over the pillow. She looked like a fallen angel, with that pout to her lips and her honey-colored bedroom eyes. His angel.
Lowering his mouth to the delicate curve of her ear, he traced a hot, damp path. Slowly. He’d promised to taste every inch of her, and he kept his promises. “Lily . . .” His voice sounded harsh, even to his own ears. No way he could hide the truth from her. Every inch of him was hard and wanting. She’d take him straight to heaven—or send him straight to hell.
He slid his hands down the curve of her throat, his thumbs testing the bright little beat of her pulse. Stroking downward. Sure. Knowing. She went still beneath him, but that little betraying tremor gave her away. She wanted him, too. So he said the words out loud, because they were still an unbelievable gift.
“You want me, too.” The curve of her breast fit his hand perfectly. Her skin was impossibly soft, and that pale, secret spot where her bikini top had covered her drove him crazy. He was dying for her, a starving man, and she was a lavish feast, so he cupped the delicious weight of her breasts, filling his hands with her while his thumbs teased her nipples. Slow and deliberate. Filling his senses with her.
Lightning flashed outside the window. The quick, hard burst lit up the room. Her eyes were still watching him. Just like she had in high school days. Those eyes had driven him crazy, had had his hands itching to touch her even then. Now those same brown eyes watched him again. Trusting him. He wouldn’t screw this up. Whatever it took, he’d be the man she needed in her arms tonight.
He kissed her slowly, sinking into her. Savoring the unforgettable taste of her mouth as he pinned her against the mattress, his fingers seeking hers. Threading through hers as he lowered himself onto her. The soft, lush warmth of her body welcoming his was a sharp counterpoint to the sudden rush of air through the open window. The storm was almost on top of them. She tasted so good, so right, all he could do was keep on kissing her. This was what he’d been missing all those years he’d run from Strong.
Thunder sounded closer. If he looked, he’d see the bright spikes of light illuminating the hills. Those weren’t the sorts of fireworks he wanted. Not tonight.
He slid a hand to the buttons on the front of her romper, where the soft pink fabric still hugged her hips and the round curve of her thighs. “Lift up,” he growled.
She did. Slowly, languorously, she raised that sweet little ass of hers, her fingers tangling with his on the buttons. The heat in the room had her skin flushing. A bead of moisture streaked her skin, and he followed the errant drop with his tongue, tasting her. Drinking her in.
The soft, slow eroticism of the moment seduced him as thoroughly as the woman he held. Every touch was magnified. More intimate and close than he’d ever found in bed before. He didn’t, he realized with a shock of awareness, want this fast and hard at all, just close. And yet, when he finally slipped the romper off her, he had to fight the urge to sink right into her. It was almost painful to stand up, leave her for the few moments it took to drag off his own jeans and roll on a condom, leaving the pants tangled with her clothes on the floor.
“Time’s up,” he promised. Stretching out beside her on the bed, he pressed her down into the mattress with his body.
Outside, the thunder was louder, growling irritably. The impossible summer heat prickled his skin even as her heat melted him. Melted ten years of reserve.
The too-soft mattress gave beneath his weight, sending him rolling into her. Onto her. Pinning her down. She laughed, and something gave inside him. Melted. Christ, he wasn’t walking away from this. From her. He could feel the devilish grin tugging at his mouth and didn’t even try to hide that smile from her. She was under his skin, a part of him, and he was okay with that.
“Think that’s funny, do you?” Her eyes laughed up at him, as he lowered his head to devour her mouth. More than okay. He kissed her, hard and deep, pressing her down into the bed as they devoured each other. Her sensual response had him locked against her, lost in the hungers tearing through him.
When he finally tore his mouth from hers, his breath was a harsh gasp in the still air of the bedroom.
He wanted her. Wanted her so bad, he ached with it. “If I’d had any idea,” he growled, “that you’d be so damned hot, baby, I’d never have let you go that night.”
Her pique at that remark washed over him, sudden as the storm building outside their bedroom window. “You didn’t let me go, Jack.”
He had. But he wouldn’t make that mistake again. She gasped as he captured a cherry-sweet nipple in his mouth and sucked, but the would-have-could-have memories tormented him. “I would have touched you here.” His finger traced the curve of her breast. “Tasted you here.” He curled a finger around her nipple, coaxing.
She arched in his arms, her sweet moan filling the air as her fingers curved against his skin, her nails marking him.
“Yes,” he growled. “Like that.”
“No,” she said. “Like this.” Taking charge, she pushed him back against the pillows, coming up over him.
“I’m feeling just a little bit naughty, Jack. Up for a little revenge.” The hot, wet heat of her straddling his thigh was driving him crazy. He fought the need to pull her down, under him. When, finally, he reached for her, she teasingly pushed him back down, sliding between his legs.
He froze, a dozen wicked midnight fantasies running through his head. “Just a little?” His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears.
“Mmm,” she agreed. “It’s time for that taste of you that I wanted.” Her fingers trail
ed down his stomach, tickling his navel with a suggestive little circle. “Maybe you’d be okay with that.”
“I’m thinking I would be.” Hell, he was about to come up off the bed. His entire body was tightening, standing at attention. About to explode right out of his skin.
As her hands wrapped around him, the sweet, hot pressure rocked his world.
The teasing glint in those brown eyes warned him she wouldn’t show him any more mercy than he’d shown her. She watched his face, the softly erotic tickle of her breath around his rigid erection making his fists tangle in the sheets. Whatever she saw on his face must have been the right answer, because she gave a little smile and lowered her head.
His whole world stood still as the dark curtain of her hair parted around him and her lips closed over him. Her little hum of delight sent shivers through his body. He had to fight not to arch off the bed, not to drive himself deep into her mouth.
Her hands wrapped around the base of his shaft, coaxing, guiding. Stroking as if she couldn’t get enough of him, either.
“Christ, baby.” Sliding his fingers through her hair, he held on. Fiery sensations streaked through him with each sensual, damp tug of her mouth. Pulling him in deeper. Opening up, trusting him not to drive too fast, too hard. She was killing him.
She touched him, the delicate, questing stroke exploring the long, hard length of him. “Lily,” he groaned, and he wanted to say something. Needed to tell her how she made him feel, how he was so lost in her that he’d found something new. Something unexpected. But he couldn’t hold on, couldn’t hold the thought. Instead, his fingers were fisting in her hair, anchoring himself.
He moved in and out, fucking her mouth in an intimate echo of how he’d taken her before. Filling her. Faster, harder. There was nothing soft and dreamy now about how she was touching him, taking him. This was raw and wet and unbearably intimate.
