The Night Belongs to Fireman

by Jennifer Bernard

  “Well, that’s not what I would want.”

  For a moment, she lost her breath, desperate for Fred to continue that thought. He brought the truck to a jerking halt in front of her apartment building, then leaned toward her, his hand rising halfway between them. Her cheek tingled, waiting. She wanted, needed him to touch her. But then his gaze arrowed past her, and she swiveled to see Marsden waiting for them in the lobby.

  His hand dropped away; she watched it with a sense of despair, as if it symbolized her entire life. Always separate, always apart.

  “Go ahead upstairs,” he told her. “I’ll watch you until you’re inside, then park the truck. Tell Marsden to do the security check with you.”

  She lingered on the sidewalk, seized by the feeling that as soon as she parted from Fred, he’d put her out of his mind forever. “You’re coming up right away?”

  “Yes.” He hesitated. “But Rachel . . .”

  “I’ll see you upstairs.” She hurried away from the truck before he could say anything else. Whatever he was about to say, she could already imagine. It was a mistake. I’m not from your world. Your father would fire me. Who could blame Fred if he said any of those things? What sane man would want to take on her and her father, not to mention a possibly vengeful kidnapper still on the loose?

  Upstairs, Greta squirmed happily against her legs. Rachel kicked off her stilettos and knelt on the floor to hug her. Her warm doggy enthusiasm made the tight, fearful knot in Rachel’s chest loosen. It was okay if she made a fool of herself in front of Greta. Dogs didn’t care about things like that.

  A tear dropped onto Greta’s fur. “Oh Greta, I’m afraid I’ve ruined everything,” she whispered to her dog.

  A hot tongue licking her hand assured her that she hadn’t. She swiped at her tears with the heel of her hand and padded into the kitchen, illuminated by nothing more than the light of the stove hood. She didn’t want to turn on any more lights; the semi-darkness suited her mood. In the pantry, she took out a can of dog food and found the can opener.

  If she could do nothing else in her life, she knew how to make dogs happy. Maybe that would be enough. It used to be enough. Until she met Fred.

  “Rachel,” came his voice from the other side of the kitchen.

  She spun around, clutching the half-opened can, her stomach cratering with fear. Here it came. Rejection, withdrawal, abandonment. All of the things she’d been imagining. Instead, he opened his arms with an almost helpless gesture, as if to say, Here I am, if you want me.

  The most undignified sound came out of her mouth, a sort of sniffling gulp. He seemed to know exactly what it meant. A grin spread across his face, creases tugging at the corners of his dark eyes. She tossed aside the can of dog food and launched herself into his open arms.

  Fred would never forget the feeling of Rachel’s full-throttle leap into his embrace. For that one moment, all her protective layers were ripped away, and he saw the beautifully warm spirit who lived inside. The way her face came alive, the way her feet actually left the ground on her way to him, as if she trusted him absolutely. The idea that this reserved, precious person would open herself up to him gave him a sense of awe.

  While parking the truck, he’d come to a decision. Even though he couldn’t imagine getting a thumbs-up from Rob Kessler, this wasn’t about the man. This was about him and Rachel, and at the moment, she needed him. And if he didn’t have her, he might lose his mind. So he’d go for the ride as long as it lasted, or until Kessler brought down the hammer. If—when—his heart got broken, well, Lizzie owed him plenty of Chunky Monkey.

  “I thought you might be angry,” she whispered. He saw the tracks of tears on her cheeks, and wiped them away with a thumb.

  “Why would I be angry?”

  “Because Dad dragged you away from your nice life and your firehouse and now I’m making things even more complicated.”

  “I had a say in the matter,” he said dryly. “If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be. I don’t care what the Mighty Kessler offered.”

  She gazed at him wonderingly, her violet eyes scanning his face. “You wouldn’t, would you? People don’t make you do things. Not even my father. You do what you feel is right. You do what you want.”

  He brushed a gleaming strand of hair behind her ear. “Believe me, I don’t always do what I want. If I did, I’d have had you in bed that first night.”

  She swallowed so hard he saw the shift of her throat muscles.

  “What do you want, Rachel? You, not your father, not your friends—you?”

  “I want you,” she whispered. “But I know it’s wrong. No, not because of Dad,” she said quickly, when he started to speak. “Because you didn’t come here for that. And I know we should keep things professional and you’re working hard to protect me and I don’t want to—”

  He sealed his mouth against hers in a fast, hard kiss, as if stopping her breath would halt the flow of her thoughts. “Did anyone ever tell you that you worry too much?” he whispered against her mouth.

  “It’s been mentioned once or twice,” she whispered back. “I have my reasons.”

  “I know you do.” He ran his hands along her sides, along the sleek black curve of her waist, down to her ass, as he’d been wanting to do all night long. She shivered under his touch. “But do you think you could turn your brain off, just for now?”

  She nodded. He hoisted her legs so they wrapped around his hips, and settled his hands under her rear. Her dress rode up to her thighs, where satiny skin gleamed in the glow of the stove light.

  “I’m going to make love to you,” he told her firmly. “If you have any objections to that, tell me now.”

  “Not a single one,” she said fervently, peppering kisses onto his cheeks and jaw. “If you don’t start soon, I might burst into tears.”

  “No more tears, unless it’s because I make you feel so good.” He nibbled on the delicate skin just below her ear.

  “So confident,” she teased, leaning in to follow the movements of his Adam’s apple with her tongue. “You think you can bring me to tears?”

  “If you can cry over dog food, you can cry over me.”

  Her laughter bubbled up like uncorked champagne. “I wasn’t crying over dog food, silly.”

  Greta bumped against his leg. She was pushing the can around the kitchen with her nose, sniffing it, trying to figure out how to get inside. This struck both of them as hilarious and they burst out laughing. Greta started, then gave them an outraged look that sent them into more gales of laughter.

  Fred let Rachel down so she could finish feeding Greta. He watched her empty the can, rinse it out, then wash her own hands. Each moment that ticked past made his desire ramp up even higher.

  When she was finally done—it seemed to take an eternity—Fred whisked her out of the kitchen to the living room, where they tumbled together onto the suede couch. Fred pulled her on top of him and their laughter drowned under hot, drugging kisses. He unzipped the back of her dress and sat her up so he could draw it down her body. Her hair streamed in wild curls to her shoulders. Her skin gleamed like marble, a living marble that responded to his touch with floods of vibrant color. Even her breasts, as he unpeeled the dress from her body, were washed with pink, like icing on a birthday cake. He paused before going any further than the tops of her breasts.

  “I’ve been trying to picture you naked for days,” he whispered. “But I think my imagination needs work. You’re even more beautiful now that you’re real and you’re right here on top of me.”

  “Really, you’ve been thinking about me that way?” She snuck her small, cool hands under his sweater. He thought his pounding heart might leap out like a fish. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you lying over there in that bedroom. Stark naked.”

  He swallowed hard. “How do you know I sleep naked?”

  “I don’t.” The pink in her cheeks deepened to the crimson of geraniums. “That was just wishful thinking.”

  “W
hat else did you wish for?”

  “This,” she said simply. “You. To be close to you.” She tugged at his sweater. “Do you think you could . . . ?”

  He sat up against the arm of the couch, reached back, and yanked his creamy wool sweater over his head, dragging his T-shirt along with it. When he was bare-chested, she placed a hand over the center of his rib cage. “I remember this chest,” she said in a husky voice. “I’ve never shown up for dinner at a half-naked man’s house before.”

  “At least I had pants on.”

  “Yes, that was extremely disappointing,” she said gravely, making him laugh. With her pixie features shining with delight, her wide grin nearly taking over her small face, he knew he’d never seen anything more beautiful in the world.

  If he could make her happy, even if only for the span of time required to make passionate love to her, he would.

  Chapter 17

  The feel of Fred’s bare skin against hers was enough to send Rachel into a stratospheric state of pleasure. It was as if she’d been starving, and was finally sitting at a sensual buffet where she could gorge herself without embarrassment. She ran her palms across the tight muscles of his torso and the light dusting of silky dark hair. Every muscle was firm and sharply defined, as if sketched by some master of anatomy.

  “You’re beautiful,” she told him.

  “Nah,” he said, embarrassed. “I’m your basic guy. I can show you ten guys at the firehouse more ripped than me.”

  “To me, you’re perfect.” She slid her hands under the waistband of his pants and felt the tender skin of his lower belly quiver.

  He groaned. “You can’t say that yet. You haven’t seen the whole picture.”

  “Very good point,” she agreed, moving to unfasten his pants. When she reached the zipper, he stopped her with one hand. Once again, his strength took her breath away.

  “Not yet. I’ve been waiting long enough to see you like this. I don’t want to rush through it. Keep your hands still or I’ll completely lose it.”

  The note of command in his voice gave her a little shock. She let her arms relax at her side, palms up, which gave her a delicious feeling of offering herself to him. He reached for her breasts, cupping them tenderly, stroking their soft under curves. Her nipples tightened visibly; inside, she felt a tugging ache. His gaze, latched onto her chest, went lazy and hot. As if they had all night, he explored the shape of her breasts with his thumbs, circling the exposed globes, drawing ever closer to her nipples, which began to throb.

  She shifted restlessly so she could feel the hard ridge of his erection against her sex. The pressure made them both groan out loud.

  “No rushing,” Fred said sternly. “I’ve still barely gotten to touch you.”

  “What do you mean, barely? You’re driving me crazy. Could you . . .” She leaned forward, shivering, needing more contact.

  “My pleasure,” he murmured, and dragged his thumbs across her pebble-hard nipples. A sharp streak of pleasure made her jump. Her vision blurred slightly, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth.

  He spent an excruciating amount of time playing with her breasts, shifting between tender explorations and hard squeezes that overloaded her senses and made her want to scream. Even though shivers racked her body, he refused to be hurried. He gathered her close so he could run his tongue across the taut peaks. His deep suckles and gentle nibbles made her writhe on top of him, her thighs tightening around his hips.

  Finally, finally, he lifted her up and worked her little black dress off her hips, leaving her in nothing but her black silk panties. She was trembling so hard she was no help at all in the process. Part of her resented him for being so in control while she was shaking with waves of hot want. But then he half tumbled off the couch, shoved off his wedding pants, and she caught an eyeful of what their make-out session had done to him. All other thoughts fled her mind. His thickly swollen penis stood straight out from his body, its heavy weight buoyed by the intensity of his arousal.

  Rachel’s breath stuttered in her throat. She didn’t have a ton of experience, but none of what she did have prepared her for the sight of Fred. Were penises supposed to be this size? It was nearly as thick as her wrist. “That’s . . . not normal,” she said warily.

  “Normal enough,” he muttered, his hungry gaze still consuming her body. “I’m in the normal range.”

  “Maybe the outer limit,” she said dubiously.

  “Yeah, something like that. Don’t worry, I’ve never had any complaints. I’d never hurt you.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  He kicked his pants aside and returned to the couch. “Communication. If something doesn’t feel good to you, we stop immediately.”

  She swallowed hard. Communication was not one of her strengths, at least when it came to people. Dogs were one thing, but people had so many contradictions and secret hidden agendas. She had secrets of her own, so she always watched her words very carefully. But Fred was great at communication. If she just followed his lead, maybe it would all be okay.

  When he made to sit down next to her on the couch, she stopped him.

  “My turn to look at you,” she told him. She touched a tentative finger to the hot, velvety tip of his erection, then circled around the rigid flare of the head. Her finger seemed to take an insanely long time to travel its complete circumference. When she stole a glance at his face, she saw that he’d clamped his eyes shut. Knots of tension rippled his jaw muscles.

  Pure female satisfaction made her want to purr. She’d never felt sexually powerful before, but the strained expression on his face made her confidence soar. “Does this feel good?”

  “Yes,” he choked out. “But I think you’d better stop.”

  “Not yet.” First, she wanted to run her fingers down his full length, appreciating each hard ridge and soft vein she discovered. His shaft grew even harder under her exploring strokes. Bending down, she touched her tongue to the very tip, tasting tender skin and a drop of salt.

  “Okay, that’s it,” growled Fred. “There’s only so much I can take.”

  Suddenly she found herself on her back, sprawled across the couch, her legs lifted so he could slide off her panties, which were already soaking wet. He stilled for a moment, holding her legs apart with firm hands on both of her thighs. The position felt exposing, vulnerable and erotic.

  “You are so dang beautiful.” The rough edge in his voice was sweet music to her soul. He drew one finger down the center of the thatch of downy hair, right where the need crystallized into a throbbing point. It was as if he’d tugged on a string attached to her sex. Almost involuntarily, she pushed her hips against his finger, mutely begging for more. He gave it to her. Another finger. More pressure, more friction, more pleasure. He touched her with so much honest appreciation that tears sprang to her eyes. Under his strong hand, she felt beautiful and free.

  Free to twist against him when he escalated the pace of his stroking. Free to moan and babble urgent things like “Faster, please, oh, don’t stop, oh my God.” Free to grab his erection and rub it against her mound. When he drew his hips away, she actually shouted at him. He just laughed, crawled between her legs, and lowered his mouth to her sex. She stopped shouting and started panting.

  Her entire being homed in on the warm, fleshy tongue stroking intimately against her, dragging bursts of bright sensation from her core. His mouth covered the tender, slick tissues of her sex, delving, testing, savoring. And then . . . oh glory . . . he did something with his thumb, touched some spot that might as well have been the detonator on a bomb, because she exploded in shocking waves of bright heat. It went on and on, the spasms grabbing her body with brilliant cataclysms of pleasure. Bits of information filtered through the madness: her spine bent in a tight arch, her fists filled with couch upholstery, his hands a miracle from heaven.

  And then, tragedy, his hands left her and he disappeared from the couch.

  Panting, melting, she watched him move to the
little pile of clothes on the floor and rummage for his pants. She stared at his young, tough body as he knelt. He moved with complete physical confidence, like one of the mountain lions at the Refuge. Quiet strength and smooth grace, each tendon and muscle flexing in perfect harmony with the others. He extracted his wallet from his back pocket, plucked out a condom, tore it open, and worked it over his massive hard-on.

  Then he pounced on her, his knees on either side of her hips, surprising a laugh out of her.

  She was so slippery, so drenched in satisfaction that his size barely registered. As he entered her she felt remade. Stretched and expanded, all hesitation and doubt chased from her body by his full-blooded, iron erection. He eased inside her, every new inch of progress making her more open and more wild. She reached down to put her hand on his powerful thigh, feeling the muscle flex as he fought to control his movements. He hung above her, breath ragged, steam practically rising off him.

  “You feel so good,” he muttered, his face set in fierce lines. “I might lose my mind here.”

  “So what?” She gasped as he claimed another inch. “I already lost mine, and I don’t miss it at all.”

  He gave a ragged laugh. “Good point. Okay, then. You ready?”

  “Bring it, fireman.” She grinned up at him with an unfamiliar feeling of sassiness. She never felt relaxed during sex, the few times she’d tried it. There was too much to worry about—expectations, the tabloids, consequences. But this felt so different, as if she and Fred were creating their own perfect, steamy world one caress at a time.

  “Brace yourself, sweetheart.” He thrust his hips forward until he was seated entirely within her. She let out a squeak. She hadn’t known that anyone could go so deep inside her. She hadn’t known there was space. And who could have guessed it would feel so good? The slow friction of his shaft dragging across the hidden recesses of her flesh sent pleasure skipping through her system. She bent her legs so he could go even deeper. Oh my God. How could anything on earth feel so amazing?