Light My Fire (Man of the Month Book 11)

by J. Kenner

  Although she’d read the script, she was fascinated by how different the experience of watching the movie was from the actual process of filming. Because, of course, movies are almost never filmed in story order. After a few more minutes, she forgot those details, stopped noticing that it was her on screen, and simply fell into the suspense of a well-told story.

  She did for a while, anyway.

  Then they got to the love scene.

  How the hell had she forgotten about the love scene? But there she was, larger than life, her costar David’s mouth on her. His hands on her. And although she’d been wearing a tiny thong, the movie was shot in such a way that she truly looked naked. And now she was sitting there next to Griffin, and all she could do was imagine those were his hands. His mouth.

  She kept looking straight forward, forcing herself not to glance sideways and see if he was peeking at her from underneath his hood. She doubted he was. There was a still, uncomfortable tension between them, and she had a feeling his eyes were locked forward just as hers were.

  For the entirety of the scene, she barely breathed. Then, when it was over, she slowly relaxed, finally feeling distanced enough from the scene to lose that awkwardness and reach for the popcorn.

  His hand was there, too.

  Their fingers touched, and she pulled her hand back. “Sorry, I—”

  “It’s okay, I—” He stopped abruptly, took a breath, and started over. “I’m not a popcorn hog.”

  She turned to look at him more directly, trying to read from his expression if he was as turned on from the scene as she was. Or, more specifically, from sitting near him while they watched the scene. But once again, she couldn’t get a read on him.

  Honestly, the man was as good at hiding his emotions as she was.

  “This part’s really good,” she said, nodding to the television, grateful for the train sequence that was about to begin. She didn’t lie; the scene was even better than what she’d read in the script, and it was the lead-in to the climax of the movie, so that by the time the final credits rolled, they’d both fallen back against their pillows, limp with relief that the heroes had saved the day.

  “That was awesome,” he said. And then more softly. “You were awesome.”

  She’d been told that many times, but for some reason it meant so much more coming from him. She edged toward him, then reached for his left hand. To her shock, he let her take it.

  “Thank you,” she said, her eyes on his. She leaned forward, wanting to taste his lips, knowing she was pushing, but not caring anymore. She wanted this. And after the last two hours, her body was on fire.

  He cleared his throat, then sat up, tugging his hand from hers, then running both his hands down his jean-clad thighs. “Wow. That movie was over two hours.”

  She fought the urge to curse, wondering if he was intentionally cutting her off, or if he hadn’t picked up on her vibe. She decided to go with the latter. Better for her ego.

  “We should go work,” he said. “Holt will have both our asses if we hold this process up.”

  Since she couldn’t argue with that, she didn’t. She just followed him into the living room and, as they always did, she settled into the chair behind him while he fired up the computer.

  At first, she felt both awkward and denied. Thankfully, that passed as she got lost in the script.

  “This line is redundant,” Griffin said, highlighting a block of text. “Hammond said almost the same thing last scene. Ditch it?”

  “Absolutely.” She leaned forward as he scrolled down, then pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “And I don’t think Angelique would argue with Hammond right now.”

  She stood up, one hand on the back of his chair as she reached over to tap the screen. “This bit,” she said. “It doesn’t quite sound like him.”

  Her mouth was close to his head, and she breathed in the freshly washed scent of his ever-present hoodie as well as the masculine scent of the man himself.

  She eased back, the longing she’d felt on the bed rushing back.

  Down girl.

  “You may be right,” he said, moving the cursor to highlight some text. “She’s not going to show her cards yet.”

  “Exactly.” She started to stand up straight, but stumbled, her balance off a little, probably because of the wine. She steadied herself by resting her hand on his right shoulder. She felt the hard, ridged scar tissue beneath his T-shirt and hoodie. And she also felt his muscles tense.

  “Beverly.”

  “Yes, that line,” she said, pretending to misunderstand.

  “Beverly, don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  For a moment, he was silent. “You know.”

  She waited a beat, then another. Then she lifted her hand off his shoulder. But, dammit, this was getting ridiculous. She couldn’t be in the same room with him without fighting her way through an electrical storm of attraction, all the more intense because he never let lightning strike. Which was a stupid metaphor, but that only proved how much he was messing with her mind.

  And, dammit all, she was desperately turned on.

  Time to take a stand.

  She moved around his chair, then leaned against the desk so that she was facing him, the computer at her back, and Griffin right in front of her. That close, there was no way she could avoid seeing the massive scars, now illuminated by the glow of his computer screen.

  “Beverly.” Her name was a growl, and he tilted his head down, putting his face in shadows.

  “Dammit, Griff. There’s something between us. I felt it, and I know you did, too. So what the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Wrong with me?” His head jerked up, his voice filled with anger and derision. “Take a goddamn look.”

  “I’ve been looking for months,” she retorted. “I don’t see a thing.”

  “Do not patronize me.”

  “You’re an idiot. You know that?”

  He rolled his chair backwards. “We’re done for today.”

  She grabbed the arms and pulled it back. “No, we’re not.” She closed her hand over his right one, the rough, destroyed flesh hard beneath her palm.

  For a moment, their eyes met, then he looked away.

  She took a breath for courage, then lifted her hand, moving it to his hoodie. Gently, she pushed it off his head.

  “Don’t,” he said, his voice tight.

  “Then stop me,” she said, cupping her palm over his scarred cheek. She met his eyes again, her heart pounding as she waited for him to do just that. And then, when he stayed motionless, she did what she had wanted to do for ages. She bent forward, closed her mouth over his, and kissed him.

  Chapter Six

  He froze, the competing urges to pull away and to draw her close making him unable to do anything at all. Anything, that is, except to lose himself in that kiss. One beat. Then another. And yet another after that before reality caught up with him, and he pushed her away with a regretful frown and a soft, “I’m sorry.”

  Mortification bathed her face as she swallowed. “Oh, God. I didn’t mean—shit.” She drew a breath, and he watched, helpless to ease the awkwardness that had moved in, dulling the electricity that had been sparking between them.

  “You know I want to,” he continued, “but I can’t—”

  “Don’t even go there,” she snapped, embarrassment clearly giving way to anger. “Can’t? Goddammit, Griffin, you can do anything you want to with me. And I want you to. Don’t you get it? I want you. I want you one hundred percent, and I know you want me, too. So why the hell are you ruining this for both of us?”

  “Bev, I—”

  But she just shook her head and turned away from him. “I’ll—I’ll call you tomorrow and we can find a time to work on the script. This was stupid. Tonight was stupid. Tomorrow, I promise, I’ll have erased it from my mind.”

  He believed her. And the sudden realization that this might be his last chance to touch her—to have her—cut through him a
s viciously as a serrated blade.

  Her hand was on the doorknob, and he crossed to her in two long steps, grabbing her hand and tugging her toward him.

  “Griffin, what—”

  But he didn’t let her finish. And he damn sure didn’t give himself time to change his mind. Instead he cupped her head with his right hand, not feeling the hair that brushed his burnt, damaged skin, but rejoicing in the pressure of her head against his open palm.

  And then, before she could utter another syllable, he drew her closer, bent his head, and claimed her mouth with his.

  The kiss was slow and deep and colored by the depth of the attraction they’d been battling. But there was no more battle now—there was only surrender.

  “Bed,” she said, and he picked her up, carrying her like a bride to his bedroom.

  “Beverly, I want—hell, I don’t want to hurry this, but I want you so bad I’m not sure I can go slow.”

  “Believe me. Right there with you.” She grabbed his sweat jacket and tugged him down onto the bed with her. Her fingers closed on the zipper. “Are you sure?”

  He felt a sharp stab of fear, but the look of genuine desire in her eyes calmed him, and he nodded.

  She unzipped the jacket, and he shrugged it off, the hood and the sleeves abandoned to nothing more than a short-sleeved T-shirt, so that he was now revealing more than he’d revealed to almost anyone.

  Her eyes met his before traveling to his face, his scalp. He knew she was seeing the burn around his eye. The section of his scalp where no hair would grow again. The mottled, raised scars where there should be smooth skin.

  Gingerly, her hand went to his brow. “Can you feel this?”

  He shook his head. “No. Not anywhere the scars are bad. The nerve endings were destroyed. We thought a drug trial I was on might restore feeling, but it didn’t.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t a total loss, though. I got back some range of motion. You should appreciate that this evening,” he added, winking his left eye at her and making her laugh.

  “Well, what about here?” she asked, brushing her finger over his left eyebrow.

  “That I’ve got.”

  “And here?” This time her fingers traced his lips, and when he started to say yes, she slipped her finger inside his mouth, then closed her eyes as he sucked on the digit.

  “I like that,” she said. She opened her eyes, then hooked her arm around his neck. “And what about this?” she asked then pulled him in for a kiss. But this was no slow, seductive kiss. This was wild. This was passion. This was kissing as sex, and as their mouths moved together, hot and sinful, he felt his cock get even harder than he already was. His body primed. Craving. Needing.

  “Take off your shirt,” she demanded, her voice breathy when they broke the kiss.

  “You first,” he replied, making her laugh. He didn’t give her time to answer. Instead, he began to slowly unbutton the tiny, flower-shaped buttons on her blouse.

  “Rip it off,” she said.

  He looked at her, his brow raised.

  She shrugged, looking a little sheepish. “Call it a fantasy. I want you to rip my clothes off.”

  He laughed, but didn’t object, and he grabbed both sides of the blouse, yanked them apart, and sent buttons flying as the pale blue of her lace bra was revealed.

  Bending, he tugged the cup down, freeing her breast. He closed his mouth over the nipple and sucked, gratified when she arched and squirmed under him, begging him for more.

  With his left hand, he freed her other breast, then rolled her rock-hard nipple between his fingers. Beneath him, she squirmed and arched, her hips moving beneath him in a rhythm that simulated sex, and made him that much harder—and that much more ready for the real thing.

  “Pants,” he said, kissing his way down her bare belly, now exposed by the open shirt. When he reached the button of her jeans, he moved his hands from his breasts, then used his left thumb and forefinger to undo the button and zipper. He’d trained his right hand to type, but without nerve endings, he was clumsy at detail work, and now wasn’t the time to be fumbling.

  Without asking, she lifted her hips, and he pulled the jeans off her, hesitating when he reached her feet, since he had to deal with her damn shoes.

  She laughed, obviously recognizing his frustration, and he ended up tugging her jeans off, the ballet flats coming with them. He’d gotten off the bed to do that, and now he stayed there, his hands taking her by the hips and pulling her too him. She cried out with surprise at the violent motion of being tugged down the bed, then with pleasure when he closed his mouth over her panties and teased his finger along the line of material covering her crotch.

  She reached down, her fingers twining in his hair, pulling him to her as if she wanted him to suck harder, go deeper. And since that was fine by him, he slipped his fingers under her panties and eased them inside of her.

  She was so damn wet he thought he might come right then, and as she arched up, her motions drawing him deeper, he knew that he couldn’t last much longer without being inside her.

  He also knew that he couldn’t be inside her tonight.

  “Beverly…”

  “Please,” she begged. “Please fuck me.”

  “I can’t.”

  She opened her eyes. “Are you…I mean, I thought the fire didn’t—”

  “No, that’s fine. But I—”

  He sat back, and she scooted up the bed, breathing hard and frowning a little. “What is it?” Her eyes widened. “Oh, Griffin. I didn’t even think. Are you a virgin?”

  “No,” he said, and he was pretty sure he saw relief in her eyes. “But I’ve never—well, you know me. This is the first time I’ve been like this with a woman.”

  Her brows furrowed in confusion. “I mean intimate with a woman.”

  “But you said you’re not a virgin.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Yeah, well, I paid. Years ago. Right after high school.”

  “And since then?”

  “I’ve been going it solo.”

  By all rights, he should be a virgin. He’d never been in an actual relationship, after all. But after high school he’d gotten fed up, then trolled the Internet until he figured out how to hire an escort. It had taken four before he found one who’d take his money—and wasn’t that great for his ego—but she’d been sweet and not much older than he’d been. He’d hired her five times before he realized that he wanted the reality, and if he couldn’t have it … well, he could take care of things himself.

  She considered him, then flashed a playful grin. “Well, then I guess we need to pop your cherry.”

  “I’m perfectly okay with that plan. But under the circumstances, I’m not a guy who keeps condoms around.”

  “Ah. Right,” she said, then frowned. “I think I might have one in my purse. And if not…well, something to look forward to next time.”

  He couldn’t argue, but he also didn’t want to wait. And when he brought her purse to her, he was beyond relieved when she found a condom in her make-up kit. She shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. “Just in case.”

  “Don’t look at me for judgment,” he said. “I’m getting the benefit of it.”

  “True enough.” She tossed it to him, then sat up. “Get undressed. And then dressed in that,” she said as she pulled off her blouse and the bra that was half-hanging on her. “I want to watch.”

  He hesitated, because this definitely was a first. But the way she looked at him—as if she wanted nothing more than to feel him inside her, as if she didn’t even see the burn scars—was such a turn-on that even putting on the condom made him harder.

  “I need you,” he said when he was done, his body thrumming with desire and the words more heartfelt than he could ever have imagined. “I need to be inside you right now.”

  Chapter Seven

  I need to be inside you right now.

  His words echoed through Beverly, voicing her own desire. Her own need. She no longer wanted slow. She wanted fast and ha
rd. She wanted him.

  “On your back,” she demanded, and when he complied, she peeled off her panties, then straddled him, his rough, scarred skin rubbing against the soft flesh of her inner thigh in a way that she found strangely erotic.

  She reached down, circling his shaft with her palm, then stroking slowly. “Touch me,” she murmured, closing her eyes as she enjoyed the hard length of him in her hand, that sensation soon joined by the thrill of his fingers teasing her pussy as she straddled him.

  She was so turned on, and her hips rocked as her body begged for more. He didn’t disappoint, and soon she was riding his left fingers, her body bucking as he teased her, stroking her clit and fucking her as she drew him in deeper and deeper.

  “More,” she begged, her hand moving faster on his cock, her other cupping and teasing his balls.

  She thought he would beg her to take him inside her, but he didn’t. Not yet. Apparently he was enjoying the slow build as much as she was.

  What he did do was move his right hand to her breast, and the knowledge that he would touch her like that—that he would use the injured fingers of that hand to cup and tweak and tease and tug—sent such waves of pleasure through her that she thought she might come right then.

  “Now,” she whispered, because she wanted to come with him inside her. “I want you inside me now.”

  “God, yes,” he said, as she moved to straddle him, then lowered herself, taking him in even deeper until it felt as if they were one person. She rose up, then down, teasing herself along with him, the sensation all the more delicious when he used his fingers to play with her clit while she rode him.

  “Baby,” he said, his voice as tight as his cock. “I’m so close.”

  “I can tell,” she said, reaching between their bodies to stroke him as she continued to ride him.

  But he’d obviously had enough of that, and with one quick, unexpected move, he flipped them over so that she was on her back and he had her knees up, exposing her to him. He held her tight, the fact that she was so wide open as arousing as the feel of him entering her, deeper and harder and faster until she couldn’t take it anymore.