Residual Burn (Redwood Ridge Book 4)

by Kelly Moran

  “Are you worried I’m going to demand more? That I couldn’t handle what comes next?”

  “I’m worried I’m going to hurt you.” He met her eyes, his desperate. “There is no next. Never has been, probably never will be. I can try, but I don’t think I’m capable. So, yeah. I’m scared. I like you and hurting you is not on my bucket list of things I’d like to accomplish.”

  Admirable of him. “I’m an adult. I make my own decisions. I knew your reputation going in, and if I hadn’t, you’ve told me. I’ve been fully informed. We’re still here.” She studied him, and one tiny word he’d uttered kept sticking to her brain matter. “Try.”

  His eyes narrowed like he didn’t compute.

  “You said you could try. You have been from the time we’ve met.” She ticked points off on her fingers. “You don’t date a woman more than once, yet we’ve had dinner four times. Your head said stay away, but you listened to your body. You could’ve let the situation go after the park, except you sought me out to clear the air. You have been trying, whether you’re aware of it or not.”

  He shook his head like he wanted to argue, never mind he didn’t have a leg to stand on.

  “If I end up a sobbing heap on the floor, that’s on me. My eyes are wide open.” She shrugged. “Maybe it’s you who’s afraid of getting hurt.”

  “Ella.” He dug his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets, his voice exasperated. “Other women have assumed they were different, that they’d be the one to tame me. I’m the defect here.”

  “Other women. Stronger women? More experienced?” She held up her palm before he could dispute or backtrack. “I’m not them. Comparing me is insulting. Our situation is unique, just like all relationships. I’m not asking for a ring and a white dress. Three letters, one syllable. It’s a word you used yourself before I even considered it a notion. T-R-Y.”

  She let out the breath she’d been holding, and forced herself to relax. She hadn’t a clue where the courage had come from to challenge him. Lord knew, she’d never done it before. Maybe wouldn’t again. For once, she’d had the upper hand and had wielded it.

  Time after time, he’d complimented her and kept coming back like he had no other choice. She may not be The One. Perhaps he didn’t have A One and he was defective, but there was something different about them together. Even he’d recognized it and had wrapped it in a fear label. People were chronically terrified of the unknown. That was normal. Human. If he weren’t afraid, then there would be nothing to discuss, nothing more than chemistry.

  In the space between them, unspoken regrets and concerns and what-ifs floated around. Crackled in the silence. There was so much more they had to talk about, things he needed to know, and just like him, she didn’t want to hurt him with the admission. Soon, she’d have to tell him, but he had enough going on in his head and tonight wasn’t the time.

  He studied her, his world-weary gaze somber and contemplative. He wanted this. Whatever was brewing between them, he wanted it. She could read it in his hesitancy, in his actions up to now. It had taken her this long to notice. For once, someone desired her. Just as she was, quirks and all, he desired her.

  Wanting and having weren’t the same, and it would require him to reach, though. Still, it was a high unto itself to have a man see her and not through her.

  His Adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow. His shoulders rose and fell with breaths. Finally, he opened his mouth as if to speak, but swiftly shut it again.

  “Try or don’t, Jason. Just choose.”

  “Damn, Ella. I…” He closed his eyes. Scratched his tick-tick-ticking jaw. When his lids lifted again, he tilted his head to stare heavenward as if seeking the answers from On High. “I’ve been sitting here the past five minutes ordering my legs to move. To stand, say goodnight, and walk out the door before any damage can be done.” He shook his head and looked at her. “Maybe you’re right and I have been trying from the get-go. Maybe this is something or nothing. All I know for certain is, I can’t move.”

  Silly man. “You have moved.”

  He gestured to his chair, indicating she was wrong.

  “Forward.” She smiled, proud of them both. “Not backward. Not in circles. Not standing still. You may be sitting, but you just moved forward.”

  Chapter 13

  They’d eaten in compatible silence together. Then, they’d cleaned up the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher together. Now, they were making popcorn. Together. Because she’d done a Jedi mind trick on him and Jason was still in her apartment.

  On their fourth date.

  Shit. In the whole of his lifespan, he’d never gone past three.

  “Was that some kind of teacher ploy? Getting me to stay?”

  She smiled, watching the microwave as kernels popped and buttery goodness scented the room. “Nope.”

  “Reverse psychology? All you females learn it at a young age.”

  She laughed. “Nope.”

  “Drugged the stir-fry?”

  A baleful glance. “All I did was point out your actions and highlight the pattern. You chose to try, to stay. So we’ll watch a movie and see if you can avoid hyperventilating.”

  He crossed his arms. “I’m not freaking out.”

  Yes, he was. Epically. Just thirty minutes ago, he’d agreed to… He didn’t know what. Be her boyfriend? Date exclusively? Make a go of something that wasn’t purely physical? Seriously, why didn’t he have hives from his scalp to his toenails?

  “Not at the moment.” She grinned and opened the microwave. After carefully pulling the bag’s seams apart, she dumped the popcorn into a bowl. “The night is young.” She passed him the bowl and walked around him. “The choice is and will continue to be yours. I refuse to pressure you.”

  Yeah. She said that now, but wait.

  At dinner, she’d spouted a lot of things that had made sense. She’d poked holes in his reasoning for not entering a relationship until his reservations resembled a colander. But the ache in his gut that shouted he was in trouble wouldn’t abate. It constantly contradicted the erring calm and joy she’d brought when he was in her presence. He’d watched his mama grieve for years. Ella may have been correct about…well, everything, yet he couldn’t convince himself being with her was the right move.

  Then again, his instincts had gotten him this far and intact. And from the moment he’d laid eyes on her, they’d whispered hints to seek. Find. Not to keep, per se, but to continue down her path. He’d chronically sought the next high, that feeling which reminded him he had a heartbeat. She unequivocally did that very thing. Perhaps he should quit obsessing and just go with it.

  He followed her into the living room, watching her fiddle with a remote. Her apartment was really inviting. She had shelves built around her TV holding books, plants, and blu-rays. The bit she’d mentioned about her family being romantics must’ve carried over to her. All the prints on her walls were couples in idealistic scenes.

  A beige and black cat strode around the corner and sat. Siamese. Neat. He always thought they were cool looking.

  “You must be Xena.” He set the bowl on an end table and crouched, holding out his fingers.

  “She’s stranger shy. Don’t be insulted if she…” Ella planted her hands on her hips. “If she walks right up to you. Huh. She normally hates people.”

  He smiled, moving his hand slowly in order not to startle her to pet the top of her head. “You’re quite pretty.” The cat allowed the gesture through eyes narrowed to slits. “That’s a good girl.” He suspected if she could talk, she’d be calling him a peon.

  Al, yi-yi.

  “Holy crap. She does sound like Xena.”

  A sigh, and Ella shook her head. “He’s a cat whisperer. Interesting.”

  “And you haven’t rambled in over two hours.” Much as he adored her nervous side, her slightly sassy mood was fun. She was quick with one-liners and it was an ego boost she let her guard down near him.

  “Told you I just had to acclimate.�
�

  He guessed that made two of them.

  Straightening, he moved to the dark blue sectional couch and took a corner spot. He sank into the cushions and was hugged from all sides. “Damn, Ella. This is one comfy sofa.”

  She grinned over her shoulder. “Right? I slept on it the first night after I bought it.” She played with a streaming guide on TV. “Action, comedy, or romance?”

  “How about all three?” There. Let her solve that mystery.

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” She hit a button and the credits rolled for The Princess Bride.

  Smart, clever little cookie. “Haven’t seen this since I was a kid. My mama loves this one.” It did, in fact, have all three elements, best he could recall.

  “It’s a classic.” She moved the popcorn to the middle cushion and sat with the bowl between them.

  Hell no. He picked up the bowl, scooted until the Holy Ghost couldn’t come between them, and plopped the popcorn in her lap.

  A wicked side glance, and she countered by turning off the lamp.

  He put his arm around her shoulders.

  She covered them with a throw blanket that had been laying on the sofa arm.

  In the dim glow of the television, he watched her more than he did the movie. Her thick, amazing hair as it fell around her shoulders. Her regal neck and the pulse steadily pumping. The arch of her nose. The full bow of her lips, which adorably mouthed the lines.

  “Just how much of this movie do you know by—”

  She shoved a handful of popcorn in his mouth. “Shh. This is the good part.”

  Grinning, he chewed and swallowed. He had good parts he could show her.

  They were about twenty minutes in when the cat jumped up next to Ella and sniffed the bowl in her lap.

  He lifted his hand to run his fingers through her hair because it smelled like gingerbread and he wanted to touch. See if she could concentrate on him instead of the flick.

  “No!”

  He immediately dropped his hand to the back of the couch.

  “Popcorn isn’t for cats.”

  Okay, good. She’d meant the cat.

  He lifted his hand a second time, but Ella leaned forward and put the cat on the floor. She set the bowl on the table and resettled. Adjusted the blanket. Brushed a strand of hair from her face.

  There. An opening. He could help her with that. He traced his finger lightly across her cheek, tucking the strands behind her ear.

  She went utterly still.

  It was on now. Smiling, he inched his fingertip lower, across her neck to her nape.

  She quit breathing.

  Up went his hand, fingers immersed in her hair.

  She emitted an uneven exhale.

  He had no idea if it was her, the situation, or the fact he’d found out tonight she’d only slept with one other man, but there was a certain rush to direct contact with her. Lightning in his veins and sizzle of his blood and trip to his heartbeat knowing she’d probably not been touched like this often, if at all. That he was the first.

  He tugged her hair at the scalp the slightest bit, tilting her head. At her gasp, he dipped his head and brushed his lips against her neck.

  Mercy, she smelled delicious. Gingerbread and woman. Warm. Soft. Pliant.

  He grazed his lips over her thumping pulse to her ear and nibbled the lobe. Her hands fisted in her lap and her respirations increased. Testing the waters, he lifted his free hand to draw swirl patterns on her throat and used the tip of his tongue on the shell of her ear. Her lips parted and her lids drifted closed on a flutter.

  His skin grew hot as another body part joined the action. He’d never had to take it slow before. Considering her background and lack of experience, no way in hell was he going to push her too far too fast, but they could play. Oh, yes. They’d play.

  He kissed her jaw, moving his hand lower to outline her shirt collar. Back and forth. Back and forth. She made the sexiest damn noise he’d ever heard, breathy and breathless in the same beat. His muscles tightened and his shaft ached. Lower, he drifted, and undid the first button of her blouse. When he got no resistance or indication she wanted to stop, he undid another.

  His fingertips ghosted the swells of her ample breasts and the edges of…lace. He groaned and buried his face in her neck. More buttons undone, until he could ease her top open and cup one mound in his hand. She barely fit and her pert nipple scraped his palm. She arched into him, and that was it. He needed more. Had to have more.

  A tug of her hair, and he dragged her lips to his. He dove right in to the hot, wet cavern of her mouth, exploring. Devouring. She answered him, stroking his tongue, curling hers. He was so lost in her he barely noticed the gentle touch on his chest. Hesitant and unsure.

  Her words came back to him about never knowing what to do with her hands. He placed one of his over hers for encouragement and groaned so she understood he liked it. She flipped the tables on him in a flash, though. Nails lightly raked his pec over his tee and her fingers latched onto the back of his neck.

  Christ, what had he started? Desire, fierce and wild, ripped through him. A current he’d experienced a hundred times, but with more force. Tumultuous. Unbidden. The oddest sense to protect rose, wrapped around him, and tugged from a place so deep, he hadn’t known it existed. His head swam. His chest pounded. And his lungs collapsed.

  He came up for air, and pressed his face into her hair. Except that didn’t help. Her comforting and sweet scent was all his lungs accepted. His hands had other ideas. They slipped inside her parted blouse and cupped lace. Hers got onboard, fingers weaving into his strands and clenching.

  Uhn. Hugest turn-on in the history of mating right there. Hands. Hair. Yesss. There was an intimacy to the act, coupled with a side of domination that was neither controlling nor commanding. A silent way of stating more…mine…please.

  Again, she arched. He grabbed her hips, lifted her, and placed her horizontal on the cushions. He followed her down and covered her body with his. She accepted him and cradled him between her thighs, bowing in an unspoken request. What she wanted, he’d provide. Gladly.

  His lips found hers. Their tongues tangled. Their bodies aligned as if she were designed for connecting with his alone. Hands were everywhere. His. Hers. And she’d claimed she hadn’t known what to do? The gorgeous liar.

  In his hair.

  On his neck.

  Across his chest.

  Up his arms.

  Around his back.

  Down to…his ass.

  He groaned and thrust, damning the existence of clothing. He was so hard he was about to bust a zipper. He skimmed over the soft cotton leggings on the backs of her thighs, kept going to her calves.

  She went rigid. Immediately. With a violent jerk.

  He froze on a dime. So fast, he nearly caught frostbite.

  Severing the kiss, she shook her head repeatedly and shoved his chest. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. No. I’m sorry.”

  He rose onto his knees, kneeling between hers, and threw up his hands in surrender. Unsure what just went down, he remained motionless.

  Panting, she stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed. Panicked.

  “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Because he couldn’t fathom a guess if he had the rest of the night to attempt the feat. One second she’d been into it, hot and heavy. The next, well…

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Trembling, she slapped her hand over her face.

  Normally, he would gently lower her arm if she did that, but he didn’t dare touch her at the moment. The worst case of oh-shit hit him harder than a Mack with a full load of rock.

  “No need for sorry. We stopped. Everything’s good.”

  But it wasn’t. Terrible, horrible, monstrous things were going through his mind. Like the one time she’d had sex and maybe it hadn’t been voluntary. Like maybe someone had used his hands in an unkind way. Because, in his experience, a woman didn’t go from yes, please to subzero without a downshift.

  “Tal
k to me, sweetheart. What did I do?”

  “Nothing. Oh, golly.” Her breath hitched. “It’s not you. I swear.”

  She didn’t swear. Ever, actually. It was one of the more endearing qualities she had in her arsenal, how she found alternate ways to cuss.

  He let out a careful exhale and cleared the gravel from his throat. “I’d be more willing to believe you if you looked at me.”

  “Give me a sec.”

  “Yep. Sure. No problem.” Big problem. Huge. Ginormous.

  An eternity passed. No, four eternities, and she finally scooted away from him. Slowly, she sat up and crossed her legs, facing him. Her head down, her hair a curtain, she appeared to focus on breathing. It didn’t seem like she was winning the battle.

  Carefully, he did the same, biting back a wince at the snugness of his jeans. He waited as patiently as possible, but gave up. “Ella?”

  “I don’t like my legs touched.”

  Okay. “Why?” Legs just happened to be one of his favorite parts, especially when wrapped around his waist. He happened to really like hers. Shapely, went on for miles.

  “That’s a long story.”

  “I have time.” As much as she wanted. All night. Hell, he was off all weekend and it was only Friday.

  “It’s what I wanted to tell you that first night at your place.” She pushed her hair away from her face with both hands. “You preferred to wait for the heavy stuff.”

  Yep. All right. This was his fault for avoiding emotional topics. He’d kick himself later.

  If memory served, she’d claimed that whatever she had to say might change things. Five minutes ago, there had been a Grand Canyon of change between them, and he knew he’d regret it, but he’d rather hear it before he connected any more assumption dots.

  “Just tell me.” He tried to read her expression, but she hadn’t looked him in the eye since before the make out session gone wrong. “I’m listening.”