Breath on Embers (4 page)

“Ride me.” His voice was pure male demand. “Like you did in the park.”

He lifted his shaft away from his belly. Thea tucked the loosely crocheted weave of her dress up to her hips, centered herself over him, then slowly took his cock into her tight sheath.

His head was lifted just enough to watch. “Fuck,” he said, by now nearly soundless. His head dropped back against the bedspread, and his eyes closed.

She braced her hands above his shoulders and set a slow, steady rhythm, the better to watch the current pull him under. Red flags bloomed on his cheekbones and his pulse jumped in his throat, but it was his hands that sent heat streaking through her again. His grip on her ass tightened with each smooth dip of her hips; she felt his abdominal muscles tighten as he thrust up. The move struck sparks inside her, and she gasped.

It was as raw and urgent as the touch of his hand in the subway was subtle and intimate. Her face bent over his, she widened her stance and dipped lower, the better to stroke the bundle of nerves inside her. Ronan’s grip tightened to near pain, thudding her against his pelvis. Through her slitted eyes she saw his teeth clench even as he lost rhythm and bucked up into her. The pressure on her clit sent her over the edge into a second orgasm. Concentric rings of pleasure pulsed out from her core, through her skin, into the void.

So much more powerful with him inside her.

Another thought to push away. Her arms trembled as she hung over him, her hair tumbled around her face, her panting breaths mingling with his. Mint and chocolate, and the unique scent of Ronan’s sweat mingled in her nostrils, imprinting on her brain the aroma of good sex. Really, really good sex. She gave into impulse, dropped to her elbows, and buried her nose in his neck. Licked at his salty skin, then bit the thumping pulse point just under his jaw.

“I’ll feed you,” he said lazily as one hand lifted to stroke her hair. “You don’t have to make do with a peppermint mocha and my skin.”

She smiled into his neck. His other hand patted her hip once, twice, paused, then gave a gentle nudge. She lifted herself off his body and curled up on his bed while he dealt with necessities.

Through the open bedroom door she could see his living room. “No tree?” she asked lightly.

Water ran in the sink before he responded. He appeared in the doorway, drying his hands on a towel. “I’ll get it after work on the twenty-fourth. That’s the tradition. Do you want to get take out?”

The ghostly apparition of a Christmas tree bloomed in the dark living room. “I’d better not,” she said. “I’m working twelve-hour days on this implementation...”

Half expecting him to call her on her weak excuse, she skirted him to get to the pile of leggings, socks and boots lying in the hallway. He watched her wiggle her hips to get the leggings up, then pull on the wool socks and her boots. When she slipped on her coat, he spoke.

“Was it too much?”

It took her a moment to figure out that he meant the skating, not the emotionally devastating sex, and that was an unsettling realization. What used to be her distraction, her unsubtle, meaningless way to fill the void, had somehow become meaningful. “No. It was a nice distraction from dealing with my sister. Thank you.”

His face changed, darkened for a moment. She took the silence to slip her bag across her body and adjust the cord for her earbuds.

“You know who lives here?” he asked as she was about to walk out. Without waiting for her response, he added, “People who want to feel alive.”

“I should go back to Columbus then,” she said.

“Is that a possibility?”

She shrugged as she wrapped her scarf around her neck. “I don’t have a plan one way or the other,” she said truthfully. Right now her only plan was to get through the holidays. Life in January was impossible to imagine.

She had the door open before he spoke. Like Erin, he liked to get the last word in. “Maybe you should stop fighting the city.”

* * *

December 13th

Ronan sat in the passenger seat of the ladder, one foot braced on the metal step below him, a laptop open in front of him. It was rush hour on a Thursday evening, headlights and taillights staking claim against the early darkness, and the truck, engine and division command vehicle were blocking two uptown lanes on Lexington Avenue. Traffic was backed up for blocks behind them. He tuned out the honking and the reverberating rush and squeal of subway brakes clamoring up through the grates in the sidewalk. There was nothing routine about any shift with the FDNY; in fact, the only similarity between any two calls was the paperwork generated afterward.

The open door blocked the worst of the wind, biting with the sharp snapping teeth of a vicious purse dog. Across the sidewalk his guys tromped out of a high-rise building in ones and twos after responding to a civilian assist call made when two elevators stopped working, trapping residents inside. They’d gotten the civilians out, and building maintenance was working on getting the elevators running again. As calls went it wouldn’t make the news, even on a slow day. Ronan didn’t mind. He hadn’t applied to the academy for the adrenaline rush. He knew better, even then.

One of the EMTs stopped by the door. “Lieutenant Cannon’s on his way. He and Costanzo are helping an elderly female back to her apartment.” A grin split the EMT’s face. “They’ll be awhile. She refused to be carried, so the LT’s escorting her down eight flights, step by step. Costanzo’s carrying her walker.”

“Good for her,” Ronan said as he tabbed through fields. “Keeps the arteries clear. Stand by.”

“You got it,” the EMT said and walked off.

He refocused on the forms, his gaze automatically flicking between the screen, the street scene and the truck’s mirrors. The big side mirror mounted on the open door gave him a good view of uptown foot traffic. A tall female figure stood in a recessed delivery doorway, out of the wind, a black watchcap pulled down over her ears, a gray scarf wrapped around her neck, a brown leather bag slung across her body. White earbud cords stood out against her peacoat before disappearing under the scarf and blond hair, into her ears. The electric jolt to his heart sent adrenaline pumping through his veins before his synapses sent the input from his eyes to his brain.

Thea.

She lifted a Starbucks cup to her lips, and Ronan didn’t need to smell the drink to know what it was—a peppermint mocha.
With whip
, he added when the sip left white residue on her upper lip. Her tongue darted out to lick it off, and this time the electric jolt went straight to his cock.

The body knows, all right.

If he could see her in the mirror, she could see his face, even though his back was to her, his body mostly inside the truck’s cab. Keeping his eyes trained on the laptop screen, he used his peripheral vision to watch her watch him. He discarded the idea of getting out of the truck to talk to her; he was on duty, and she clearly wasn’t just loitering, watching the excitement. If she wanted to talk to him, she’d approach the truck and do something to get his attention. But she stayed where she was, out of the wind, gaze trained on his face in the mirror, sipping her hot drink. She stayed away, something he found difficult to do.

After their last encounter, he had a better mental map of Thea’s internal terrain. She’d enjoyed the skating, but she’d used him to push away a conversation with her sister that pushed all her buttons. Now there she stood, with a new set of dark circles under her eyes to make them more shadowed than usual. Already haunting, they now approached haunted. The cold air put color in her pale cheeks, highlighting her classic bone structure, and in all likelihood, rage-driven, aching music battered at her eardrums even as she watched him. Maybe it was the input that let emotion surface in her eyes. Maybe it was the degree of separation the mirrors put between them. Probably she wasn’t even aware of it, but she watched him with such longing, such intense yearning, his heart expanded hard against his sternum.

He lifted his gaze to meet hers in the mirror. Her eyes widened, then looked away as Tim and Costanzo strode out of the building’s lobby, toward the truck. Tim turned his head to look in Thea’s direction, and in that instant his big body took up the whole mirror. When he cleared the mirror’s range, Thea was gone, just another anonymous black cap bobbing along in the foot traffic.

Ronan went back to his paperwork. “Elderly female safely tucked away in her apartment?” he asked without looking up.

Tim grinned. “She was eighty-seven on her last birthday. Three kids, seven grandkids, two great-grandkids and another on the way. Husband died in ninety-seven. Lived in the apartment since fifty-eight. Rent-controlled.”

“Paper or plastic?”

“We only had eight flights. She had time to tell me I should find a nice girl and settle down, though,” Tim said, then turned to look over his shoulder at the spot where Thea had stood, his thought process clear on his face.
Classic rescuer’s complex.

“Don’t say it,” Ronan said, and closed the laptop lid.

Tim didn’t flip him shit, a sure sign this worried him, but all he said was, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Yes.” The longer this lasted, the deeper he got into complicated Thea Moretti, the more he knew this was the right thing to do. People who lived in the humdrum middle range of life didn’t experience intense highs and lows. A woman who cut off feeling that thoroughly had to have a forest fire of life inside. He just had to find a way to cut through the noise and chatter to the long-buried soul inside.

“I lost my scarf again, goddammit,” Ronan said absently.

Tim let out a belly laugh and shoved off for the bus; Ronan closed the passenger door, then the truck driver climbed inside, cut the lights and pulled into traffic behind the ambulance. As they made the block and headed back down Third Avenue, snippets of conversation and images from their last night together flashed in his brain in random order. Her face, fierce and demanding against the Midtown skyline. The smile when she landed the jump on the rink. The Thanksgiving Day parade, and the Macy’s windows.

The Macy’s windows. Most of the big department stores decorated their windows with elaborate, creative holiday displays. Lights, music and fashion were now a city tradition, and the stores had to put up velvet ropes to channel the gawkers next to the windows and allow uninterested pedestrians to hurry by. Thea said she used to watch the parade and dream of coming to see the windows.

He wasn’t vain enough to assume the longing in her eyes was for him, but it was there, and that was enough. He’d give her a little slice of life, Manhattan-style, and hope for the rest. Given her attitude toward the holidays, doing something so traditionally Christmas-y might not go over well. But it was worth a shot, a reminder of what she missed, staying trapped in the darkness.

Chapte
r Four

December 17th

Ronan waited outside Thea’s office building in the peculiar Manhattan winter night, brightly illuminated enough to read by yet still pressing dark and bitterly cold. He wore a watchcap, his peacoat, yet another scarf purchased from the same vendor as the last one, and had his gloved hands shoved deep in his pockets. The wind slapped with icy palms, so he was glad to see her sensible wool slacks between a down coat that stopped below her calves and boots.

She walked over to him, her fur-trimmed hood framing her pale face. “Does your unexpected appearance mean you have another winter outing in mind?” she asked.

He hadn’t texted this time either, not wanting to give her a chance to talk herself out of what he had in mind. He studied her for a moment, trying to get a read on her. “I thought we’d go look at the Macy’s windows. Maybe wander back to Fifth Avenue to see what Saks did this year.”

“The wind chill is around ten degrees,” she said.

“The perfect night to do this,” he replied. “Cuts down on the tourist traffic.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “You’ll regret it if you leave the city without seeing the windows. Maybe not this year, or next, but you will.”

Pain danced under the surface of her skin, and she broke eye contact. He’d known the words would sting, if not downright burn, because any woman who’d lost her husband after just a few years of marriage had regret seared into her soul. But he was here, and she was here, in the city at Christmastime. It was time for her to face what she was avoiding.

The answer was in her eyes when she looked at him again, her expression nearly identical to the connection he felt on St. Patrick’s Day, part challenge, part desperation, part longing. Without a word he offered her his elbow. She slid her hand down to his, tucked in his coat pocket.

“How was your day?” he asked as they turned onto Sixth Avenue. Only the hardiest souls walked in this weather; long lines waited for various buses to the outer boroughs.

Through the wind-whipped fur around her face he saw the corner of her mouth lift at the prosaic question. “Busy,” she said. “The implementation’s royally fucked up. The web server and the application server have suddenly decided they don’t want to talk to each other as efficiently as they did when we were in test. And my cube’s crammed to the tops of the walls with toys and gifts I’m collecting for the December soup kitchen.”

He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d said she got a second job as an elf at Macy’s. He gave her a quick glance. “Which one?”

“The Open Table. Cooper Bensonhurst and a couple of other investment houses sponsor the program, and employees volunteer. I missed the last organizational meeting and got assigned to be the donor dropoff point. I’ve been hauling bags home all week.”

Her disgruntled tone spurred a laugh he managed to stifle as they crossed Sixth Avenue at Thirty-Fourth and joined the straggling tail end of the queue under the awnings. “In cabs, I assume.”

She nodded as they reached the first window. “I have no idea how I’m going to get all of this stuff from my apartment to the community center,” she said, then answered her own question. “Hire a van, probably. My driver’s license is still valid, but I’ve never driven in the city.”

“Let me take care of that for you,” he said casually.

“You have a van?”

“No, but I know a guy,” he said.

“That’s such a New York thing,” she said. “You know a guy. Does your guy know a guy who’s got a connection?”

“Maybe,” he said.

“I can do it,” she said. “The company will pick up the tab. There must be places in the city that rent vans.”

“Do you have time? Sounds like the implementation’s keeping you pretty busy.” The word sounded strange on his tongue.
Implementation
. What the hell was an implementation anyway? She hesitated, not much, but the fact that she did told him she was snowed under and then some. “Parking will be a nightmare. Let me help, Thea,” he said gently. “I can do this for you.”

“It’s on the twenty-third,” she said. “We start cooking at two, serve the meal at four and hand out presents during dessert. Everyone’s making cookies to share.”

“You guys do a good thing there,” he said. With his job he saw everything from Park Avenue penthouses worth more money than his entire family would make in a lifetime to public housing poverty in Spanish Harlem, where the kids might not even get a meal on Christmas, let alone a present. He knew about and respected Cooper Bensonhurst’s efforts to stave off hunger and homelessness in the five boroughs. The fact that Thea, a relative newcomer to the city and the bank, was involved spoke to her commitment to share a little light with others.

Now if he could just get her to make that commitment to herself.

They stopped in front of the first window, Ronan standing slightly behind Thea so she had a clear view of what looked to him like white mannequins dressed in red and white outfits, posed between a batch of funnels of varying widths and heights, a big bass drum and a spindle outfitted with wooden spoons, all painted a distressed white. It looked like someone splashed the leftovers from a garage sale with buckets of white paint.

“What the hell is that supposed to be?” he asked.

“Steampunk,” she said absently, studying the clothes, then the setup.

The dress designer’s name and location were painted on the window in discreet white block print, but the name wasn’t Steampunk. “What’s steampunk?”

Still caught up in the window, she waved one hand vaguely. “Anachronistic technology. It’s an alternative historical setting used in fiction and the movies. Think
Wild Wild West
or
Cowboys and Aliens
.”

“Huh,” he said. He remained standing, arms folded, flatfooted and unmovable as the distracted, chattering teens behind them edged forward. The fashion and designs in the windows did nothing for him, but Thea could look as long as she wanted.

Because Thea, absorbed in the moment, was a beautiful thing to see.

Her gray eyes were lit from within as they took in every detail. She seemed not to notice the knifelike wind or the crowds around them. Her lips parted with fascination, and her earbuds dangled unnoticed from the clip attaching them to her messenger bag strap. Lights, clothes, poses, even the quotes on the windows themselves got her undivided attention as they made their way slowly around the corner and up Sixth Avenue.

They came to the end of the windows and Thea looked around, as if remembering where she was. The life that had lit up her face ebbed a little. “Saks?” Ronan offered. “Bloomingdale’s?”

“You must be insanely bored,” she said.

“Not insanely,” he said.

The corners of her mouth lifted. “I’d like to see the Saks windows.”

“Then you’ll see the Saks windows,” he said softly. “Let’s get a cab and warm up.”

She shook her head. “The data center’s kept cold. I’m dressed for that under this coat. I’m fine to walk if you are.”

They strolled up Sixth Avenue, and turned east for Fifth when they didn’t make the light. Along the way Thea peered at the windows, some decorated, some not, most containing buttons, fabrics, ribbons and accessories. “I’ve never been in this part of the city before,” she commented.

“It’s the Fashion District,” he said.

“Did you have to learn all about the neighborhoods as part of your training?”

“To a certain extent,” he said, “but I make a good tour guide because my uncle was a good tour guide. I’d get the train on Long Island just to come see him and wander around the city. Architecture, neighborhoods, food, people-watching, we’d walk everywhere when the weather was good, and save museums for rainy weekends. He loved the city.”

Their steps slowed as he spoke. Thea gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “He died on 9/11, right?”

“He was in the South Tower when it collapsed,” he said, his gaze trained on their evenly matched strides.

She considered this without speaking for several sections of concrete. “Did you become a firefighter to honor his memory?”

Ronan considered this, then shrugged. “I was in high school when he died, and I’d already committed to college. He never went to college and wanted me to go. I had a long time to think about what I wanted to do with my life, a long time with my grief before I turned in my application. I joined the department because I wanted to live like he’d lived.”

A flash of red in a dimly lit window caught Thea’s eye; her steps slowed and by default, Ronan slowed with her. The mannequin wore a red silk robe stitched with intricate patterns that covered her from her chin to her wrists and ankles. Toggle fasteners held the robe closed to mid-thigh, where her white hand held the skirt open, revealing rich brown velvet inside.

“Oh, that’s gorgeous,” Thea breathed.

She pulled on the door handle but the lock held. The word
Idylle
was etched in ornate script on the lower right-hand corner of the window, next to a silver door adorned only with a placard listing a phone number. Ronan pulled out his phone and keyed in the number. It rang twice, then a woman answered.

“Idylle,” she said, giving the word a French lilt.

“Are you open?” Ronan asked.

“Yes,” she said. A second later the buzzer sounded on the door. Ronan opened it for Thea and followed her up the stairs to the second floor.

The interior of the shop was warm, dim and quiet. It expanded to fill the length of the row building, with polished hardwood floors and walls painted a metallic silver. Mannequins modeled more elaborate ensembles. One wore a red silk bustier and a pair of tight jeans; the next figure wore the same bustier but with a matching silk thong. A sheer green nightgown trimmed in paler green velvet draped another. Columns of wooden cubes rose behind tables displaying folded items, and more cubes along the walls held women’s undergarments. A trunk by the counter held neatly folded robes like the one displayed in the street window. At the back of the space, three six-panel doors lined the end of the long room. A brass hook on the doors held an oval sign turned to Unoccupied, so Ronan assumed those were the dressing rooms. The woman behind the counter gave them a welcoming smile then went back to her work.

Words weren’t necessary. The shop spoke for itself.

Beside him Thea pushed back her fur-trimmed hood, exposing her blond, tumbled hair. Her cheeks were pink from the cold air, her full lips slightly parted with amused fascination. “This city never fails to surprise me,” she said.

“You never know what’s behind a door. Let’s do some shopping,” he murmured in her ear.

Amusement danced in her slate-gray eyes. “Are you trying to tell me my basic black panties ruined the Santa’s helper outfit?”

“Oh yeah,” he said as he tugged off his hat. “It was horrible. Couldn’t you tell by the way I crawled all over you then lost it like a teenager?”

One corner of her mouth lifted. “I was a little uncomfortable flitting around the Upper East Side in that outfit and a thong. Anyway, you weren’t supposed to see them. You were supposed to take the blow job and send me off into the night.”

He wasn’t going to apologize for wanting more from Thea than anonymous physical release. “I’m difficult like that.”

“Yes, you are,” she replied. Some of the teasing had gone out of the banter, and to cover the new tone humming in the air she looked around the shop. “What do you like?”

“You want me to pick it out?”

“A place like this isn’t for me,” she said archly. “I’d never buy underwear here unless I was doing it for you. It’s meant to be worn for five minutes, then removed.”

“With my teeth,” he said. She actually giggled at that. He lifted his hand to her jawline, then brushed his thumb over her lips. Blood rushed to the surface of her skin, and her tongue flicked out to touch his skin. “Pick out something you think I’d like,” he said.

She made a quick tour of the shop, then looked at him. “This could take a little while,” she said. “Why don’t you find somewhere to sit down and wait?”

“I’m fine,” he said, but the woman moved out from behind the counter, removing a single key on a stretchy band at her wrist.

“You’re welcome to wait in here, sir,” she said, and unlocked a dressing room door.

One look at the interior stopped Ronan’s heart. Dark gray fabric draped the ceiling, pulled together above a sparkling chandelier. Plush pewter carpet blanketed the floor, and mirrors covered three walls from floor to ceiling. Silver hooks hung at regular intervals on the remaining wall, which was painted a dusky blue lightening to robin’s egg blue near the ceiling. A moss-green chaise sat at an angle to the door. He cut the woman a surprised glance as he stepped inside. Her small, demure smile radiated discretion, nothing more, then she closed the door.

Ronan sank down on the chaise, his elbows on his knees, and wondered if he’d fallen down the rabbit hole. The silence made his ears ring. Not even the rush of an occasional passing cab filtered up into the store. Good, thick walls, he noted, his brain automatically analyzing the type of construction common in this part of town even as his heart pumped blood south, hardening his cock.

He shifted, and the mirrors reflected the movement back to him. Pools of lamplight merged to light the room like a theater before the curtain goes up. The mirrors cast his image back to him, an expressionless man wearing jeans, boots, a wool coat, a black scarf. The room was warm, so he shed his coat and scarf, draping them over the back of the low couch. His heart thudded against his ribs. Purposeful eyes, not quite patient, knowing Thea and a handful of clothes made for sex would walk through the door.

Moments later, she did, lace and silk and elastic dangling from her fingers. The sales clerk trailed behind her with yet more hangers. While he watched, the two women arranged the items, then the clerk took hold of the door handle. “Take all the time you need,” she said, and closed the door.

Thea stood in front of him. “What would you like to see first?”

“You,” he said. “Naked.”

She unzipped her coat first and hung the down jacket from one of the readily available hooks. Under the coat she wore a turtleneck and heavy wool sweater that belted at her waist, and slim brown trousers. These things, plus her socks and boots, were removed without much fanfare, then draped over a straight-backed chair by the door, leaving her in everyday underwear of a pale yellow stretchy fabric. She ducked her head and removed the bra first, then her panties.