Soaring (39 page)

He squeezed hard as he thrust deep and groaned loud.

My heart took flight.

I gave that to Mickey too.

How was it that his weight was on me, his body connected to mine, and it felt like I was floating?

I knew he recovered when his hips stopped spasming between mine, he tweaked my nose with the tip of his then took my mouth in a slow, deep, tender kiss.

He ended it, brushing his lips along my jaw, as he gently slid out of me, rolled off but pulled the covers over me before he got out of bed and sauntered naked to my bathroom.

I watched, my first view of his sculpted behind a vision I enjoyed greatly, before I shifted to sitting on the side of the bed. I reached and grabbed his tee from the floor, tugged it on and straightened off the bed, nabbing my panties.

I had them up and was walking to the bathroom as he was walking out.

Mickey, naked in my bedroom, full-frontal view.

He had a great ass, an amazing back.

But his chest and other attributes were better.

He stopped to bend his neck as I stopped and got on tiptoes. My hand was light to his flat stomach as I touched my mouth to his.

He lifted away and I walked into the bathroom going direct to the drawers in my walk-in closet.

I exchanged Mickey’s tee for a short, satin nightie in a dusky rose with deep edges of delicate oyster lace and thin spaghetti straps that crisscrossed at the back.

I walked out holding Mickey’s tee, turned out the lights of the bathroom and walked into the bedroom.

There I saw Mickey Donovan in my bed, under my duvet, on his side, head in his hand, elbow resting in the pillow, long legs partially visible but totally tangled in my sheets, eyes on me. Eyes now telling me he really liked my nightie.

I took him in.

I had that. I’d
had
that.

That was all for me.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to jump with joy.

Instead, I dropped his tee and joined him in my bed.

He grabbed hold of me the minute I did, shoving his face in my neck, brushing it with his lips, touching it with his tongue, before his hold got tighter and he rolled this way and that, taking me with him to turn out the lights on both nightstands.

He settled us front to front, covered by my duvet, tangled in each other.

He slid the tip of his nose down the bridge of mine before he whispered, “’Night, Amy.”

“Goodnight, Mickey,” I whispered back.

He lifted up, kissed my forehead and settled in to the bed, doing this tightening his arms around me.

I pressed closer and returned the favor.

I didn’t think I’d do it.

Heck, I didn’t
want
to do it.

I wanted to lie in the dark in my bed with Mickey Donovan and exalt in the feeling.

I did that.

But I did it quickly falling to sleep.

Chapter Sixteen

Open Your Door

My phone on the nightstand clattered as it rang.

I opened sleepy eyes and stared at the light coming from it as I looked at my alarm clock.

It was the night after Mickey and I connected (literally).

It was also the middle of the night.

My heart started racing because a middle of the night phone call could mean anything.

I reached out, grabbed my phone and saw the caller was Mickey.

I took the call and put the phone to my ear. “Everything okay?”

“Open your door, Amy.”

My skin ignited and my body flew into action.

I threw back the covers, jumped out of bed and ran down the hall to the front door. I unlocked it and pulled it open to see Mickey, in his firefighter-not-fighting-a-fire outfit sauntering up my walk toward me.

I waited, my eyes locked to him, his eyes locked to me, the burn building with just a look, and when he was close enough, I jumped him.

He caught me, kissed me, backed me inside, closed the door and locked it, all without taking his mouth from mine.

His tee hit the top step to the sunken living room.

My nightie fell to the first set of steps that led up the hall to my bedroom.

In the morning, I’d find my panties dangling off the arm of the daybed in front of my fireplace.

But we didn’t make it to the bed.

We sunk down on the rug under it and that was where Mickey fucked me.

When he was done with me, I was too replete to go searching for my nightie. So when he lifted me in his arms, deposited me in my bed, went to the bathroom to deal with the spent condom and came back to me, we slept together naked.

It wasn’t one of my top things to do. I wasn’t big on naked sleeping.

I didn’t give it a thought with Mickey.

* * * * *

The next evening, nervously, I walked on my silver pumps into Magdalene’s firehouse.

As arranged, I was there to have dinner with Mickey and the boys.

It was coming clear that when he said he’d make time for me, he meant it.

It was also coming clear that when he said we were building something, he’d decided not to waste any more time doing that.

Meeting the boys at the firehouse, in my opinion, was one step down from telling your children you were seeing somebody and you were all going out to dinner.

Thus, I was entering the firehouse with a stack of containers holding blonde brownies baked in cupcake tins with a wedge of Dove chocolate shoved in the top of each.

I was doing this in my silver pumps, a pair of boot-leg dark wash jeans, a filmy, blush, sleeveless blouse with understated silver threads and profuse ruffles up the front and my hair in a loose bun at my nape, curling tendrils pulled out around my face.

I jumped when I heard a male voice shout, “Hot chick on the premises!”

I looked toward the sound and saw a very big man in Mickey’s firefighter-not-fighting-a-fire uniform standing at a bank of lockers against the wall, head turned my way, grinning at me.

“Hey,” I called.

“Yo,” he called back.

“Is Mickey here?” I asked.

He didn’t answer.

He bellowed, “
Mickey!
”

“Jesus, Jimbo.” I heard Mickey mutter loudly and my eyes went his way. He was grinning and walking to me. “Hey, baby.”

“Hey,” I said quietly, slightly shyly, grinning back tentatively.

He stopped in front of me and his eyes dropped to the containers.

“You baked,” he noted.

I lifted them up a smidge. “Blonde brownies with Dove chocolate.”

His eyes came back to mine and they were dancing. “Buyin’ the boys approval with baked goods?”

I didn’t deny this because it was clear I was doing just that.

“Just so you know,” the man called Jimbo joined us, his gaze resting on my lower half. “You got my approval with those jeans.”

I felt my cheeks flush, but I did this fighting a gratified smile.

Mickey cut narrowed eyes to his colleague.

Jimbo caught his look, lifted his hands, but said, “Bud, you asked her here and you know I’m not blind.”

“I know that. But I knew it thinkin’ you got manners,” Mickey returned.

Jimbo looked at me. “I offend you?”

“Not exactly,” I told him. “And I’m pleased you like my jeans.”

He settled a bit back, remarking, “Good jeans. More what’s in ’em I approve of.”

My eyes got big and Mickey turned fully, and a little scarily, to his fellow firefighter.

“Seriously?” he asked dangerously.

“Mick, dude, you cannot be pissed I’m glad you scored a hot chick with a great ass who makes brownies,” Jimbo returned. He looked to me. “No offense.”

“Not certain I
can
take offense to you thinking I have a great ass,” I replied.

He smiled big.

At that point, I found myself divested of the containers and Mickey was shoving them into Jimbo’s hands.

“Take those to the kitchen,” he ordered.

“Gotcha, captain,” Jimbo said through his smile, took the containers and strolled away.

I moved closer to Mickey. “Captain?”

He stopped scowling at the departing Jimbo, looked down at me, hooked me with an arm and pulled me to him whereupon he laid a hard, swift kiss on my mouth.

He kept hold of me with one arm as he lifted his head and gave me a much nicer, “Hey.”

“Hey,” I gave it back. Then repeated, “Captain? Is that a nickname?”

“Rank,” he stated.

I felt my brows draw together. “Rank?”

“I command this company.”

I was no less confused. “You…sorry?”

“Chief is the Battalion Chief. He commands five houses in the five big towns we got across the county. Each house has a captain who commands the company, which is the rig and the men who work it. But also the house, which is everything to do with this department that isn’t handled by the chief. We got two lieutenants as well as me. Chief schedules it so each shift, I’m on it or one of the lieutenants is on it, takin’ charge of the equipment and the boys and managing shit if we go out on call, at least until the chief gets there. Don’t really got enough to go around for all shifts, so we got acting lieutenants with enough experience in to take shifts if that’s needed.”

“Oh,” I mumbled. “So you’re kind of second-in-command head honcho.”

His eyes again started dancing as he confirmed, “Yeah.”

“That’s pretty impressive,” I noted.

His eyes warmed on his muttered, “Thanks, Amy.”

I lifted my brows. “So your chief commands five houses?”

“Yep.”

“Isn’t that a lot?”

“Nope.”

I tipped my head to the side. “It isn’t?”

“Not really. In a bigger city, a Bat Chief would command all the houses in that city.”

“Part-time?” I pushed and he gave me a squeeze.

“That would be a no.”

I did not like this. I didn’t like it because Mickey wanted this position and it seemed a lot more work, overseeing five fire departments in five cities across the entire county, rather than just Magdalene’s.

“Want a tour before dinner?” he asked, taking my mind off this.

A tour of a firehouse?

What girl would say no?

I focused on him. “Absolutely.”

That earned me another squeeze before he took my hand and guided me around.

They had a big red truck (obviously). On the lower level with the truck there was a bank of lockers down one side. They had a variety of equipment like axes, wound hoses and such mounted on the walls.

There were also pictures in cheap frames put up here and there. They depicted the crew either formally arranged for an official photo or with arms thrown around each other’s shoulders in a line. There were also candid shots of everything from someone grinning while washing the fire truck or someone wearing a tee shirt that had a big “MFD” on the front and jeans, swinging a bat during a softball game.

Close to the truck there was firefighter-actually-fighting-a-fire gear (which Mickey told me was called bunker gear) set out and ready for men to jump into boots, pants and grab jackets and helmets.

They even had a shiny brass fire pole.

Which meant they had an upstairs, and although there were equipment rooms and a small bathroom downstairs, upstairs there were full showers with more stalls (Mickey called out for an all clear before we peeked in) as well as a workout room that was small and held mostly weight equipment.

There was also a dark room that had bunk beds (four of them, lined head to foot against the walls) another room with a beat up couch and a couple of even more beat up recliners, all facing a massive, old console TV I knew for certain didn’t provide HD. That room also had mismatched end tables with ring stains in the top of the wood, these dotted around for easy reach.

And last, there was a kitchen that had once been new and state of the art.

In 1956.

Now it was dinged up and old.

And even though the entire house was spic-and-span (this, Mickey explained was because the new guys had to go through a period of serving the station, the men testing their mettle in a variety of ways, including the duties of keeping the entire house, rig, equipment and gear performance ready and exceptionally clean), at its age, it couldn’t be anything but dingy.

I couldn’t spend a lot of time upset at the fact that, although their rig and gear seemed to be in good shape, the rest of the space was an afterthought. That these men spent a lot of time there, did that without pay and did it with the possibility they’d be saving lives, property and putting their own lives on the line. And because of that, they deserved at least a nice flat screen with HD and a microwave that didn’t look like it was the prototype before the prototype
before
the prototype they actually produced the year microwaves were introduced to the masses.

I couldn’t spend this time because Mickey introduced me to the crew.

There was Jimbo, the driver, who I’d already met.

There was also Stan, a man I figured was around Mickey’s and my age (in the dearth of communication with Mickey the last two weeks, I
had
learned during our thirty minute phone call that he was forty-eight). But Stan was shorter and losing his hair. Then there was Mark, who I’d put in his thirties, who had a gleaming wedding band, a smile almost as easy as Mickey’s and really nice biceps.

And last, there was Freddy, who was young, maybe mid-twenties, but that was at a push. He had a shock of thick, dark, messy hair, a smile he knew was effective, veins that ran his forearms and biceps (Mickey had these too) and he was perhaps four inches taller than me and I was five three.

He was their recruit.

After I got my introductions and shook hands with everybody, I was offered a seat.

I noted that the contents of one of the three containers of brownies was decimated (and I bit my mother’s tongue not to remind them they shouldn’t spoil their dinner at the same time delighted they dug in so quickly).

I sat and saw that Freddy was making dinner with Jimbo and Stan busting his chops as he did it (Mark was more quiet and less of a ball-buster).

Freddy didn’t appear to care. Freddy appeared to care solely about flirting outrageously, if innocently, with me, something Mickey didn’t protest because, it seemed, it gave him fodder to join in busting Freddy’s chops.