Sparking the Fire (14 page)

The ache in his chest spoke his regret.

“You should go.” It passed her lips in a throaty whisper. “You should—”

He swallowed that next
go
with his mouth. He should go. He should run, not walk, away from her, but a more primal urge overtook him. The urge to haul her back to a simpler time when all that mattered was the pleasure they pulled from each other's sweaty, naked bodies.

It had been so long since Wyatt had given in to what he wanted. Since he'd even acknowledged a deeper need for something of his own.

He wanted this. Her. Plain and simple.

Her lips concurred. So much hunger in that sweet little mouth of hers, but then her life was about hunger. For success, adulation, whatever goal was waiting over that next hill. She tasted of that hunger, and of something else. A need that matched his own.

He had to get closer to her, to grind all up in her, to climb inside her. The ache in his chest spread south and his cock shot a few notches up on the granite scale. It hit her at belly button level, which was not going to be any good for her, so he cupped that Hollywood booty and raised her up until he notched right between her thighs.

The act of lifting her would normally be a breeze, but his shoulder twinged and shit, he'd have to do something about that. For the moment, he embraced the discomfort and associated the pain with this. With her. Because without it, there would be no barrier to taking her.

He found himself sitting on the sofa, not quite sure how it had happened. One second, she was a foot off the ground while he positioned himself between the heaven of her thighs, the next she had pushed him down.

Hunger in fucking spades.

The ache in his shoulder diminished while the ache in his dick burned brighter. She straddled him as they kissed, their mouths in a tangle of
yes, yes, don't stop,
and
there, right there
,
and
keep that sweet, sweet grind all over my hard cock, baby
.

The comfort in touching her was shocking, and at the same time, it was a form of madness, pure and unadulterated.

It had to end.

He framed her face with both hands and held her back a few inches. Panting hard, they stared at each other.

“Molly.”

“I know.”

She pulled back and the thread snapped. He felt it in his chest.

“This isn't about you.”
It's totally about you.

“You mean for once I'm not the center of the universe,” she said, unmistakable humor in her tone. He liked her mature take on it.

She clambered off him, and to his infinite regret, refastened the loose robe belt. “I told you to leave.” There was no recrimination in her words, just a plea for him to make it easier by following instructions. Despite his years in the service, he'd never been good at taking orders.

Before him she stood, hands fisted on hips, lovely chest heaving. Six weeks left on the shoot together. This was going to be a problem.

Then she broke into a grin, shaking her head at the craziness of it all. He stood and examined his erection because it was a fuckova lot easier than watching the dazzler of a smile that urged him to forget every single reason why getting involved with her was the worst idea in the history of terrible ideas.

His hard-on refused to stand down. It wanted out and in.

Hey, buddy, sorry to get you all hot and bothered.

Again.

Molly giggled. “Why do I get the impression you're having a conversation with your dick?”

“Just apologizin'.”

“How's he taking it?”

“Not well.”

She laughed her head off, and he'd never heard a prettier sound. Almost as nice as those throaty gasps. She was known for her distinctive laugh, the husky chuckle of a girl who knew how to have a good time. Nothing beat hearing it because of something you'd said.

He couldn't even hit the gym until his shoulder was in better shape, so that method for working her out of his system was off the table.

“I'll run it off.”

“That your usual solution for sexual frustration?” She was enjoying herself far too much, but he'd let her have it. He owed her that much.

“It is.”

“Run a lot, do you?”

“Lately? I could outrun the winner of the Kentucky Derby.”

She liked that, he could tell. This little insight into his life, which wasn't a cavalcade of balling women and taking his sexual due as a member of the CFD. He had no idea why he felt she needed to know that, or why he wanted to tell her all the fucking things. He never talked about anything with anyone, not even with Luke, who was his closest sib.

“Lately,” she murmured, “I could give that Kentucky Derby winner a run for his money, too.” Hey, so sharing was contagious.

He'd seen a picture of her once in running gear somewhere in one of those beachy West Coast places. Probably a long shot, but the idea was fast growing on him, especially as tomorrow was a no-shoot day. “I usually run on the lake path. If you're free . . .”

He trailed off, and tease that she was, she left him hanging for the longest three seconds of his life.

“Wyatt Fox, are you asking me out”—she clutched her chest dramatically—“on a platonic running date?”

“No better way to tackle this sexual frustration thing than to do it together.” Bullshit meter?
Zing!
Never had he wanted so much for a woman to say yes to the promise of no sex.

She considered him, a fingertip held to one perfectly plump lip. “If checking out my ass as I leave you in my rearview on the lake path helps with your chatty dick problem, Marine, then I'm happy to take one for the team.” That flirty grin, the one that had won her legions of fans, lit up her face. She held out her hand. “Phone.”

Wyatt handed his over and watched as she put her number and where she was staying in his contacts. Not dillydallying, she opened the door to her trailer and ushered him out. Probably worried she couldn't keep her hands off him.

Yeah, let's go with that.

“I usually run around 8 a.m. I'll meet you outside where I'm staying. Don't be late.” Order issued diva-style, she shut the door.

Fair enough.

He scanned the entry she had completed in his phone contacts, an address in the affluent Gold Coast. Of course.

But that wasn't what had him grinning broadly, exercising muscles that protested the sudden use. It was the name she'd entered, or should he say, alias.

Hollywood Booty.

Unable to contain himself, he laughed out loud. A couple of crew members shot weird looks in his direction, but fuck if he cared. He'd allow himself this little indulgence.

Just this once.

 CHAPTER EIGHT

W
yatt hated the Gold Coast.

More accurately, he hated the parking situation in the Gold Coast. No one ever drove around here, which meant no one ever left their rock-and-roll parking spaces. He'd forgotten to ask Molly if she had a spot at the back of the townhouse where she was staying, so he did the hunt-and-peck parking dance in ever-increasing circles until he found something six blocks away.

Usually busy, this neighborhood was close to Magnificent Mile shopping, Northwestern University's medical campus, and the lake. Moms with strollers that probably cost more than his truck carried lattes that probably cost more than a tank of gas for his truck. He was a little early, otherwise he wouldn't have been tempted to stop at the grilled cheese stand at the farmers' market on the Museum of Contemporary Art plaza. Small cubed samples with embedded toothpicks lay on a plate. He'd had to make do with Cocoa Puffs this morning because Gage was on shift, so his stomach was already rumbling percolator-style.

“Five-year-old Wisconsin cheddar and maple-smoked bacon,” the animated girl at the stand said, her eyes roving appreciatively over his standard-issue CFD shirt underneath his unzipped hoodie. “It's our most popular sandwich.”

He nodded as he chewed while Grilled Cheese Girl tried what he imagined would be winning chat-up lines for the right audience.

Oh, you're with CFD!

You guys do such an awesome job.

My sister-in-law/neighbor/friend of a friend is dating a firefighter.

I should be done here by one.

And so on.

Most guys faced with this level of flirty onslaught would grin and lock that down in half a heartbeat, but Wyatt didn't have that easy way about him. Small talk, flirting, and plain old sociability were beyond him, so he usually grunted until the woman gave up. Gage liked to say that Wyatt wouldn't know passion if it hit him over the head with the Jaws of Life. Wyatt supposed that was true; passion had a habit of trumping cold, brutal decision making, and he'd choose common sense over his dick every time. Neither could he change his personality. He was destined to be Mr. Solid, the boring Dempsey. The one time he had stepped outside the dull zone—five years ago with Molly Cade—he had let his dick do the talking and trusted the conversation would turn out right. But it sure as hell wasn't the stuff relationships were made of.

Women liked guys who
communicated
.

Grilled Cheese Girl had stopped talking, beaten into silence by his own. He murmured his thanks and turned away, only to run slap bang into a petite redhead carrying flowers that practically engulfed her and a canvas shopping bag bursting with produce. Her baseball cap and sunglasses might keep her identity a secret from the rest of the market goers, but his body knew when Molly Cade was in its orbit.

“Building up your strength?” she asked, curving her gaze around his chest to the tray of samples.

“Figure I'll have to if I'm to keep up with Hollywood Booty.”

She grinned, a triple shot of tropical sunshine that slammed him in the solar plexus. “I need to drop this stuff off, then I'm ready to go.”

He removed the bag from her shoulder and the flowers cradled in her arms.

“Oh, you don't have to do that.”

“Not a problem.” Really, the notion of her body being covered by those gigantic blooms didn't sit well with him. He preferred a more comprehensive view. After freeing up her hands, he helped himself to a not-so-furtive ogle of that Coke bottle–shaped body poured into running shorts and a stretchy top that was having a hard time accommodating the glories within.

She rested a hand on her hip. “Get a good look, did you?”

He put his tongue back in his mouth. “Figure I may as well, seeing as I'll be forced to watch your ass during the run. I'm pretty equal opportunity when it comes to the female anatomy.” He gestured forward with his free hand. “Right behind you, Hollywood.”

The curves of her body, the perfect wave of her, gave him no small amount of pleasure, and as she moved forward, the sway of her hips and roundness of her gorgeous ass made him glad he had these flowers covering his burgeoning hard-on. But it wasn't quite enough to distract him from the guy in running gear who had moved as soon as Molly did and stayed about ten feet behind her.

“Toting your own security, then?” Wyatt asked, coming alongside her.

“The studio assigned a team. I've done a pretty good job of keeping a low profile. No press has shown up anywhere I've been. I suppose it's comforting to know the security is there, but really, I want this summer to be about . . .” She paused and clearly checked her thought. “Just about the work. Making a great product. Something I can be proud of.”

“What were you going to say?”

She turned her head slightly. “I was going to say this summer was about finding me again. But that sounds like I should be listening to the Smiths and writing terrible poetry in my Hello Kitty journal.”

“Applications for Club Angst are currently being accepted by my niece.”

That made her laugh, and her laugh made him warm.

Walking the short distance through the market, Wyatt was on high alert despite the hired comfort of Molly's personal security team. As a woman in the public eye, Molly had to have her fair share of crazies stalking her, and in this environment she was highly exposed. He found himself invading her space, keeping close on the off chance any threat materialized.

It wasn't long before he realized the real threat was not from some loco fan, but from him. She smelled like a dream, and it wasn't some heavy, expensive scent, either. This was all her, the fresh, natural scent of a beautiful woman, the same as all those years ago. Sense memory kicked in. The tangle of limbs, the taste of her skin, the slick juncture where their bodies connected again and again.

“God, that smells good,” she murmured.

He turned to find her focused on a nearby crepe stand, and the only reason Wyatt had the word
crepe
in his vocabulary was because Gage insisted on making them for firehouse breakfasts instead of pancakes like a regular person. Everyone knew that crepes were just pancakes on heroin.