Sparking the Fire (19 page)

He gave it, enjoying the grip on her smooth palm so much he held on and continued to enjoy it. “You do this every morning?”

“I try to. When I'm working, I manage in my trailer.”

“Times, please.”

“Why, would you like to join me one day? Get in touch with your chakras?”

“More of an observer. Not in a creepy way, though.”

Look at him, Mr. Fucking Flirty.

“Might be good for your shoulder.” Her expression shifted to concern as she reached for his bicep and rubbed. They still held hands. Music still played. Puppies should be entering from stage left any second. “How's it feeling?”

Like he would have no problem lifting her against the fence and driving in deep and true. The outside temp was cooler than average, but his blood was boiling with the heat of her closeness.

He dropped her hand. “So . . .”

“I expect you're curious about why I'm here.”

“Curious? Sure, let's go with that.”

“Your sister—”

“Say no more. Alex, and I'm guessing Gage, decided that this would be the perfect secluded spot for the Hollywood diva trying to dodge the paparazzi.” He was pretty sure he could plead extenuating circumstances during his trial for Alex's murder. Any judge who saw that video of her cutting up Sam Cochrane's car would recognize that she had eventually pissed off the wrong person and that her demise was justifiable homicide.

Molly frowned, and he regretted his grumpiness, especially so soon after the headway he'd made with the cute rom-com banter. Girls were confusing.

“I have someone working on finding a new place,” she said, “but it could take a little while. I can handle the press at my door but . . .” A flicker of discomfort crossed her face. “Believe me when I say this was not my idea.”

He didn't doubt it. She had been more than clear that she didn't want his help, though her fear had been a palpable thing.

Something had changed.

A tug of war was duking it out in his chest. She was here, safe, where he could keep an eye on her. This was exactly what his primal subconscious had wanted, and though he wasn't in a position to make it happen directly, somehow the gods had smiled on him.

He'd hold off on sending Alex to her maker for now.

“You have coffee yet?” he asked.

“I was just about to one-push the Keurig.”

She turned and walked into the kitchen, offering him the perfect view of her ass in those curve-hugging yoga pants. It was a good thing she was staying next door, because if he had to witness that flitting around his kitchen, she would not be safe.

M
olly wasn't sure what she'd anticipated would happen once she ran into Wyatt.

Grumpiness? Of course.

Sex-in-a-beard? Undoubtedly.

But flirting? Unexpected—and incredibly hot.

Granted, he could have been reciting the phone book and she would have been mopping up the drool. Because
hello there,
glistening slab of badassery. He must have been working out. His frayed Marine Corps–emblazoned tee was damp with sweat, a bead of it trickling down his beefy arm.

She wanted to lick it.

But first, further explanation of her presence seemed necessary. “Wyatt, this is just for a night or two. I'll be out of here before you know it.”

Ignoring that, he reached for a cupboard and there was no missing his pained wince. He gestured to the neat rows of stacked K-cups. “Gage has all the flavors.”

“Your shoulder. Is it still bothering you?”

“Not a big deal.”

“Sit down, dummy. Where are the Ziplocs?”

His eyes narrowed. “Did you just call me a dummy? And ask for Ziplocs?”

“Did you just deflect by answering a question with two questions?” Splaying a hand on his broad chest, she pushed him toward a chair. And pushed. Immovable, he dipped his gaze to her hand as if it were a foreign object and did not compute with his Terminator programming. She could've sworn she heard a mechanical whirring sound.

“You need coffee,” he said, reverting to his primary directive.

“And you need to take care of your shoulder. I can't believe you're still overdoing it. Against doctor's orders, I'll bet.”

“Popped a couple of Aleve. Doing okay.”

“Sit. Down.”

He obeyed, an amused curve to his lips, and watched while she ransacked the freezer for ice cubes.

“Ziplocs?”

“Bottom drawer on the right.”

Using a dishcloth and a Ziploc bag, she crafted an ice pack. “Do I need to take your shirt off, as well?”

“My family's giving you a place to stay. Expecting a shirtless firefighter just seems greedy.”

God, she wanted to have babies with that dry wit of his. She pressed her lips against a smile and called on a no-nonsense nurselike persona. “You're pissing me off.”

He did the one-hand-over-the-shoulder-move and pulled his shirt off. No visible bruising, but even if there had been, she wasn't sure she'd have noticed.

How could he have become broader in the intervening years? Marines were the fittest bunch on the planet, and Wyatt had been the finest specimen she'd ever laid eyes on. These days, his muscles had muscles. She could grate parm on those abs. And whereas before his skin had been ink-free, now it showcased his service in the marines with a globe and anchor over his left pec, keeping company with that pulsing shamrock and red CFD logo on his biceps.

Annoyingly flustered, she twisted the dishcloth, tied a knot, and placed the pack over his right shoulder.

“Here okay?”

Covering her hand with his, he shifted the pack up. “More like here.” Their fingers laced, the intimacy of it vibrating through her. He could have held the pack himself, but this joint venture seemed to be working. For both of them.

“Sit down,” he said.

She glanced over her shoulder at the closest kitchen chair, a couple of feet off. About to hook it with her foot, she gasped when a brute hand landed on her waist and pulled her down in his lap.

“Not comfortable for you to stand,” he said, as if that was an adequate explanation for why she was perched on the thickest thighs to ever cushion her ass.

“Not comfortable for me to sit,” she managed.

The big hand tightened on her waist and pulled her closer so she landed in the well of his thighs. That was not what she'd meant, but it felt like a dream to be here, wrapped in the safe embrace of this man who had already taken care of her so handily.

Silent moments ticked over, the tension agonizing. Molly reached for any topic, a distraction. “How did it happen? Your shoulder?”

“Jumper off a bridge. Grabbed him and tore my tendons. Off squad for a couple of months.”

He had saved someone's life. “So yesterday's heroics are just run-of-the-mill for you.”

Those blue-gray eyes took her measure. “Figure I owe the universe.”

“In what way?”

“What I did before in the service placed me on the negative side of the cosmic equation.” At her frown, he added, “I was a sniper in the marines.”

“Oh, I see.” Of course. When the world was falling apart, who else would you trust to keep you safe but Wyatt Fox? But did he truly think there was some cosmic imbalance because he had killed in the service of his country?

“What you did before, those decisions you made, the lives you took, all of that saved others. I think your ledger is very much in the black, even without what you do now, day in, day out.”

“You don't know what I've done.”

She knew what she saw before her: a good man trying to do right by everyone. And here she was complicating his already complicated life.

“What you did yesterday, protecting me, getting me to safety—I didn't thank you. I was so frazzled, couldn't think straight.”

“That happen a lot?”

“More so in the last year since . . . since everything with Ryan. Mostly it comes at me online. I've been trying to take the high road and block out the nastiness. Not make trouble, keep a low profile.”

She'd allowed her husband to take photos of her and was punished for it. She'd demonstrated to all that she was a sexual being, precisely the thing they objectified daily before the hack. At once desired and despised.

She refocused her attention on the ice pack, now squishier because it was melting from his body heat—or the heat between them. His hand trailed her thigh, calming the shake that had started up without her even realizing it.

“Whenever you're ready to stand up and take it back, you let me know.”

“Take what back?”

No response was forthcoming, but she knew the answer anyway. The
it
was her. What had he said while calming her through her meltdown at the farmers' market?
Remember you are fierce, that inside you beats the heart of a warrior.
She needed to find her warrior heart and take back her life. Make the
it
about her.

He smoothed long strokes of comfort against her thigh. Caught up in the heady musk of him, she felt her body leaning in, falling under, going down. What a terrible nurse she was.

“How does it feel?” she asked, getting back to his medical issues.

“Like it could punch through steel.”

So, not talking about his shoulder, then. Averting her gaze, she shifted, intending to rise, but his palm held her fast at her hip. Her nipples peaked, hardening painfully against her bra. No amount of padding was keeping those puppies from making their case. He snugged her tighter over the irresistible weight of his erection and placed the ice pack on the table behind her.

“Molly, look at me.” His voice had dipped lower, and it reached inside her to a private, lonely place. Faced with such masculine pressure, she tried her best to resist.

A small, growing part of her questioned that. Would it be so wrong to let herself fall into him for a little while?

The next words out of her mouth should have been “This is crazy” or “We can't do this” or even “I'll take that coffee now.” They should not have been what emerged: a rusty, whispered, desperate “Please.”

His mouth took hers and every single reason why they should not do this was forgotten in the heat of Wyatt's kiss. So perfect. Combining ferocity with control, the man knew exactly how much pressure to apply, when to deepen, when to draw back. Wedged against him, all Molly could do was hold on and let him take what he needed. While he gave her everything she needed in return.

He rubbed his beard along her cheek, moving his lips down her jaw, her neck, the sensitive spot where her collarbone met her shoulder. Every part of her wailed for that rough yet soft texture. How would it feel grazing her breasts and her belly? The sensitive skin of her inner thighs? The aching heartbeat at her core? She moved in his lap, restless, needing to feel more of him against more of her.

His fingers latched on to the hem of her tee and curled beneath it. Coarse, hero-roughened hands traced erotic trails across her belly, at once too much and not enough. Up, up, up his hand moved until his knuckles skimmed the underside of her breast.

She jerked back, not sure why. Some innate instinct that said she wasn't ready.

“Could we take it slow?”

He licked his lips, savoring her taste, all while regarding her with lust-stoked pupils. Panic flared. He was going to get pissed. He was going to call her a tease. After all, anyone who posed for those pictures—

“Slow's my best speed.” His palm smoothed over her hip, away from her breasts, the movement forcing air from her lungs in relief.

For what seemed like hours Wyatt proved that slow was indeed his best speed. Feather-soft kisses alternated with sensuous nibbles. Lusty sucks traded with shiver-inducing caresses. Just when she thought she'd experienced every genus of kiss, he introduced a new one to surprise her. A gentle nip of her ear, a sexy lick along the seam of her mouth, a tender nuzzle along the arch of her neck.

“God, you're good at this,” she breathed.

He lifted his lips from her shoulder. “You say somethin'? Kinda busy here.”

She laughed, loving how patient he was. Ryan had never . . .
no
. Her ex had no place here, and neither did the haters. This was about taking it back, just like Wyatt said.

Her last exposure had occurred without her permission. The next one would be on her terms.

She peeled off her tee. Threw it to the floor.

And froze.

The problem with the claims to girl power and female agency is that they were often just that: claims. In the cold light of day, when you sat on a man's pillar-thick thighs and let him see you, truly see you, the claims suddenly sounded small. Undeserving. Especially when the man didn't say a word.

The moment held, suspended on the fog of her doubt. Seconds ticked. Tocked.

Her hand crept up to cover, because really this was ridiculous, and then finally, he reacted as if emerging from a trance, with a gentle push against her palm to keep her exposed to his gaze. Sheer, undiluted ecstasy wracked his expression.

“Christ, didn't think it was possible.”

“What?”

“You, even more beautiful than my memories.” His hand cupped one breast and molded her lace-covered flesh, dark eyes locked on his target. Relief that he enjoyed her body slipped into the ether, replaced with raw anticipation. But this was Wyatt. He took his time priming her with that rough palm, co-opting the scrape of the lace to incite her to madness.

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Taste me.”

She felt his erection harden with those words, and she shifted, needing to crank up the crazy. Make him wild. He groaned, a deep, chest-filling sound. Slipped one breast free of its lacy prison, then the other. She arched into him, offering her body for his pleasure. For her own.

With that made-for-her mouth, he latched on to one pleasurably sore, dusky peak.