Sparking the Fire (20 page)

Yes.

That beard was a sexual weapon of its own. It tickled, teased, and increased her pleasure tenfold. His hot, wet mouth suckled and drew every heated sensation to the tip. Untold minutes were spent sipping and licking, his total absorption like that of an explorer with a new artifact.

By the time cool air was glancing across her skin, he was already lifting her onto the table.

“Wyatt,” she protested, “your shoulder.”

“Fuck my shoulder.”

He pulled at the elastic waist of her yoga pants and drew them down to her ankles, then off. She let him, no longer needing to be in control of this, suspecting that control had left the kitchen with an arch smirk about ten minutes ago. At the sight of her silky black thong, his eyes turned molten with hunger, yet in typical Wyatt Fox fashion, he stayed on his own timetable.

Watching.

Feasting.

Planning.

Heat writhed like stoked embers in her belly. She widened her legs, knowing the scrap of silk wouldn't cover everything with that stretch. With each slow inch—yay, yoga—his breathing picked up and his eyes darkened further.

“Touch me,” she gasped.

Giving in to her demand, he moved those rough hands ribbed for her pleasure along her thighs with a deliberate, torturous pace. His thumbs formed a V over her fabric-shielded core and hovered there with a light, unbearably teasing touch. Then one velvet swipe along the center line pushed the fabric into her soaking seam.

“Oh!” She shuddered.

“Now's the time to tell me to stop, Mol. 'Cause if you don't, this pussy is mine.”

Stop? Was he mad? She supposed she should be annoyed by the “pussy is mine” comment, but a part of her thrilled at the crude words spoken with such possessiveness.

“Don't you dare.”

On a lusty groan, he ripped her Agent Provocateur panties clean from her body. He splayed his hands on her inner thighs, pushing them apart for his viewing pleasure.

“Say my name. I need to hear it a million times over when my face is buried between your thighs.”

“Wyatt.”

He kissed the crease of her knee, softly, like he had all the time in the world. Then the other. It was one of those things she'd loved about him back then—how he never rushed.

He stopped. Waited.

Not so enamored of it now.

“Wyatt.”

He started up again.

One thick finger slicked through her folds and separated. Pleasure snapped, crackled, and popped. He continued to rub, always shy of where she needed it, teasing and torturing.

She repeated his name, this new currency that would buy her untold pleasure. Callused finger pads rubbed through her wetness.
Wyatt.
He moved his lips higher, tripping tingles like live wires everywhere.
Wyatt.
Over and over, she said his name—
Wyatt, Wyatt
—giving him what he wanted to get what she needed.

“Feel how good that is?” He ran his beard along the soft skin of her inner thigh. She had no idea if he meant that texture against her skin or how his finger's slow stroke through her soaking sex was making her lose her mind.

“Wyatt.”

He gently raised her ass, lowered that Viking jaw between her legs, and lapped at her.

Brain. Destroyed.

Strong hands held her in place, except to tip her up for a better angle as he licked her open.

“Feet over my shoulders, babe,” he murmured, his voice's vibrations against her core giving her no choice but to obey. The position should have had her falling back on the kitchen table, but his peerless strength kept her at the perfect tilt to be pleasured like she had never been pleasured before.

Except with him. Only with him.

Cupping the back of his head, she tried her best not to get too greedy. After all, every luxurious swipe of his tongue was more than enough to ratchet up her desire. He alternated lovely, long licks with hard, spearing thrusts of his tongue, and she paid for each one gladly.

Wyatt Wyatt Wyatt.

Every scoop of moisture created more, and with it an ever-tightening coil of want. She lifted her hips in blatant appeal, craving, demanding every sensation he was giving her. Hot tongue, greedy lips, pirate jaw—the triple threat. And then his mouth sucked on her clit and she lost it, thrashing wildly as he pinned her hips in place.

As she gave herself over to her release, she might have squeezed his head so hard he grunted his discomfort. But by then she was floating on an orgasm cloud and she didn't give a damn. Even when he muttered what sounded like, “Fuckin' thighs of death.”

He raised his eyes to hers, and the raw intensity she saw there made her gasp. Oh, God, if he didn't finish this properly—with him inside her—she would die.

She prayed to the god of safe sex he had a condom. The man was a walking wet dream, at risk of attack by nymphomaniacs at every turn. He should carry never-ending supplies of protection. He should have stock in Trojan. His hand went to his pocket, rummaged, and pulled out . . . yes, yes,
yes
?

A vibrating phone.

No.

He stared at it, blinked as though needing to bring what he saw on the screen into focus, and drew a breath.

“Kinsey got called into work suddenly, so Roni needs a ride.”

The mention of Roni—of Wyatt's priority this summer—was like a waterfall of ice-cold water hurtling down on her head. Thoughts chased each other across his face as he worked that out for himself.

This could not happen again. No more slow kissing, comfort stroking, or mind-blowing orgasms. But it had sure been nice to get some after her two- . . . no,
three
-year drought.

“Hate to dine and dash, babe, but I need to get going.”

“You did
not
just say dine and dash.”

The corner of his mouth crinkled. Or she thought it did—the Thigh Tickler made it so difficult to know for sure.

He leaned in, but she did not need to be reminded of how she tasted on his lips and how this would never, ever be enough. She placed a hand on his chest.

“Kitchen's closed, Marine.”

His phone buzzed again, his groan filled the room, and before disappointment had a chance to settle, he curled a strong hand around the nape of her neck and kissed her. A thorough, deep, no-going-back kiss. Their tongues tangled, the taste of her pleasure triggering that pulse between her legs again.

He released her, looking pleasantly grumpy. “My balls don't like me much right now.”

She coasted her hand away a few inches until she found what she was looking for. Over his erection, she draped the half-melted ice pack.

“Better, baby?”

His laugh was a mix of pain and amusement. Then on a soft kiss and a muttered “Evil,” he left her a half-naked, quivering mess on Gage's kitchen table.

 CHAPTER TWELVE

“Y
ou've moved in with him?”

Molly held the phone away from her ear. At 6:05 in the morning, Cal's screech, as clear as if she was in the same room instead of five hundred miles away in Tennessee, was not helping her ease into the day.

“I've not moved in with him. I've stayed two nights with Gage and Brady next door while the leasing agent I hired works on finding me another place.”

Because if she knew one thing with certainty, she could not remain here. It was bad enough witnessing the Marine's stoic consulting gig on the set. (Professional competence had always turned her on.) If she had to encounter the Wyatt Fox 'tude and badassery 24/7, she'd be a goner.

“I was really scared, Cal.”

Her friend made a sympathetic cluck. “I knew you were faking it when I called last. What about the security team?”

“I gave them a couple of days off. It's best to not draw attention, at least until I'm in a new place.” Given what had happened, that might sound counterintuitive, but nothing said X marks the famous person like tinted windows, dark suits, and security earpieces on quiet residential streets.

Cal hummed her agreement. “I'm trying to find out who leaked your location, but to be honest, it sounds like you are in the safest, most secure place possible.”

Highly debatable.

“At least as far as your physical safety,” Cal added, a smirk in her voice. There was a reason the woman was Molly's closest friend—she didn't miss a trick.

“Nothing's going to happen.” That “nothing” had already happened on Gage Simpson's kitchen table yesterday morning was information Cal did not need to have right now. “I just want to get this movie done and work on those scripts we might green-light.”

Heading out from Gage's guest room onto the second-floor landing, she slowed to peruse the gallery of family photos dotting the wall. One silver-framed photo in particular drew her focus: a clean-shaven Wyatt in his marine fatigues posing with Logan in bunker gear. Wyatt stared straight ahead, unsmiling, while Logan flirted with the camera. Side by side, the resemblance was striking, like two halves of the same heroic entity. Darkness and light.

In true dog-with-a-bone style, Cal asked, “So what are the sleeping arrangements like?”

“The guest room at Gage's is lovely.” It was, all mellow yellow with fresh West Elm soft furnishings.

Cal snorted. “You guys have history of the boning variety and now he's next door, all neighborly and ready to take a bullet for you. Doesn't sound sexy at all.”

It sounded like the plot of a Hallmark movie—or a porno. A sleazy electric guitar riff slithered through her brain.
Bow-chick-a-bow-bow . . .

“I have work to do,” Molly repeated. New scripts to read, calls to make, business to . . . business. Wyatt Fox need not take up any (more) of her mental real estate.

“A thin wall separates you from heavenly delights. You've been laying low for too long and now you owe it to your vag to get some action.”

Action received, and Ms. Greedy was hungry for more.

Cal continued with her encouragement, and when she devolved to cheap quips about hose lengths, Molly hung up. She needed to get a move on. Where Gage and Brady lived in Andersonville, she was a few miles farther from the set than her Gold Coast summer place. This morning's burning question: how to play it. Should she knock on Wyatt's door and offer to carpool? What was the commuting protocol with the man who'd given her the most memorable orgasm in recent memory? In not-so-recent memory?

Duh, Mol.
She couldn't be seen with him. If they showed up together, it would be grist for the gossip mill.

In the kitchen, she came across Gage standing at the counter, stirring his coffee. Every one of Molly's caffeine-deprived neurons stood to attention.

“Molly!”

“Oh, you're one of those. A morning person.”

He grinned. “Sure am. Night owl, too. I don't need much sleep, and with how awesome my sex life is, that's probably for the best. Hope we didn't keep you up.”

Laughing, she shook her head. “Heading into the firehouse?”

“Yeah, leaving in about thirty. Coffee?”

With a nod, she sat at the table—yes,
that
table—and watched as he played breakfast host. Conversation was jumping easily from topic to topic—Gage had strong opinions on the current season of
Big Brother
—when suddenly, the air shifted.

Wyatt walked in from the backyard. She hadn't seen him since his dine and dash yesterday, and her heart jumped at the sight of him in all his muscled glory.

Dumb heart.

“You see, this is how it works, Molly,” Gage said. “Wy refuses to set foot inside a grocery store for fear he might be struck by a thunderbolt from the Whole Foods gods. He might pop into the bodega on the corner to grab half-and-half, but that's the extent of his domesticity, so every morning he visits chez Gage to avail himself of the pantry.”

“I drop you a C-note a week to cover it,” Wyatt said with a sniff. He helped himself to an Asiago cheese bagel from a box on the counter.

Gage went on. “And along with his raiding of the bounty, if I'm here, I'm expected to cook.”

“You love it, shithead.”

This double act the brothers had going on was too damn cute. With a martyr's sigh, Gage pushed Wyatt out of the way and rummaged in the fridge. A minute later, he was chopping and whisking and heating oil in a pan. Wyatt handed off a cup of coffee to Molly, complete with a carton of half-and-half and a selection of sweeteners, and then took a seat at the table. It should have been tense, but Gage's chatter wouldn't allow for any awkwardness.

“So what's the plan?” Gage asked Molly. “Not that we're trying to get rid of you, but I can't imagine this is what you had in mind for your summer.”

“I've got a leasing agent on the case. He's showing me a place today after shooting's done.”

Gage flicked a glance at Wyatt—and his dark, tan hand with knuckles popping pale as it gripped his coffee mug. Message received. He really did not want her here, contaminating the sacred Dempsey space.