Sparking the Fire (24 page)

“Course it is. You think one time is enough?” He leaned in, bending slightly because he was so much taller than her. “Five years ago, we couldn't get enough of each other. If I wasn't slipping inside you, caught between the dream of you and the fantasy in my arms, I was waking up to find your sweet lips wrapped around my cock, sucking me off like your next breath depended on it.” He maneuvered her against the vanity. The towel fell from her shoulders as he rubbed his now-rehardened cock against her stomach. A quick lift brought them fully aligned. “Don't make out like we're done here, because that gorgeous body of yours is telling a whole other story.”

“But—”

“But what?”

She threw up her hands, unable to verbalize. The soul of wit.

“Got a lot of talents, Mol. Mind reading ain't one of them.” He swiped her lip with his thumb. His expression darkened. “Okay, I get it. You don't want to be seen with me. Well, that happens to work both ways.”

Blunt, but then that was Wyatt. “In a nutshell.”

“Sounds like a recipe for an illicit, under-the-radar fling. We'll be careful. No one has to know. And you're a great actor.”

She wasn't that good. “I think you're going to be better at this than me.”

Damn, she had already agreed. Wyatt Mind Trick.

“Answer this. Do you want me? Want what only I can give you?” His erection slip-slid through her soft, saturated flesh while he stared at her with those eyes. They searched inside her and locked on to something deep.

She nodded, feeling powerless to lie to him. That was the problem with magnets. Attraction wasn't a choice.

“That's all I need to know. There's a Starbucks nearby, a five-star chef next door, and I can give you tips on dodging the press. Just think, babe. We'll be craving each other”—a lusty suck on her lower lip—“sneaking around”—an unfairly sensuous rub of that weapon between his legs against her greedy center—“taking our pleasure where we can find it. Just for a few weeks. Now, don't that sound good?”

It sounded wonderful. A hot, secret summer affair with an ex—no,
former
—marine firefighter, who looked like a pirate and fucked like a dream. With a built-in expiration date, there'd be no awkward separation. All upside.

Still, she felt compelled to point out the downside. “We can't be seen together at the set,” she whispered, “and have you forgotten that you live with a teenage girl and your family is pretty much
everywhere
?” Luckily, Roni was over at Beck's tonight, but they couldn't expect this level of privacy on a regular basis.

He looked invigorated by the challenge. “We'll figure out something. Just know this, Molly: I have to have you. And I'll feel better knowing you're here, safe and under my protection.” And then he fell to his knees, his mouth seeking where she needed him most. Proving his point as only Wyatt could with his body, beard, and sheer force of will.

Her presence here might be giving him the peace of mind he needed, but it was doing sweet damn all for hers.

 CHAPTER SIXTEEN

W
yatt rounded the gable of the house, the sound of voices and laughter increasing with every step. His shoulder was sore after his PT appointment, and all he wanted was to kick back with the Cubs' game and maybe a soft woman curled into his side. Looked like neither would be happening.

Gage had invited people over for dinner. Family only, thank God. Alex was on shift at Engine 6 tonight and Luke and Beck were holding down the fort at the bar. Their better halves were sitting at the large communal table out back, bookending Roni. Darcy and Kinsey had taken her under their wings, for which Wyatt was more than grateful. Lights twinkled in the trees, casting a festive shimmer over the table laden with a feast of pastas and salads prepared by Gage. But the light that shone brightest was the star in their midst, Molly Cade.

Clichéd much?

It had been a week since she'd officially moved in with Gage and Brady, and the sneaking around had so far been only that. They'd connected a few times in his garage and made out like hormonal teenagers before he tailed her to the set each morning. She wanted more—hell, so did he—but he made sure to cut it short before it went too far. Molly deserved better than getting fucked on the hood of a Camaro.

He needed to figure out something, because if he didn't get inside her again soon, he was going to kill somebody.

No one had seen him yet, so he took a moment to drink it in. Molly, here in his home, or as good as. Getting along just fine with the family he loved.

Look up, babe. Know that I can't take my eyes off you.

“What the hell time do you call this?” he heard, all mock affront behind him.

He turned and took the Coke bottle Gage handed off.

“I cook all day to put food on your table and you show up at all hours and—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Nothing made his little brother happier than bringing everyone together, but there was something in Gage's eyes tonight hinting at strain. Usually, he only cooked this much when he was upset and—
shit
. Today was Gage's regular day to visit his mom at the nursing home in the suburbs. Struck with early onset Alzheimer's, she didn't know him, or remember how she had tortured him as a kid for being the fabulous little freak that he was. And yet Gage still made the weekly trek because his optimism had always outweighed his fear.

Wyatt usually let his family lead when it came to the emotional stuff. Butting into their lives or talking about his feelings or theirs was not his style, but maybe he needed to be more proactive. Show them that while he might never say it, they meant the world to him.

“You know, if you ever . . .” No sooner were the words out than a wave of doubt assailed him. Gage had no shortage of confidants.

“What, Wy?”

Wyatt exhaled, feeling dumber with every passing second. “You ever need anything, I'm here.”

Gage could have deflected or made a joke but he didn't. Just took the offer as his due, because even though his childhood pre-Dempsey had been a shitfest, he never doubted that he was deserving of family and love. Not like Wyatt, whose biological dad had ingrained in his son a deep-seated inadequacy. In his father's profession of con man, charm was the prime ingredient, and he'd never let Wyatt forget his failings in not being a chip off the old block. Even now, after years with the Dempseys, doubt about his place was as inescapable as the sun rising in the east.

“There's hope for you yet,” Gage muttered, his voice scratchy. He kissed Wyatt on the forehead. “Come eat, ya big lug.”

The only open seat was beside Darcy and across from Molly. Good, because he had her beauty filling his field of vision and bad, because, ditto.

“We have a couple of new victims at our table tonight, so a toast is in order,” Gage said, standing with a beer in hand. “She offered her honor, he honored her offer, and all night long he was—”

“Gage,” Wyatt warned with a look at Roni.

“Oh, right. Innocent bunny ears.”

Roni's mouth dropped open. “What? How does it go?”

“Never mind.” Darcy raised her soda glass. “Here's to the nights we'll never remember with the friends we'll never forget. Welcome, Roni and Molly. Our table is richer with you at it.”

Everyone
aw
'ed the hell out of that. “And she's not even drunk,” Kinsey joked.

“God, I wish,” Darcy said with an accusing glare at her soda. “The first five months of not drinking have almost killed me, so I know the last four are going to send me over a cliff.”

“And if you're breastfeeding . . .” Molly said with a sympathetic smile, which drew Darcy's groan. But she quickly recovered with a cheerful yelp as she grabbed Wyatt's hand and placed it over her belly. “He's kicking!”

Darcy's and Beck's excitement about their kid was infectious, but even if it wasn't, Wyatt would be enjoying the surprisingly strong taps against his palm.
Th-thunk, th-thunk.
Longing for something of his own making panged in his chest, and when he raised his gaze, he found Molly and those keen violet eyes sucking him in.

“Another boxer, for sure,” he mumbled, and took a drink of his Coke.

The conversation continued with this and that, a good chunk of which Wyatt tuned out because there were horrifying descriptions of childbirth and cracked nipples and tearing in places no man wants to devote a brain cell to. Thankfully, the talk cycled past
Alien
-like, miracle-of-birth eruptions onto Gage's extravagant skill set.

“I can even do accents,” Gage said, making his case yet again for a part in Molly's movie.

“Terribly,” Wyatt cut in. “He went through a British phase when he was eleven. Asked for chips instead of fries, demanded lifts to soccer practice—”

“Which is known as football in my native land.”

“And called Sean guv'nor for a month until Dad threatened to deport him back to his native land if he didn't quit.”

“And I can sing,” Gage continued, unfazed. He stood, but sat again when Kinsey lobbed half a bread roll at his big head. “I'm the only one in this family who can.”

“That's true. Beck is just awful.” Darcy rubbed her stomach and spoke to the growing life inside her. “Don't worry, little one. You have a fifty-fifty chance of getting my talent.”

“Logan was the worst, though,” Gage said. “Couldn't hold a tune to save his life. The karaoke had alley cats caterwauling throughout Chicagoland.” He spoke to Roni. “What about you, niece of mine? You a bad singer like your dad?”

As quiet as Roni had been, Wyatt could tell from her watchful eyes and shy half smiles she was enjoying the ping-pong of conversation around the table. At Gage's query, she blushed. “I can't sing, so I guess . . .” She finished on a mumble.

“You've got the bad-singing gene,” Gage confirmed confidently. “No worries, Wyatt's terrible, as well. Sounds like a rusty lawnmower crossed with a three-packs-a-day seal.” Gage held his gaze with an artful smile Wyatt couldn't help but appreciate. Nicely done. His brother knew Wyatt was having a tough time with Roni.

“Molly's got a great set of pipes on her,” Wyatt said absently.

“I do?” She cocked her head, those eyes like sunsets narrowing. “And how would you know that? I've never sung in any of my movies.”

Shit.
“Pretty sure I heard you somewhere.” He shoveled in a mouthful of spaghetti carbonara to punctuate that epically bad cover job. He
had
heard her several times, live and in person, a fact she was not supposed to be aware of.

“Before I moved to LA, I did some musical theater. I was part of the traveling company for
The Who's
Tommy,
” Molly explained to the group. Wyatt could see her working that out, remembering that one of the company's stops was in Chicago. About five years ago.

Gage's eyes thinned on Wyatt. “Really? The Who is only Wyatt's favorite band.”

“Among others.”

“There's a reason I hate working shifts at the bar with him,” Gage continued as if Wyatt hadn't spoken. “Other than the fact he can't flirt worth a damn and tips suck donkey balls when he's on, but he also plays the Who on the 'box all night. Bet Wy's seen
Tommy
a million times.”

A million was overstating it. More like five. Not only because he did love the Who, and he was prepared to make a musical theater exception for Roger, Pete, and company, but because of one other excellent reason.

“Don't do musical theater.” Just musical theater actresses.

“Okay to admit if you have a secret
Les Misérables
or
Miss Saigon
fetish, Lieutenant,” Molly said with an arch smile.

“I'm sensing in that statement the rather stereotypical assumption that a guy like me would be uncomfortable admitting a love for musical theater. Well, I can affirm that I'm secure enough in my manhood to be fine with saying I love Broadway musicals, if that were actually a true statement.”

“So no problem if I made you my plus one at a movie premiere for, say, a remake of
The Wizard of Oz,
and required you wear a pink dress shirt and, oh, a purple suit?” she continued, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

“Neck size eighteen, babe. Bring it.”
Don't “babe” her, idiot.

Gage's cough sounded suspiciously like “busted.”

Darcy pointed at Wyatt. “Who's hotter? Chris Evans or Hugh Jackman?”

“This is the point where I'm supposed to feel threatened talking about another guy's hotness levels?”

“Or you could use the fact you don't know who they are as your out,” Molly added. “We'd accept that.”

Wyatt rubbed his beard. He really needed to trim it, but Molly liked how it felt between her legs. His mouth watered in memory and he turned so hard he could have lifted the table with his dick. “I'd say Wolverine's more rugged, while Captain America has the boy-next-door thing down. Both have a lot to offer to the ladies—”