Burnin' Up Memphis: Firehouse 69, Book 1 (6 page)

His mouth left and his hands fell away. “Let me look at you.”

She reached for her sex and spread her folds.

The sounds of his clothing rustling, falling, made her wish she could rub her clit.

“Roll to your back.”

She crawled to the center of the mattress, straightened her knees and rolled, sliding her legs open because he would still want to see. Her gaze swept his nude frame. She liked looking at him from this angle. Loved the direct stare. Loved the jut of his cock from his groin—so thick and upright. Made for mounting. Her gaze traveled upward, past an eight-pack she wanted to explore with fingers and tongue and nose, up to his chest. Brown silky hair cloaked his upper chest, stretched between his flat brown nipples that displayed erect, tiny points.

There were scars. Smudged skin, slick and rumpled in places. Pink and brown against the tan. Burns. On his shoulder, a forearm, the outer edge of his hand. None terribly large, but a stark reminder of the dangers of his job.

He slapped plastic against one palm, drawing her gaze. He peeled the packet open and slowly cloaked himself in thin latex.

Moira slid her heels up, bent her knees and lifted her hips off the mattress, raising her pussy to get his attention there where she needed it most. She cupped her breasts, molding and squeezing them, as much for her own gratification, because they ached, as to tease him.

And she let him hear her intimate sounds. The needy hum and her wispy whimpers. “Please, Coop.”

“Please what?”

Her bottom lip thrust out. “Please…Sir.”

He gave a sharp shake of his head. “I don’t need that word.”

“I do.”

His gaze squinted, nearly closed, but he gave her a nod. “Call me what you want.”

“And you can call me things too.”

“Like?”

“Cunt. Slut.”

“You like hearing that?”

She gave a roll of her eyes, although she wasn’t really nonchalant. She was too wired, too needy. “I like the nasty sound of them. I’m not someone who needs to be degraded, not really. I’m not damaged, Coop, just dirty.”

One corner of his mouth quirked. “Baby, I can do dirty.”

Chapter Six

Relieved, Moira reached down, swam her fingers in her entrance, then brought them to her mouth and licked them. “I’m done. Baked to the center. All gooey goodness.”

He grabbed her hand and forced it between her legs to swipe her wet folds again, then he brought her fingers to his mouth. He took them all inside, sucking so hard she felt the pull all the way to her toes, sympathy pulses that tugged at her core.

And while he sucked her fingers, he thrust two digits into her, swirling deep and bringing down moisture. When he pulled them free, she cried out. He lifted her thighs, forced her knees straight and bent them to drape over his shoulders. He traced a damp finger past her pussy to her smaller entrance. He circled a finger around and around, and she forced herself not to tighten in rejection. She’d had enough teasing, enough intimate caresses. She was aroused already. So tightly wound she could scream. She would if he entered her there.

She couldn’t help glancing down between their bodies to where his fingers played. Without thought, she splayed her thighs wider, providing them both an unimpeded view. He turned his hand, the palm facing upward, and slowly inserted a moist digit into her ass, wiggling it and swirling, opening her slowly.

She clenched around him, holding him there, enjoying the fullness of his large finger for a moment until he began to pump it slowly in and out. And then she couldn’t watch anymore, because the corners of his mouth were curving upward.

He knew how much she loved the rawness. They barely knew each other, but already she’d allowed so much. She’d let him cut straight to the crudest act, where pure fucking wasn’t dirty. At least not to her, no matter how energetic her partner.

“We have a little issue here.”

Her eyelids had been floating downward with pleasure, but she lifted them again, revealing his one-sided smile. “What issue?”

“I like where my finger is, but with your ankles hugging my neck, I can’t manage to get my cock where I need it to be without removing something else.”

She bit her lip and blinked innocently. “Do you want my help?”

“Do you mind?”

So politely said, like coworkers trying to get huge boxes through a narrow door. She shook her head bemused. He wanted her to somehow angle her body between his thrusting hand and his upright cock to take him inside? Oh, she could, but not without fumbling to get there. She guessed he wasn’t going to allow her to put her feet on the mattress for leverage. “Don’t suppose…?” she said, moving one foot away from his neck.

But he gave a firm shake of his head. “You figure it out.”

The sooner she did, the better. His finger was lodged deeper now, and the way he moved the base in a wider circle, he was loosening her to take another. She didn’t know if she could accept a second finger and not come. Already her pucker was on fire.

So she wriggled this way and that, arching and bending her back, trying to get her pussy low enough to cup the tip of his cock to capture it. If she could just push it down an inch or two, a few more wriggles should work him deep inside…

She glanced at his face to find him blinking, his smile bemused.

Wanting to deflect him so he didn’t outright laugh at her predicament, she aimed a glare below where his finger was plunging in and out of her ass. “Is it because it’s hot?”

“It’s because it makes you hot.” He shook his head, smiling ruefully. “Sweetheart, you do have two hands…”

Maybe it was because she so often trained with her wrists restrained that she’d forgotten, but she didn’t mind his chuckles as she blushed, her cheeks and breasts no doubt fire-engine red, and eagerly reached between her legs to grip him with both hands. Only then she discovered she was in no hurry to tuck him away inside her when her palms glided along his silky sides.

Lightly, she wrapped the fingers of one hand around him, measuring his girth. She liked his thickness. Even through the latex, she liked the feel of the thick veins that tracked up and down the sides of his shaft. Her pussy constricted as she imagined feeling every ridge and bump sliding into her channel.

He gave a growl and thrust through her fist. “Enough playing.”

She gave him a narrowed glance and another tight pump and shivered when his glare grew harder.

“Put it in your cunt.”

Her jaw dropped a notch and she sucked in a deep breath. Everything moistened. Her eyes. Her pussy. He
could
be trained. With a firm grip, she pointed the head of his cock right at her entrance and rubbed it against her clit.

“Slut.”

He gave her the word in a tight, soft voice that said he’d gritted it out because it didn’t come naturally. It was enough. Just right. She pushed him between her lips and pulled his dick to bring him deeper, taking him inside.

With her heels digging into the backs of his shoulders, Coop knew Moira was right fucking
there
. So was he. He grimaced as he slammed his hips forward, forcing her to withdraw her hands. With one hand cupping her rump to hold her the height he needed, and fingers still pumping into her ass, he was a little too busy to concentrate. Ambidextrous, he was not. It was hard to keep on task.

Calling her
slut
had made her expression soften, her lips poutier. The word had done something to him too.

Made him powerful and then immediately remorseful, shamed for feeling that way. She wanted it, but he wasn’t comfortable giving it. His upbringing, which required that he always treat a woman like a lady even when she wasn’t behaving like one, might be a little too ingrained.

Still didn’t soften his dick one iota. Gazing down at her, he found he was searching her face for clues, looking for indications he was getting this right, giving her what she needed. Something he usually took for granted with his partners because what he brought always seemed to be enough.

With Moira, he wasn’t sure. For one thing, she wasn’t sinking her nails into him. Her hands were curled beside her head, her gaze clinging to his face, begging him silently. He wanted to ask her what she needed but sensed she didn’t want to direct him. He’d have to figure this out himself. Go with his gut.

Only once had his gut failed him.

He swallowed, halting his motions. He stared down at her and a drop of sweat trickled from his hairline down his cheek to his nose and then plopped on her cheek.

Moira angled her face and swiped the droplet as it veered toward her mouth.

Sexy as hell. He was driving into two of her three orifices, staring at the third. She was his. He could take her any way he wanted. And she was waiting….to see whether he was worthy? Whether he’d figure her out?

He remembered the dude on the stage at La Forge. The one with the ridiculous saw-blade hair. He’d been in control, and while he’d paddled the woman, burned her skin, he’d never been too crude about it. Never made her an object. His tone had remained intimate, respectful, even when he’d called her
slut
.

He’d given her what she’d wanted—
no, needed
—and never taken a thing from her, except perhaps the pleasure of knowing he’d given Britney pleasure.

Coop wanted to be like that. Wanted to see Moira’s eyes flare with pleasure and respect. He wanted her to trust him. For her to know that if she fell through the roof, he’d catch her.

He bowed his head, dropping it to lie against her shoulder to hide his face, seeking privacy while he came to terms with his emotions.

Grief was still there at the fleeting, unwanted thought of that roof and the black cloud of smoke that had burned his eyes to tears. He hadn’t failed Danny. He knew it in his heart. Danny’s death had been out of his control. Lack of control was the crux of his problem.

The woman beginning to quiver beneath him was a gift he didn’t deserve, but one he wasn’t about to refuse. She was giving him the means to take back control, if only for the short time they’d come together. She was willing to let him take charge, take her wherever he wanted in any way he desired. She’d offer him only her unequivocal submission.

The thought was combustive to his libido, but also a sweet balm to his soul.

He lifted his head to find her wide silver-gray eyes staring at him. “Close your eyes, baby. I’ll be right back.”

He left her after arranging her with her knees raised and splayed, her hands stretched above her head. She’d sighed with relief when he’d stretched her arms, groaned when he’d slightly hyper-extended them. Her nipples were rigid pricks, and he gave one a tweak before he rolled off the bed.

After washing his hands, he gathered a couple towels Christa hadn’t bother taking because they were tattered at the edges. He found his flat hairbrush. A glance at the mirror brought him still for a minute. The man he’d been was reflected there—in the cocky tilt of his jaw, in the dark gleaming eyes.

Back inside the bedroom, he searched his closet, reaching a hand to pat one high shelf until he found the nylon rope he’d used for rappelling when climbing rock faces had been for fun rather than for work. He found a tie the same color as her silver eyes. Then he walked back toward the bed.

He liked how she looked, her chest quivering with anticipation. Her pussy moist. He flipped the slats of the blinds to let more sunlight inside, and then bent to grip the bed frame, scraping the posts along the bamboo floor to move the bed to the center of the room where it belonged. A stage for him to play on.

“Don’t look.”

She bit her lower lip and then let it go. “I won’t. Sir.”

This time, the word didn’t strike him as obscene or even silly. His cock bobbed. Obviously, part of him approved.

He went to work, climbing onto the bed on his knees and tying the rope to one post. He wound it around her wrist, not so tightly she couldn’t escape if she really wanted to, but enough to give her the sensation of being trapped and controlled. “Roll onto your belly.”

She moved quickly and didn’t complain when her arms crossed. He wrapped her wrists together and then moved to the opposite post to loop the rope over it and drop the remaining coil to the floor. Then he straddled her soft bottom and slid the tie beneath her face. He tied it behind her head and sat back, staring at when he’d done.

The sight of her, wrists bound and blindfolded, tightened his balls, brought them uncomfortably snug against his groin. He climbed off her body and reached to the floor for the hairbrush.

He’d work his way up to this, the same way Anton had worked his way up to dripping molten wax atop Britney’s sweet curves.

Hardening his voice, he said, “Come up on your knees.”

Her fingers tried to clutch the rope, but the ends leading away were stretched too far to the sides, so she leaned into the binding and came up on her knees, moving up the bed to relieve the strain on her wrists.

“Not too tight?” he asked, just to be sure.

“No, they don’t bite.”

He went to her side, reached beneath her to cup one and then the other breast to give them firm squeezes. “I like your tits,” he said. “I’ll spend time with them, I promise. But right now, I want to love your ass.”

She hissed between her teeth. Her knees shifted, thighs clenching. She knew what he was going to do, and it excited her. He roamed his hands over her torso, above and below, caressing her skin, learning her curves, arriving at her buttocks—lush, fleshy globes. He was glad she wasn’t too thin, preferring an ample, feminine butt. Shoving against it, pounding it would be pure pleasure.

He lifted a hand, noted her indrawn breath, and let if fall. The strike was harder than he’d intended and stung his fingers. When he lifted his hand, her skin was red, displaying a pronounced outline of his fingers and palm.

He almost apologized, but her back sank and she gave an agonized groan. Not pain-filled—pleasure-drunk.

He was glad he hadn’t hurt her but he still gauged his next strikes to be a little less harsh, paddling her with enthusiasm, warming every inch of her ass and the backs of her thighs. Copious trickles of arousal wet her pussy. A tempting target he couldn’t resist. He curved his palm to lessen the impact while heightening the sound as he clapped his hand against her pussy.

This time she squirmed, mewing like a kitten, moving her ass left then right, playing at avoiding his swats, but lifting her bottom, inviting more.

Her sex was swollen, red. Beautiful.

He bent and ran his tongue through her folds, tasting her musk, liking the salty, sea-fresh flavor. “You’re so hot. Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, please, Sir,” she said, bucking to push her face against his mouth.

He pulled away, picked up the hairbrush and held his breath as he hit her with the flat plastic back across the fleshiest part of her ass.

Her back arched, and she screamed. She flung her head back and froze. A sob followed a shudder that shook her from shoulders to quivering knees.

The mark he left was raised and red. For a moment, he froze too. Horrified at what he’d done.

“Please, Sir,” she said in a small, breathless voice. “
More
. Please, more.”

Freed, so relieved he felt moisture gather in his eyes, he pressed one hand against her hip to hold her still and stroked her bottom in sharp little passes that left lovely pink welts atop her already reddened skin. The scent of her arousal grew stronger, her sobs deeper, but she never moved away, never begged him to stop, until…

“Enough.”

He heard her surrender in the ragged texture of her softly spoken plea.

He tossed away the brush then bent and gently smoothed his mouth over her hot flesh, offering kindness now, giving her his silent thanks for what she’d given him. Release. Trust. A chance to deliver pain and experience it through her.

“Was it too much?”

“No.”

He kissed a hot welt, heard her hiss and so licked it and blew across her skin to cool it. “I’ve never done this. Never left a mark before.”

“Sometimes, I need it.”

He scraped his cheek across her bottom. “Why?”

Her shrug stretched her shoulders. “I don’t know. Orgasms used to be hard for me to achieve with a partner. A friend suggested it.”