Four Weddings and a Fireman (7 page)

She inched the leotard down her body, lifting her hips to ease it off her butt. Nothing could be more satisfying than watching his eyes go more hot and feral the more naked she got. Finally he couldn't take it anymore. He planted his hands on her upper thighs, where the leotard was bunched, and whisked it down her legs.

“That's interfering!” she protested.

“No, it's not. It's stripping.” He stripped too, with dizzying speed. With a few quick movements, his shorts were off, his T-­shirt flung across the coffee table, and his spectacularly honed form stood naked before her. It was a good thing she was already sprawled on the couch, because the sight of Vader with no clothes on was enough to make any woman feel faint.

All those acres of muscle contained within tight, browned skin, the ridges parading up his rib cage toward those mountainous shoulders, the massive thighs spread apart, and at the center of it all, an erotic punctuation mark, his emphatically thickened penis, so aroused it curved up, up, up toward his taut belly.

She rested one foot on his thigh, her artistic eye appreciating the contrast of her paler skin against the bronze of his. He bent down, his erection bobbing against his stomach, and spread her hair out behind her. When he straightened up, he wore a different look, utterly absorbed in his cataloguing of her exposed parts. Under his inspection, she felt abandoned and dissolute, like a courtesan posing for her patron.

Amused by the thought, playing the role to the hilt, she ran her foot up his thigh, into the bed of brown curls. When her big toe touched his penis, waggling against his hot flesh, his nostrils flared. He hooked his hands under her knees, spreading her legs apart and shifting her forward on the deep couch. She locked her legs around his hips, freeing up his hands.

“You're teasing me, aren't you?” He growled.

Only because he'd teased her. But she was suddenly too breathless to say so.

“You know what the rules say. Don't play with the animals in the zoo.” He took his shaft into one hand. She didn't know where he'd gotten it, but he was maneuvering a condom onto his erection. When he was done, he ran his hands along her inner thighs, his thumbs tracing the tendons all the way to the throbbing heart of her craving.

“Stupid rule,” she gasped.

“And what happens when you break the rules?”

She struggled to form thoughts through the desire clouding her brain. “Go to jail?”

“Yup. Sex jail.” He gave a devilish laugh and spread her open with his fingers, easing the way for his cock. It felt so unbelievably good to have him back inside her, thick and probing, his heat parting her, penetrating her. A long, low sound came from her throat, like some kind of wild animal mating call.

In answer, he thrust further, deeper, while his fingers played with her clit, rubbing and teasing, finding a rhythm that matched the flexing of his thighs. A rumble of primitive satisfaction rippled through his chest.

“Play with your nipples,” he urged in a thick voice.

“No.”

“Yes. Do it.”

“But . . .”

“I know. It's okay. Just do it.” They were speaking in shorthand now, brief words laden with meaning. They both knew what happened when her nipples were touched when she was this close to the edge. She'd fly over like a bottle rocket. But right now, in this moment, he was the boss. Holding his hot gaze, she put her fingers to her nipples.

“Squeeze them,” he ordered, nearly choking.

“Vader,” she whispered helplessly. She'd lost all control of her reactions; her body quivered and jumped from need.

“Just do it.”

She squeezed. The searing arc of heat acted like the spark to a bomb. She absolutely detonated, her body arching with the force of her climax, sweet, drugging pleasure flooding her brain. He came too, deep spasms racking his magnificent body, his hands digging into her upper thighs.

Finally he went still. “Sweet baby Jesus,” he gritted, eyes closed, his head thrown back, his strong throat muscles moving hypnotically. “What you do to me, Cherie.”

She flung the back of her hand over her damp forehead, and uttered a helpless moan of a laugh.

That made two of them.

 

Chapter Six

V
ader was pretty sure the woman he'd just made fierce, passionate love to was muttering, “Crap, crap, crap,” under her breath.

He eased her into a more comfortable position on her couch, then collapsed next to her. In the time that they'd been immersed in lovemaking, dusk had fallen. Ghostly blue shadows gathered in the corners of the room. He knew what was coming next. Instead of enjoying a blissful afterglow, and maybe sharing a pan of peanut butter brownies, as he'd prefer, Cherie was about to head straight for a massive dose of self-­recrimination.

Right now, with everything going on in his life, he didn't want to go through that cycle one more time.

He cleared his throat and spoke before she could shift from “Crap, crap, crap” to something more specific. “Look, Cherie. We just had sex, and it was awesome, as always. Why don't we just let it be? Let's skip the part where you beat yourself up and make us both swear we're never going to touch each other again.”

She lifted her head, her mouth dropping open in a rosy oval of surprise. “Am I really that predictable?”

Vader looked at her soberly. “If you were predictable, this would be easier. I know you, that's all. Or at least certain parts of you.”

Even though he hadn't intended any kind of sexual innuendo, a flush gathered on the pillowy flesh of her chest and made its way up her throat. He wanted to follow it with his lips, but he restrained himself. “I'll make a deal with you, Cherie. You know how you keep telling me you want to be friends?”

“Yes, and I realize my behavior hasn't exactly backed me up, but . . .”

“That's okay. I get it. I'm such a virile, handsome devil you can't resist me.” He put up a hand before she could laugh too hard at his mocking self-­assessment. “No need to argue, we both know it's true. Moving on. I'm willing to be your friend, on one condition.”

She sat up, pulled a silky scarf off the arm of the couch, and gathered it around her shoulders. He'd never understood why she draped the scarves everywhere, but now, seeing the way the iridescent fabric shone against her skin, he was glad she did. “What condition?”

“You tell me the truth.”

An odd sort of flinch rippled across her face, so quickly he wouldn't have noticed if he didn't know her so well. “What do you mean?”

He had to steel himself for this next part. This was what he'd wrestled with late at night. “I want to know why you don't want me.”

And yes, it hurt just as much as he'd predicted to say those words out loud.

“I want to know why you keep pushing me away. Even when things are going great. No,
especially
when things are going great. That's when you always drop the hammer. It's fucked up, Cherie. And before you say it”—­he put up another hand as she opened her mouth—­“I know you don't mean to hurt me. I'm a big boy. I can take the hurt. Fuck, I
have
taken it. Now you owe me something. You owe me the truth.”

Her gaze fell away from his, color coming and going in her cheeks. She fiddled with the long fringe of the shiny silk scarf, then bent forward to gather up her clothes.

Bull's-­eye. He was on to something. No doubt.

She clambered off the couch and bunched her clothes in front of her like a shield. “I've told you. It's not that I don't ‘want' you, you know that. I don't think we should get married.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't want to get married. We're very different. We have different goals in life.” She took a shuffling step backward. “I should go change before the boys get back.”

He'd come this far, he wasn't going to let her off the hook now. Especially when her right eyelid was twitching. “What goal do you have that means we can't be together?”

“I have responsibilities. Students. All my jobs take up a lot of my time.”

True, she held down about six part-­time jobs at any given time. She was always running from one class to another, one shift to another. But it wasn't as if he didn't have responsibilities too. “I have no problem with all your jobs. I think it's great that you do all that stuff.”

Her gaze darted here and there, everywhere except his direction. “Look, Vader, you know I care about you. You know I enjoy . . . getting intimate with you.”

His mouth quirked. At least her eyelid didn't twitch when she admitted that part. “Yeah, I got that. I enjoy it too. But it doesn't make me turn into a crazy person who has to call it quits every week or so. I want to know what's really going on. Because I know something is. I may be a big, dumb guy who doesn't know how to tango and has trouble watching
Brokeback Mountain
, but I'm not blind.”

“You're not dumb, Vader.” She blinked, as if chasing away tears. “You're not anything bad. There's nothing wrong with you. And you're pretty darn good at tango, considering you just learned it today. And you did watch
Brokeback Mountain
, because I wanted you to. And I was wrong about you and my brother. You didn't mind that he's gay. And you know what? You are handsome and virile and irresistible and all those things you said before. And if there was anyone I could—­” She broke off, biting her lip. “But I can't—­and I can't explain—­if I could tell you everything, I would—­” She took a long, shuddering breath, then cried, “Why are you doing this? Why are you putting me on the spot? I don't want to hurt you. I hate hurting you! It's the worst thing in the entire world and I don't want to do it ever again . . .”

“Okay, okay, shhh.” He stood up and pulled her into his arms. “Don't worry. You're not going to hurt me. We're friends, right? No one's hurting anyone. We're friends, we care about each other, and we're not going to hurt each other.” He said the words soothingly, the way he would speak to a child in a medical crisis. She trembled, then slowly relaxed against him. He blocked out the delicious sensation of her half-­naked body against his entirely naked self. Not the right moment for another hard-­on, though really, he had only so much control around Cherie.

Firmly, he set her away from him, at a safe distance of at least two feet. “Friends probably shouldn't do naked hugs.”

“Right.” She wiped a trembling hand across her eyes. In the blue twilight illumination filtering from the window, he caught a silver flash of moisture on her fingers. Damn it, he'd made her cry. As always, he'd taken the direct, head-­on, balls-­out approach. He should have known Cherie wouldn't be that simple. Extracting her secrets would be like picking a lock, not kicking down a door.

As he released her, bittersweet determination made his jaw clench. He might have lost this particular battle, but he'd be back. And he'd win the war. Losing was not an option, not when the prize was Cherie.

That same never-­say-­die
attitude stayed with him over the next few days. He took his mother in for an MRI and learned . . . nothing. The doctor couldn't say whether she might lose consciousness again, and recommended keeping a close eye on her. No doubt about it, he was either going to have to draw a bigger salary or begin moonlighting as a male stripper to afford the extra help.

He began his next shift determined to talk to Captain Brody and get his advice. But before lineup had even ended, they'd gotten their first call.

“Structure fire for 32 Westhaven. Task Force 1, Battalion 9. Respond to Thirty-­two Westhaven. Reported ­people trapped. Time of incident 7:03 a.m.”

“Someone's coffeemaker explode?” Ace the rookie grumbled as the firefighters ran into the apparatus bay to change.

“My money's on burnt bacon,” said Sabina.

“I call after-­sex cigarette in bed,” Vader chimed in.

“Vader! Focus.” Captain Brody gave them a scorching look as he slid his feet into his boots.

“Sorry, Cap,” Vader muttered. Doubt cratered through his gut. If he became captain, that would be
his
role. He'd have to make sure no one was joking around at inappropriate moments. He'd have to stop goofing around and playing the clown. Did Brody ever dance around in a bar wearing nothing but his fireman's helmet over his dick? No. Did Brody let Lula Blue, the porn star, put her hand on his ass at the Firefighter Photo Booth? No. Did Brody win the nickname Vader by making spooky breathing sounds through his apparatus? No. Did Brody pose wearing nothing but an oven mitt for the firehouse cookbook? No no no.

The thought of his checkered past taunted him as the crew loaded into Truck 1. Either he was completely unsuited for the role of captain and would never get the job—­or he was going to have to overhaul his personality. Maybe the fun-­loving part of his firefighting career was over, and he should just accept it. Maybe he should resign himself to a life of heavy responsibility at home, heavier responsibility at work . . . and no Cherie.

He continued the debate in the tiller bucket, where he steered the back end of Truck 1 through the early morning sunshine gilding the streets of San Gabriel. Vader was proud of his role as the tillerman on the truck company. “Truckies” were known as hard-­charging, invincible, excellent firefighters, and his nature suited the position. He'd have to switch over to the engine company if he got promoted, which meant no more working the aerial. He loved his job, loved his crew, but maybe a change would be good. Or maybe not.

He abandoned the issue when they reached the scene. Thirty-­two Westhaven was an apartment building that housed twelve families. Even though the building was only partially involved, the entire structure had to be evacuated. Some of the residents already stood in tight clusters on the lawn, others were leaving to grab coffee or head to work early.

The incident commander briefed them on the initial size-­up. The idea was to keep the flames contained to Apartment 3D, which was in the back of the twelve-­unit building. The truck and the pump took the Delta side of the building, where smoke swirled in witchy spirals out the back window. A nearby propane tank posed the biggest worry. They had to make sure not a single spark got close to it.

Still in the tiller bucket, Vader waited until Fred, the Apparatus Operator, had maneuvered the ladder to the right, then busied himself hooking up the ladder pipe assembly to the aerial. The pump engineer attached a supply line from the hydrant to a Y-­shaped cluster of valves, where Sabina, the “inside man,” stationed herself, ready to open the flow of water. Meanwhile, Mulligan, the new top man who'd taken Psycho's place—­and who was almost as crazy—­set up a ladder to access the roof.

“Load it,” Vader called when he'd clamped the ladder pipe assembly to the top rungs of the ladder. “I'll see you in a second,” he said under his breath to the nozzle. So he liked to talk to his equipment, so what? Down at the cluster, Sabina opened the valve and loaded the line. Fred rotated the ladder and extended it to its full length of a hundred feet, working the controls to maneuver the aerial, nicknamed “the Stick,” into the perfect position.

Now it was Vader's turn to do his thing. As soon as the Stick was locked into place, he began climbing its rungs, breathing apparatus on his back, with the agility on which he prided himself. This was his specialty, and everyone knew it. There was nothing he loved more than standing on the top rungs of the Stick, feet braced like that guy on the
Titanic
, shooting water at a vicious, nasty dragon of a fire.

His muscles flexed as he mounted the Stick. Step by step, into the world that he knew and thrived on. Into smoke and flames and adrenaline and muscle power. If you thought about it, the aerial was his happy place. The place where he did his best work. Where he could roar back at the flames, sing to them, yell at them, and no one blinked an eye.

The higher he climbed up the Stick, the more optimistic he felt. Of course he'd win over Cherie. Of course he could take care of his mother. Of course he could make captain. And there it was: his decision. Crystal-­clear, a sparkling oasis on the horizon. He was going to go for that promotion. He'd work hard, he'd do whatever it took. When he put his mind to something, he always accomplished it.

Hell, maybe he could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. If—­
when—­
he became a captain, maybe Cherie would take him more seriously. Maybe he could order her to spill her secrets.

At the top of the “Stick,” gripping the nozzle, completely caught up in his thoughts, he didn't catch the warning from Captain Brody until it was a split second too late.

“Safety harness!”

Just as he realized he'd forgotten to strap himself to the Stick, a surge in nozzle pressure made him lose his footing. He fought to keep his balance, but it was no use. He went sliding ignominiously down the rungs of the ladder, then, perhaps out of sheer embarrassment, blacked out.

When he came
to, only a few moments later, he was flat on his ass on the ground. His helmet and face mask were off and Sabina and Fred knelt next to him. Fred was feeling his pulse and Sabina was waving her hand over his eyes.