Into the Fire (13 page)

Except that God's earth was white with early December snow, not green at all, as she peered out her window. The Volvo was sitting in the alleyway, just lightly dusted with snow, and if she hurried she'd get away from there before it was completely dark, before the snow came down harder, before she changed her mind….

How could she possibly change her mind? Dillon Gaynor was the most dangerous thing in the world as far as she was concerned. He ruined her defenses, he didn't take no for an answer, he terrified her, stole from her, lied to her. Why wasn't she shoving her feet into her shoes and running out of there as fast as she could?

If only Mouser were around, she could talk to him. Not that she had the faintest idea what she'd say. Tell him to watch over Dillon, maybe. Take care of him.

Not that she cared. Not that it mattered. Not that
she was going anywhere that night—she knew it with a sinking feeling. Nowhere but down the hall to his bedroom, to the rumpled white sheets. She was tired of being afraid.

It was easy enough to turn off her brain, to move on autopilot. What she was doing made no sense, therefore she didn't have to think about it. She stripped off the clothes she'd put on after her hasty shower—the jeans and T-shirt, the plain white cotton underwear.

Maybe she'd known ahead of time. The pink silk bra and panties were tucked in a corner of her suitcase. They were even more risqué than the lavender ensemble she wore earlier—these consisted of nothing more than a few strategic scraps of cloth and silk ribbon.

The dress still fit, though it hugged her riper curves more tightly than it had her coltish fifteen-year-old body. There was no mirror in her room, but she didn't want one. She knew what she looked like. Too pale, tangled hair, eyes too big in her face. All the strain and exhaustion of the last few days coming due. If she saw herself she'd probably chicken out. And this was her last chance.

If she was going to sleep with anyone on this earth it would be Dillon Gaynor. He wanted her—there was no question of that any longer. He
wouldn't have held on to her dress, wouldn't have kept her trapped there. Hell, he wouldn't have kissed her, wouldn't have pushed her down on the sofa and had sex with her if he didn't want her. Unless it was some twisted score he had to settle against Nate. And against her.

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore, but finishing what he'd started. Walking down that hallway and opening the door.

The bedroom was dark, lit only by the flicker of the television screen. He was stretched out on the bed, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, and he turned his head to look at her. At the dress she was wearing.

He was very still. He moved his arm, and she realized he'd muted the noise of the television, so that there was only silence in the room. She licked her lips, nervous.

“I thought you wanted to leave.”

“I did.”

“I thought you were afraid of me.”

“I am,” she said. He made no move to come toward her, to get off the bed. He simply lay back against the pillows, his smooth skin against the whiteness of the sheets, and watched her.

“So what are you doing here?” There was no sultry welcome in his voice. Just cool suspicion,
enough to make her want to turn around and run. Instead she closed the door, leaning against it. Her hand behind her back, still on the old iron door handle if she had to run.

“You said we should finish what we started.” Her voice came out a little shaky, and she cleared her throat. “I'm not sure if I consider that a proper finish. If it was that disastrous you ought to give me a chance to improve.” She couldn't believe she'd just said that. She couldn't believe she was here in the darkened bedroom with him.

There was only a flicker of reaction on his shadowed face. “You weren't the one who was a disaster. Besides, you've never paid attention to what I've said before. Why now?”

She let go of the doorknob. He didn't seem the slightest bit interested in keeping her there—escape would be easy. And probably a very good idea.

“I thought you wanted me. Apparently you've changed your mind, seen the error of your ways. Maybe once was enough. Too bad Nate isn't around to see it—he'd be proud of you.”

“Nate would never be proud of a noble gesture.” The reflection of the TV screen flickered over his chest. He was just as beautiful as he'd been twelve years ago, just as far out of reach.

“All right,” she said. “Maybe I've just come to say goodbye.”

He hesitated for just a moment, and then he seemed to come to a decision. “Then you ought to do it properly. Come here, Jamie.”

“No.”

The tiny smile at the corner of his mouth was the first expression to break through his distant, enigmatic look. “You started this. You came this far. Come over here and get on the bed.”

For a moment she didn't move, paralyzed. And then she took a step toward him.

H
e probably expected her to run. She probably should run. Instead she took the first step toward the bed.

The wood floor was cold beneath her bare feet. Dillon obviously didn't believe in rugs, Jamie thought.

He sat up in the bed, watching her approach, making no move to touch her. He could be making this so much easier—just put his hands on her and take the decision away from her as he had earlier. But he just looked at her.

She took another step. There wasn't that great a distance between the door and the bed, and it wasn't going to take long for her to reach it. Maybe she could take smaller steps.

“Where'd you get the dress?” he asked.

She'd forgotten she was wearing it. “In your middle drawer. I was looking for my things.”

“They were in the safe in the garage. Not that that isn't yours, as well.”

“I know.” Another step. Too damned close, and her heart was slamming against her chest. “Why did you have it?”

“I could tell you Nate had it, and he left it behind. Maybe he carried it with him wherever he went, maybe he had a sick fascination for you.”

She halted, horrified, and he laughed.

“And you might be naive enough to believe me,” he continued. “But the truth is, I stole it from the trash can that your mother stuffed it into. In memory of the most luscious piece of jailbait I'd ever seen.”

“You expect me to believe that? You didn't even know I was around.”

“I knew. And you look even better now, though I wouldn't have thought it was possible. Stop stalling, Jamie. You're the one who chose to come in here. Time to find out what you've been missing. What we've both been missing.”

She took another step and came up against the side of the bed. It was a high, big bed, and the top of the mattress came halfway up her thighs. Her eyes met his, the same eyes that gave nothing away as he watched her. And she climbed up onto the bed, pulling her skirt around her, and sat back on her knees.

She could feel her stomach twist. He reached for
the hem of his T-shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it on the floor beside the bed.

“Take off your panties.”

She let out a little sound of protest, but he ignored it. “They're coming off sooner or later, and I know from experience they're a bitch and a half to rip off no matter how appealing it may sound. Take them off, Jamie.”

She reached under her short skirt and caught the thin bands of lace, sliding them down her hips. Getting out of them was tricky while she was kneeling, and she had no choice but to sit back on the bed and pull the tiny scrap of peach silk over her ankles. She was about to toss them on the far side of the bed when he stopped her, filching the panties out of her hand.

“They're too small for you,” she said in a caustic voice.

“That's not what I wanted them for,” he said amiably. “Now the bra.”

“This dress is see-through.”

“That's the idea.”

She stopped protesting. Instead she turned her back to him, pulling the knit dress down far enough to take off the bra.

“You're wasting your time trying to be modest,” he said, but she'd already pulled her dress back up
over her bare breasts, and she turned back to face him.

“I suppose you want this as a souvenir, too,” she said, dangling the bra from one finger.

He took it from her, tossing it to his side of the bed. The bed, she thought in sudden horror. She was on a bed with Dillon Gaynor, one thin, semitransparent layer away from being naked.

“Now, climb on top of me.”

She couldn't help it—she looked at his crotch in sudden panic. There was no mistaking the way his erection pressed against his zipper, but he hadn't even unsnapped the button of his jeans.

“No, we're not going there yet,” he said, reading her mind. “Since I'm taking the role of your sex therapist you're going to have to go at my pace and do what I tell you to do.”

“And if I don't want to?”

“Then you can leave. I won't stop you. But if you're staying you need to climb on top of me.”

Point of no return. She bit her lip and straddled his hips very carefully, arranging her skirt around her. And she looked into his deep blue eyes.

He slid his hands under her skirt, up to her hips, settling her back, so that now she rested against his erection. He felt harder, bigger than she'd realized.

He slid his hands down her thighs, then up the
backs of them. “This is how we'll do it,” he said in a low, silky voice. “You can be in control, go as fast or as slow as you want. It's all up to you. Hell, you can even tie me up if it makes you feel safer. I have nothing against a little friendly bondage.”

“You're disgusting.”

“Then why are you here?”

She bit her lip. “I don't know.”

“I do. You want to be here. Or you'd be long gone into the Wisconsin night, running straight back to the Duchess with your tail between your legs. Except that's not what you want between your legs.”

She wasn't expecting his sudden move. In one moment she was nervously straddling him, staring down into his eyes. The next she was lying on her back on the rumpled bed and he was on top of her, her legs pulled around him. In the darkened room the flickers from the muted television played across his face, making him look almost brutal.

And then he kissed her. Put his mouth on hers, and she opened for him, so that she tasted his tongue and his desire, kissing him back.

There was a stifled moan of pleasure, and she realized that it had come from her. It shouldn't have shocked her. It was past time to admit that kissing
Dillon had been the central fantasy of her teenage years. And the hidden, unacknowledged fantasy of her twenties. The only carnal one she'd ever had.

His hands cupped her face, and he seemed ready to take all the time in the world, nibbling on her lower lip, brushing his mouth across her eyelids before he returned to her mouth. She was almost afraid to touch him, but she slid her arms up around him, anyway, against his hot, sleek skin, her fingers running across the shape of his back, the sinew and muscle, bone and flesh of him.

He broke the kiss, his blue eyes almost black in the darkness. “I got ahead of you earlier today. Time to catch up.” He pulled out of her arms, moving down on her body, pushing her skirt out of the way as he put his hand between her legs.

She let out a muffled cry, but he ignored it, pushing her skirt up higher. “Come on, Jamie, you remember this. You liked it. You can't tell me you didn't.” And he let his long fingers slide against her, so that her body arched instinctively, wanting his touch. He did it again, a little harder this time, and she made a small whimpering sound of need.

“See, I told you you liked this,” he said, and he leaned down and kissed her stomach, his mouth hot against her flesh. “You'll like this even better.” And he put his mouth between her legs.

She panicked, pushing at his shoulders, but he ignored her, cradling her hips in his hands as he used his mouth, his tongue, even his teeth on her. She began to shake, but this time it wasn't fear. The heat began between her legs and spread outward, upward, in a spiral of pleasure that almost shamed her.

It was too fast, too much. She tried to pull back from that dangerous place, but she was already too far gone. She could feel her body begin to convulse, and she panicked, afraid, only to have Dillon slide his fingers deep inside her at the last moment, and she was lost. Wave after wave of hot, wild pleasure suffused her body, and she had no choice but to let go, surrender to it, and he moved up her body, covering her cry with his mouth.

Slowly, slowly her heart began to slow its pace, and she opened her eyes to see him leaning over her, a smug expression on his face. She would have slapped it if she'd had any strength left in her body.

“That's better,” he murmured. “Now, let's get this dress off you. Sexy as it is, it's ready to go. Or I might rip it off you.”

She was beyond the point of making any protest, and she let him pull the dress over her head. She didn't bother to look where he tossed it—it no longer mattered.

She lay back on the bed, naked, and he looked down at her out of sober eyes. “Damn,” he said in a soft voice.

“Damn what?” Her own voice was no more than a cracked whisper, something that shouldn't have surprised her.

“Just damn.” He kissed her mouth, hard and deep, and she could taste herself on his lips. He pulled her into his arms so that her bare breasts were up against his hot skin. “Time to get bolder,” he murmured against her mouth, and taking her hand, he put it on his zipper. On the steel-hard rod of flesh beneath it.

She didn't pull away. The feel, the shape of him beneath the jeans was something mysterious and powerful, and his quiet sound of pleasure made her burn hotter.

He rolled onto his back. “That's right, baby girl,” he said. “Go ahead,” And he took her hand again and put it inside his jeans, to touch him.

She tried to pull away at that, but he was too strong, holding her hand against his silken skin as he unzipped his jeans with the other, shoving them down his hips and kicking them out of the way.

He reached for something from the table beside him, and she realized it was a condom. She was getting used to the feel of him, the silky skin, the
hardness beneath, the dampness, but he took her hand away and she heard the ripping of foil.

“Playtime's over, baby girl. Time to get serious.”

“We weren't serious before?” she murmured dazedly.

“I want to make you come when I'm inside you.”

His words burned her, but she shook her head. “It won't work—”

“It did before, and this time you're wet.” He lifted her up, seemingly effortlessly, back to her position astride his body. Except that this time they were both naked, and he held her by her hips, just above his body.

She could feel him between her legs, hard and solid, just waiting. “It's up to you now, Jamie,” he said in a tight voice. “If you want me there you have to take me.”

She could feel him, the head of his sheathed erection pressing against her. Waiting for her to make her move. She held her breath, and then began to take him, feeling him slowly fill her, inch by inch, until she had all of him deep inside her.

She was shaking, covered with sweat. It made no sense that the invasion of his body would have such a powerful effect on her. He was big inside her,
thick and hard, but there was no pain, and she rocked forward a little, then back again, and the pleasure was astonishing. And she needed more.

“I can't,” she said in a strangled voice.

He put his hands on her hips, cradling them. “Let me get you started,” he whispered, and he moved her, up and down, a slow, steady pace of advance, retreat, empty and fulfilled. But there was nothing relaxed about it—each time she took him inside her she wanted more, needed more, and she unconsciously quickened her pace.

“Are we in a hurry?” His voice sounded almost lazy, but she could feel the tension in his body, the feel of him inside her, and she knew he was feeling it, too, that inner trembling that shook her.

Faster, harder, and she was sliding against him, her body slick with sweat, and she shook, frustrated, pleading. “No,” she said in a choked voice. “I can't do this. Help me.”

“You just have to ask.” He rolled her beneath him, and all she could do was wrap her legs tight around him, feeling the fierce knot of pleasure expand and build.

“Me inside you,” he whispered in her ear. He put his hand between their sweat-damp bodies and touched her, hard, as he slammed his body deep inside her.

She could feel him. Feel his sheathed cock begin to expand and jerk as his orgasm hit him, and then she couldn't think or feel anything but the dark, unspeakable pleasure that felt somehow like death.

It was a long time before he pulled away from her, and she was too dazed to do anything but lie still as stray shivers danced across her body.

She felt his fingers on her cheek, brushing the tears away, but she didn't open her eyes. “Poor baby girl,” he murmured, his voice slightly shaken. “I should have just dumped Nate at that party and driven off with you. That's what I wanted to do, you know. Take you back to my place and fuck your brains out. I knew the Duchess would have my ass in jail, but I was going to end up there sooner or later. It would have been worth it if I'd gone for this.”

He let his hand slide down her neck, her throat, to brush against her breast, and she let out a gasp.

He laughed. “We haven't even gotten to your breasts yet,” he said, his fingers glancing against the tip of her breast, and her nipples tightened with almost painful longing. “Or your ass, or your mouth. I wonder how long it's going to take to convince you to go down on me.”

She let out a little whimper.

“Thirteen years, Jamie,” he whispered. “And we've only just gotten started.”