Sizzle (St. Martin Family Saga): Emergency Responders (9 page)

He started a steady pumping. She met his thrusts with her hips, unsure at first but gaining in confidence as he continued. Even though he wasn’t much on talking women through sex, he thought he needed to say something. After all, she was quite young and inexperienced.

“That’s it baby, take what you need.” And he would take what he needed.

He lifted her legs to his shoulders. He kissed each thigh, and then he pistoned into her with repeated thrusts. Her heavy-lidded eyes met his and her fingers went into her mouth and she bit down and moaned.

“Baby, scream if you want to. Let go.”

His pace increased, and she gripped the sheets as her neck arched into a taut bow and she convulsed around him, screaming his name. The repeated fisting of her cunt around his cock had him exploding, and he swore his release went on longer than ever before.

He lowered himself to her, resting his weight on his arms, breathing hard. He couldn’t move. He didn’t move. But even when he gained his breath, he wasn’t ready to let go—he couldn’t remember a time in the past when he basked in the postcoital effects of sex, but with her he was thoroughly enjoying himself. She stretched and yawned like a satisfied kitten, and her yellow curls spilled around her face, creating a halo. She smiled up at him as her gaze went down to the bed, giving her a demure appearance that had him hardening again. Shit. Better pull out.

He picked up their clothes, placing hers across the bed. As he dressed he told her, “I have to go back to the fire station. You’ll be okay here, but I want to discuss some precautions.”

She pulled her shorts up her legs and nodded. “Okay.” She kept her head down, avoiding his gaze.

“For starters, you’ve got an arming station here on the wall.” He pointed to the keypad next to the light switch by the bedroom door. “It monitors for fire, open doors and windows, and breaking glass, and the motion sensors can be activated once you’re in bed for the night. The code is forty-five, ninety, thirty-three. Memorize it.”

He said the numbers again, and she obediently repeated them in a soft voice.

“I’ll want you to arm it when I leave.”

She nodded.

“Follow me.”

She followed him to the front door. He picked up a steel rod that leaned against the wall.

“I’ve secured the kitchen door and when I leave, I want you to place this bar here, like so.” He wedged the bar under the doorknob. It reached down to the floor. He kicked it until it was snug. He looked to Eve to ensure she was getting the setup. She nodded, still avoiding eye contact.

“Follow me.”

She followed him yet again, this time to his closet, from which he removed a black box. He fished a key out of his pocket and unlocked the box.

“This is a Sig Sauer P380 nine millimeter.” He pulled the pistol from the box and flicked a switch on its side. “Red means shoot. I’ll teach you how to use it when we have more time, but right now all you need to know is you can pretty much point and shoot. There are fifteen rounds, but listen to me.” He lifted her head with his finger until her eyes met his. “If it comes to this, you need to know in your mind going in that you’re going to shoot to kill. If not, don’t go for the gun.”

Eve trembled and wrapped her arms around her body. He started to recognize that move as something she did when she was uncomfortable. Good, she needed to be on alert. It would be martial law around here, and he needed to know she understood that.

“Do you live in a bad neighborhood?”

“No, not a bad neighborhood. I know this is scaring you, but do you know what martial law is?”

She shook her head.

“When the local authorities have been compromised, due to emergency situations like weather, the military steps in—especially if things get chaotic, and they will once people start getting out on the streets again. Don’t leave this house. Don’t open the door for anyone but firemen or Jack. Here, take this.”

He walked to the console table and handed her a two-way radio.

“Local emergency services are using this right now, so only use it if you have an emergency. Just hit this button”— he hit the yellow strip on the side of the device—“and ask for me repeatedly until someone answers you. Answer anything for… Minnie Mouse. Got it?”

“Minnie Mouse?”

“It’s what all the guys use to address their wives and girlfriends across the radio.” She nodded. He hoped she was getting all of his directives.

“Keep the radio in the room with you.” He looked at her with a raised brow. “All good?”

She nodded again, looking very sleepy. He knew it was a lot of information, but he needed more than just a head nod this time.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Tell me the passcode.”

“Forty-five, ninety, thirty-three.”

He lowered himself to her height. Using his thumb and index finger, he massaged her earlobe.

“I’ll be thinking about how you taste and feel; the memory of your sweet spice will keep me going.”

He bent and kissed her chastely on the lips, then he lowered his feet into his rain boots.

“Don’t forget to use the door bar and set the alarm after I leave.”

He opened the door and was engulfed by the storm.

8

W
hen Clay left,
Eve’s heart sank in the absence of his comforting presence. Somewhere in the back of her mind a thought was brewing. One she didn’t care to address, but she couldn’t stop it from forming and taking over. It caused her to worry about his safety. Firefighting was one of those jobs that took lives. It was like a deep-sea fisherman or a police officer. Sometimes the men didn’t come home. She prayed for the safety of the emergency responders.

The storm was bearing down hard, but his home felt safe and warm. She did as she was told and applied the door bar and set the alarm.

She walked to Clay’s bedroom and climbed onto the bed that smelled of him. In their haste to have one another, she’d forgotten to ask about other women. Who was Clara?

She lay back on the bed. With the addition of electricity, the sounds of the storm were heavily muted. She focused on the thrum of the air conditioner. Her eyelids grew heavy and she was ready to fall asleep in his sheets, surrounded in his scent.

She was awakened a few hours later by a loud crack. Groggy, she fell back into the haze of her comfortable cocoon.

“Minnie Mouse, this is six-Y-five-C-S-M. Come in, please.”

One of Eve’s eyelids shot up, but exhaustion dragged it back down.

“Minnie Mouse, this is six-Y-five-C-S-M. Come in, please.”

Eve came slowly alert. She knew she’d heard Minnie Mouse twice now and something C-S-M.
C-S-M
… Clay St. Martin. She reached for the radio and mashed the button.

“Six-Y-five-C-S-M, this is Minnie Mouse. Over.” She didn’t know where the “over” came from, but it felt right.

“Roger that, Minnie Mouse. State you condition. Over.”

State her condition. She’d been asleep. Could she say that?

“Six-Y-five-C-S-M, Minnie Mouse was sound asleep until you woke her. Over.”

“Roger that, Minnie Mouse. My sincerest apologies. Over and out.”

She laughed. Then she dozed off again. When she woke, something was different. It was light out.

She jumped out of bed to peer out a window overlooking the front of the house. Was the storm over? She rubbed her head and stretched. Her body felt both tired and refreshed at the same time, and she smiled. Being safe, warm, and dry did a lot for a body. And a great orgasm didn’t hurt. She smiled wider even as she felt herself blushing.

She walked to the front door, took the bar off, and stepped outside. The air was still and the street quiet. Limbs were scattered everywhere, full trees were down, and everything was very green. There was still a charge in the atmosphere, as if electricity were lying in wait, and the winds blew heavily, laced with a slight Gulf chill. She took another long look before going back inside and rebarring the door.

In the living room, she opened the curtains; the fabric was damp. She pulled the cord on the blinds and leaned up to check the windowsill, but it was dry. There were a few droplets of water on the windows, but no damage. The curtains would need to be cleaned so they didn’t get moldy. She went in search of a washing machine. The excursion led her out to the garage where she found a large truck along with a fishing boat and lawn care equipment, but no washing machine. Walking back to the house, she stopped when she heard clucking. She turned and headed toward the sound.

She ended up in Clay’s neighbor’s backyard, where it seemed they’d had a chicken coop. Now they had just the chickens, the coop destroyed in the hurricane. She knocked at the back door, but the house was empty. Apparently they’d left the chickens to fend for themselves.

The wood fence marking the boundary between one yard and the other was down, and Eve counted six chickens walking around.

“I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?” She found their feed in a metal trashcan tipped on its side, but still closed tight. She scooped some out and spread it on the soggy ground, watching as the chickens attacked it. She’d seen chicken wire in Clay’s garage and guessed she could fashion something for them.

Eve gathered the wire and a few tools, and within an hour she’d made a temporary coop. It was cool and breezy now due to the residual hurricane bands, but Eve suspected it would heat up once the storm moved away, so she put the coop up under a shade tree in Clay’s yard and salvaged what she could of the bundled nests, careful to remove the eggs, and placed them in the coop. She wrangled the chickens into the wire two at a time, laughing as they did their best to escape her. A sheet of plywood from the garage served as the top of the coop. She’d bring bowls from inside for water and food. Satisfied for the moment, Eve took the eggs inside and cleaned them.

Remembering what she’d been doing before she played farmer, she found the washer and dryer in a large utility room at the back of the house, behind the kitchen. She also found a mountain of dirty uniforms, towels, and civilian clothes. She separated the clothes while the curtains washed, and then started in on Clay’s laundry. She found it easy to throw in load after load as she explored the house. She justified looking around by checking for storm damage, but she knew curiosity was the driver. She wanted to know more about the man who had fought a hurricane to come back for her and Ruth.

She didn’t pry into personal areas, just walked from room to room, admiring the décor, straightening the pictures. Wondering about Clay.

After a few hours passed, she checked on the chickens. As she was feeding them and giving them fresh water, she saw vines on the fence at the back of the yard—blackberries growing wild. She loved blackberries and there were tons. They’d been banged up pretty badly from the storm, but she picked one and ate it anyway. It tasted earthy and slightly sweet, and even though the fruit was bruised, it was perfect. She’d give anything to make a pie with the busted berries, and wondered if Clay’s kitchen had what she needed. She imagined him sinking his teeth into a juicy piece of pie after a long, hard day.

Inside, she rummaged through the pantry. To her utter delight, she found a small can of shortening. She found the other ingredients she needed and set about making the crust. When it was ready, she searched for a pan. No pie pan, but she found a porcelain bake-ware dish that would work. The pie would be huge, but she assumed it wouldn’t go to waste, given all the men at the fire station.

She usually thickened pie with tapioca pearls, but flour would have to work. Once the filling was done—perfectly sweet, with just the slightest tang—she worked the top crust onto the pie and fluted the edge as best she could in a dish not meant for pie. While it baked, she went back to the laundry. Even after washing for hours, it looked like she’d made little dent in the mountain of clothes to be cleaned.

On top of the dryer were several cloth badges, at least twenty. Yet only one of the uniform shirts and one fire retardant suit bore patches. Shaking her head, she guessed Clay wasn’t a tailor or simply didn’t have time for the exacting task. She gathered the patches and carried them to the dining table. It was almost noon, and she knew she’d need to keep busy until at least ten, the earliest she figured she could go back to bed. If she didn’t do something constructive, she’d go out of her mind. Plus, she owed Clay her life and wanted him to know that she wasn’t just sitting on her butt enjoying the comforts of his home while he was out working, risking his life. She would just need a needle and thread and a few uninterrupted minutes.

The problem was finding the sewing kit.

After searching in the most obvious places, she finally found what she needed in the guest bedroom. Along the way she’d tried the computer sitting on a small desk in the corner of his bedroom. It powered up, but required a password, so she gave up after trying a couple of obvious passwords.

She earned excellent money from a blog she’d created for freelancers and their services. It was highly successful, morphing into an international forum for all things freelance such as tax filing, contract creation, and even legal advice. Currently she earned about three thousand dollars per week from blog membership fees and dues and blog advertisements. She needed access to the Internet and a computer to manage her business and, since she’d left her laptop at Ruth’s, she was sure it had been destroyed like everything else.

She’d also wanted to check the news sites for information on the storm, but that would have to wait as well. She’d already tried the big-screen TV a couple of times, but Clay’s cable was out.

She’d ask Clay if he minded if she used his computer while he was at the station.

That is, if she was in his home long enough to need it.

*

The pie was baking, filling the house with the fragrance of luscious berries, the washer and dryer were both spinning, and the ironing board was set up to finish the curtains: Eve felt quite at home. She’d toasted bread and cheese for breakfast, filching Clay’s last banana as well. And now she worked in the living room, where bright sunlight poured through the large windows.

She’d sewn on two badges and was starting a third when someone knocked at the front door. She looked through the peephole and recognized the man who’d been with Clay last night.

She opened the door and welcomed him inside. “Hi. Jack, right?”

“That’s right, and you’re Eve.”

He had a nice smile, a sleepy and rather handsome smile, and Eve was instantly at ease with him.

“Clay sent me over to check on you. Everything cool?” He walked around the living room like he was conducting a fire inspection.

“Yeah, pretty quiet now that the storm has ended.”

She watched as he took in the scene. His smile grew wider as he eyed the ironing board and the neatly folded laundry piled on the couch.

“I was trying to keep busy.”

Jack chuckled. “I can see that.”

“What’s so funny?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. I was just thinking.” He scratched his head, “Clay could probably use you around fulltime.” He had a twinkle in his eye and maintained a smirk as he continued to check out the place.

“Listen, Jack, I can never repay you for what you did for Ruth and me. You saved our lives. What you do is…” Her voice cracked. “Well, I just wanted to thank you.”

“I’m glad you’re safe now.” His gaze was sincere. “Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m good.” Eve thought of the computer. “Actually, there is one thing. Would you mind asking Clay if I can use his computer?”

“Sure thing.” Jack inhaled deeply, and his face angled toward the kitchen. “You baking a fruit pie?”

“Yes. You need to come back in a few hours if you want a slice.”

“Oh, I’ll be back. You can count on it.”

“Great.” Smiling at his retreating back, she shut and barred the door.

She went back to sewing on patches and when her fingers needed a break, to ironing Clay’s uniform shirts. She’d found a portable garment rack in the laundry room and now wheeled it into the dining room. Once each shirt had been washed, badged, and ironed, she hung it on the rack.

She took the pie out when the crust was perfectly browned. Clay’s oven might be dirty—and no way was she tackling that today—but its temperature setting was right on. She couldn’t have wished for a better turned-out pie.

She helped herself to cold cuts for lunch, promising herself a slice of pie midafternoon. After a swift workout—she wasn’t even slightly inspired to work up a sweat—she returned to the laundry.

She washed department T-shirts and cargo pants and Clay’s boxer shorts—folding those had her fanning her face as she remembered how he’d looked in them. His physical strength coupled with his intensity had her comparing him to a Roman gladiator, a warrior who knew who he was and what he wanted. And even more than that—a man who knew what he needed to do in order to get what he wanted and who had every confidence in his own abilities.

She’d been worried he’d be too rough with her, but he was the perfect combination of hard and soft, rough and soothing, dirty and nice. She closed her eyes and replayed the moment his tongue first tasted her. And then she replayed
all
the moments when he’d tongued her, thrusting deep and nibbling and driving her straight to climax. She was working herself into quite a state, so she opened her eyes and took a slow deep breath.

Her earlier exercise may not have worked up a sweat, but she was warm now. She went to the kitchen, drank a glass of cold water, inhaled a piece of pie, and returned to the living room. All the while trying not to think of Clay or his nearby bedroom or what they’d done in it last night.

She doubled down on her work to busy her mind.

A knock at the door had her checking the time. Six o’clock. She gazed through the peephole and opened the door to Jack.

“Hi. Come on in.” He appeared tired.

“Hey, Eve, I came for my pie.”

“It’s waiting for you.”

He followed her to the kitchen, his footsteps heavy. He seemed not only tired, but down. Given the filth that covered him head to toe and his slow movements, she suspected he’d had a rough day tending to the storm’s aftermath. She cut him a large slice of pie and set it, and then a glass of milk, on the table in front of him.