Under Fire (15 page)
He didn’t. She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved. If she didn’t know for a fact that their attraction was mutual, she’d feel like an idiot for blatantly hitting on him. He might not have responded out loud, but the sizable bulge in his jeans said plenty.
Heartened, she went out to the car and snagged the Wal-Mart bag, then fetched the soap and shampoo from her bathroom. She returned to find him gazing out the window, his expression so sad a lump formed in her throat. She knew how difficult it was to start over after your life had been decimated, knew firsthand the hurt he held inside.
“Here you go,” she said.
Jerking his head around, he smiled. Hid his pain as she suspected he always did, beneath a layer of sunshine. “Thanks. I really appreciate this.”
Oh, she wanted more than his appreciation. Scary territory. “Forget it. Everybody requires a hand at some point. If it weren’t for Shea, I wouldn’t have made it when I first arrived in Sugarland.”
“Yeah, well . . .” He forked his fingers through his black hair, floundering. A crack in the plastic veneer.
Good. “Look, this sucks, Zack. You don’t have to pretend otherwise, not with me.”
“My situation sucks, but being here with
you
doesn’t.” A small curve of the lips. Genuine, no shadows.
you
doesn’t.” A small curve of the lips. Genuine, no shadows.
“Ditto. So get over yourself before I’m forced to trank you after all.” She shooed him toward the bathroom. “Go on. You’ll feel tons better once you’re warm and rested.”
Grinning, he shrugged out of his coat, tossed it onto the bed, and went without argument. He pulled the door to, leaving it cracked open about an inch. Rustling, followed by the telltale sound of his zipper, sent her into retreat mode, for all her bravado.
Maybe the stinker had left the door cracked as an answering dare?
Humming, she took his coat and hung it with hers in the hall closet downstairs. In the kitchen, she dug in the freezer for something nutritious to fix for dinner. Firefighters were extremely fit as a rule—Zack’s hunk-a-licious teammates all prime examples of melt-your-panties goodness—but fireboy hadn’t been taking care of himself. Nothing brought that home like seeing the dung heap where he’d been living.
He needs a friend to care, to give him a swift kick in his very fine butt and propel him right out of the doldrums
, she mused, removing a package of chicken breasts and setting it on the counter.
Might as well be me.
, she mused, removing a package of chicken breasts and setting it on the counter.
Might as well be me.
His strange behavior worried her. There was something else eating at him besides discomfort over accepting her help. Something big. She could still see him lying in his hospital bed, panting like a trapped animal, the phone in pieces on the floor. Who’d upset him so badly?
Not his father. He’d said the man was basically an infant. Then who? The unsmiling Captain Tanner? A collection agency? Protective anger boiled in her blood. Whoever it was had better stay clear of Zack. When it came to protecting her own, she was her father’s daughter in more ways than one. Leaving that role behind didn’t mean she wouldn’t assume it again if necessary. Even to defend her brothers—arrogant bastards, every one.
But they were
her
arrogant bastards. She’d not forget that Joaquin had paid a high price on her behalf.
her
arrogant bastards. She’d not forget that Joaquin had paid a high price on her behalf.
Closing the door on a past best left dead, she returned her thoughts to Zack. In the shower. Naked. Mmm.
And drat, wouldn’t you know, she’d forgotten to give him towels.
Admit it. You did that on purpose.
At least subconsciously.
Admit it. You did that on purpose.
At least subconsciously.
Abandoning the makings of dinner, she hurried upstairs, grabbing a small stack of towels and washcloths from her closet. As an afterthought, she also grabbed a small bottle of ibuprofen. They hadn’t filled his prescriptions yet—something else she needed to do while he napped—and his headaches must still border on monstrous. In his room, the splashing of water as Zack moved around drew her like a magnet. She crept to the door, feeling naughty. A little guilty, too.
Not guilty enough to keep her from peeking, however. Just a teensy glimpse; then she’d leave the towels and medicine on the bathroom counter and scram.
A low moan sent her heart skittering against her backbone. Not a moan of mental or physical distress, but an oh-my-God-I’m-gonna-die-if-I-don’t-come moan. Unmistakable, tweaking her nipples to eraser points as surely as ghostly fingers.
Peering through the opening, her eyes widened and she gasped, thankful he couldn’t hear—and that the glass shower stall wasn’t completely fogged over. Watching was
so
wrong and she ought to leave, but the delicious view had her thumping the angel of good conscience off her shoulder.
so
wrong and she ought to leave, but the delicious view had her thumping the angel of good conscience off her shoulder.
Zack leaned against the tiled wall, dark head tilted back, eyes closed, inky lashes spiking across his cheeks. The spray hit the center of his chest, sluicing over toned muscle and tawny skin, slicking the light mat of black hair. Streamed a trail down the dark line bisecting his flat belly, past his navel, and between his spread legs.
Where his big hand worked his cock in a slow, sure rhythm. Up to the plump cap and down, down to the base. Squeezing as his hips arched, heavy balls high and taut. Lost in a sea of pleasure. Up and down again. A bit faster, stroking, seeking the little death. Completely uninhibited.
Raw and powerful.
Mother of God, she’d never seen a more magnificent man.
Cori’s breath hitched. Her legs shook and her clit throbbed in tempo to his motions. She longed to be the one putting sheer ecstasy on his handsome face, his lips parted, eyes closed. Had a crazy notion to burst in and join him in the shower. Finish him properly, in a way guaranteed to rocket him into space.
She stayed put, unwilling to spoil the moment. Simply drank in the beauty of this man’s innate sexuality, hidden perhaps even from himself.
He pumped in earnest now, body tight, the muscles of his neck and chest cording with his efforts. “Ahh, God . . . fuck, yeah. Fuck me, ride me,” he groaned. “Cori . . .”
His unguarded, impassioned words torched the aching flesh between her thighs. He stiffened with a cry, shuddering, thick jets of cum spurting in furious arcs, dribbling over his fist, quickly washed away by the shower spray.
He sagged against the tile, releasing his still-hard cock. A soft, muffled curse escaped his lips as he opened his eyes. Cori ducked backward out of sight, pulse hammering in her throat. Dumping the towels and pill bottle on the corner of the dresser, she fled, hoping her foray into voyeurism hadn’t been discovered.
In the kitchen, she stared at the package of chicken, trying to force herself to concentrate on how to prepare it for dinner. Instead, she replayed her name on his lips as he’d come. Fantasized about him plunging inside her when he did, filling her, hot and deep. Her entire body trembled and ached for the release he’d just enjoyed.
Jeez Louise, they’d been alone for only a couple of hours and were already hotter for each other than a forest fire in July. Things were moving too fast. She had to get a handle on the blaze before they got hurt.
Zack wasn’t the only one with secrets lying in wait to destroy them both.
The sobering thought cooled her libido, but not much. Not nearly enough. She’d wanted him before, but after the scorching shower scene, she knew she’d never rest until he was hers. Every scrumptious inch.
Risk versus reward. No perfect answer.
Except for one.
When Zack wore that expression of rapture on his sexy mug again, she’d be the woman who’d put it there.
Zack dripped water across the linoleum and returned to the bath mat to dry off, wondering when Cori had left the towels and ibuprofen.
Wondering whether she’d seen.
He hated jerking off. Always had. There was nothing lonelier than pretending to love and be loved in return. But this time it had been different.
Cori had been watching. He was ninety-nine percent certain of it. Leaning against the wall, fisting his cock, he’d been overcome by the strangest prickle. Another presence. He’d opened his eyes the slightest bit, and could’ve sworn he’d detected a furtive movement just outside the door. Maybe he’d been wrong.
Didn’t matter. The idea of Cori observing him as he stroked his cock, her earlier dare returned in kind, made him so freaking hot it had stolen his breath. He’d never come so hard.
Over the past few years, the desire to lose the last of his innocence, to bury himself in the soft heat of a woman, had become a bearable ache. Achieving the ultimate gratification had never seemed worth the risk of opening himself to the sting of ridicule. To more rejection—the one sure to finish him.
Zack wasn’t like Skyler or Salvatore. He’d never be able to give his body without giving his heart and soul. So he’d become a pro at deflecting the few invitations cast in his direction, usually when the gang hung out at the Waterin’ Hole. He’d resisted lush temptation, his ardor quickly chilled by the knowledge that any one of those bar bunnies would’ve just as gladly gone home with one of his teammates. A couple had.
Now he was profoundly grateful for his resistance. The one gift he had left to give a woman was himself. Untouched by another. Corny as that sounded, it meant everything to him.
Would it mean the same to Cori? Was he living in a dreamworld to entertain the idea of her wanting him?
Get over yourself.
Good advice. Hanging the towel on the rack by the tub, he popped three ibuprofen, then went into the bedroom to dress. Christ, his cracked cheekbone was killing him again, the pain radiating through his entire skull. Thank God the swelling in his face had subsided to almost normal, even if the bruise had transformed from dark purple to an interesting array of greens and yellows.
Good advice. Hanging the towel on the rack by the tub, he popped three ibuprofen, then went into the bedroom to dress. Christ, his cracked cheekbone was killing him again, the pain radiating through his entire skull. Thank God the swelling in his face had subsided to almost normal, even if the bruise had transformed from dark purple to an interesting array of greens and yellows.
As he fished inside the Wal-Mart bag, he had to laugh. Shaking his head, he donned the lipstick-kiss boxers, which conjured a fantasy of Cori’s pretty lips all over the area in question.
Way to torture yourself, idiot.
Next, he pulled on a pair of gray cotton sweats and a navy T-shirt.
Way to torture yourself, idiot.
Next, he pulled on a pair of gray cotton sweats and a navy T-shirt.
He wasn’t sleepy, but decided to at least attempt to obey her orders and stretched out carefully on the bed. God, it felt heavenly to sink his sore muscles into a comfortable mattress instead of a hospital bed, or the ratty old one from his apartment, tossed on the hard floor. To smell clean, fresh sheets rather than decay and despair.
So damned good to be home . . .
“Zack?”
Gentle fingers. Caressing his cheek, smoothing his hair. Nice.
“Wake up, sleepyhead.”
“Mmm?” Try as he might to stay wrapped in his warm cocoon, he began to emerge. A fresh, herbal scent teased his nose, mixed with the natural fragrance of a woman. Cori’s special blend. He blinked his eyes open to see her sitting on the bed beside him. Giving her a groggy smile, he took a moment just to savor her.
Somehow, the afternoon had become evening, the room bathed in shadow. The bedside lamp cast a luminous glow over hair the color of dark honey, spilling over her shoulders. She’d changed into a white V-neck T-shirt and lavender warm-up pants. She studied him with tiger eyes, a soft smile on her beautiful face. For him.
And she hadn’t stopped stroking his hair, which was more than fine.
“The prince awakes,” she said, a note of affection in her voice. “About time, too, or you won’t sleep tonight.”
With her in bed across the hall, his imagination running wild, he doubted he would anyway, but refrained from saying so. “How long have I been out?”
“Three hours. It’s a little after six. Are you hungry?”
“Yeah, I am.” He sniffed, belatedly noting the tantalizing aroma wafting from downstairs. “God, what smells so good?”
“Stuffed chicken breasts with wild rice, green beans, salad, and rolls.”
His mouth watered, his brain distracted for once from devouring Cori instead. “Wow, that sounds fantastic!” He sat up and his head swam, the awful pain resuming a steady, pounding cadence.
“Easy there.”
She helped him sit up, and he swung his legs over the side of the bed, letting himself get oriented. “Thanks.”
“How’s your head?” Leaning close, she peered at his bruise.
“Well, I don’t feel like I’m going to throw up anymore when the headache burrows into my brain cells. Good news, huh?”
She ignored his sarcasm. “It is. Did you take some of the ibuprofen?”
“Yes, ma’am, three of them. Right before I conked out.”
“Too soon for more. Let’s wait another hour or so. Here, I went into town and had your prescriptions filled. Take your antibiotics and cough medicine—then we’ll eat.”
“Thanks. You didn’t have to do that for me.” He was touched.
“You’re welcome. It’s no biggie.” Reaching past him to the nightstand, she lifted a brown prescription bottle, uncapped it, and shook out a pill large enough to choke a horse. “One every eight hours. There’s your water.”
Resisting the urge to make a face, he took the capsule, retrieved the glass from the nightstand, and washed it down. He was sick of medication, but not the extra personal care. “I don’t need any cough medicine.”
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