Chasing Fire (Gilded Knights Series Book 2)

by Emilia Finn

  Idalia drops her head back when I undo the top two buttons and bury my face between her breasts, but her hands remain around my head, in my hair, her nails scratching, painful and perfect at the same time. She wears a lacy, black bra, and because of the shelf built within, it pushes her up and provides me with the perfect place to taste, to bite, to savor.

  “Oh god. Nixon,” she cries.

  Desperate for more, she raises her legs and sets her feet on the stools we were sitting on only moments ago. With her heels on and adding that much more height, her knees drop open, and her spine arches.

  “Don’t stop,” she pants as I make my way lower. Lower. One blouse button at a time. “Please don’t stop.”

  “I won’t.”

  I reach the final button. Undoing it, I push the floaty fabric back off her skin and use it to bind her hands behind her. Then I go to work on her skirt, confused in my fog of lust for a moment when I can’t find a button.

  “It just slides on,” she desperately laughs. “No button.”

  “Got it.” I yank the skirt the way a showoff might yank a tablecloth so that nothing falls from the table.

  Idalia squeals, but successful, I help her slide her feet out of the leather, then I toss it aside and see what she’s giving me.

  Sitting on my kitchen counter, naked but for matching bra and panties, complete with garter and stockings and a pair of heels that will star in my every dream from now until I die, Idalia watches me from hooded eyes and a chest that visibly lifts and falls with her every breath.

  “You don’t understand your appeal.” I step between her legs and slide my hands over her smooth thighs, over the silky hose, to her silkier skin.

  She’s wearing the kind of stockings that clip to the belt above her panties. With a single touch of my finger, the fasteners snap open, and the stretchy ties flick back toward me.

  Idalia’s breath catches. Her eyes grow wider. Her panties grow darker from the moisture soaking through them, but I go slow. Torture for us both, but the payoff will be worth it.

  I trail my lips over her creamy flesh, her belly, scarred from having a baby, then her hipbone, sharp beneath her skin and tight panties. Peeling the lace back and revealing a dark thatch of hair, I let my pleasure rumble in the back of my throat until we’re nothing more than feeling, touch, wants and desires.

  I push Idalia’s shoulder back until she takes the hint and lies flat on the cold stone counter. Goosebumps race along her beautiful skin, but the arch of her back brings her thighs higher, wider, so I hug them and bring my tongue closer to her shimmering pussy.

  “I don’t…” She gulps and clings to my hair.

  I stop moving, stop taking, until she’s able to finish her sentence.

  “I don’t know how to do this,” she whimpers. “It’s been so long.”

  A desperate chuckle escapes my chest. Relief, want. “You don’t have to do anything but lie there.” I press my lips to the inside of her thigh, and smile when she quivers. “You just have to be you, open to me.” I slide my tongue along her flesh. Closer. Closer to her core. “You just have to enjoy this. And if you want me to stop, you just say so.”

  “Don’t stop.” Giving up on whatever internal fight she was having with herself, Idalia drops back so her head thunks against the stone. “Please don’t stop.”

  “Bring your legs up here.” I guide them up, over my shoulders so her heels touch my back, then I grab her hips and yank her along the counter so fast that she squeals.

  Her ass no longer touches the stone, but her back does, her shoulders. And whatever would be hanging over the counter is instead held up by my hands.

  “I’ve wondered what you taste like.” I groan when she pulses right before my eyes. Her clit throbs, and her pussy clenches, unclenches. Bringing my tongue down, I tap it on her clit, testing, tasting, as Idalia cries out, wild with need and digs her nails into my scalp.

  To hell with going slow. With being gentle.

  I have her consent, and until I don’t, I’m going to take.

  With renewed hunger, I slide my tongue deep inside her pussy and close my eyes when she cries out. Her fingers grow tighter, her thighs, harder. But buried in my jeans, restricted behind an unforgiving zipper, my cock seeps and throbs.

  Desperation beats inside my heart like a drum. I’ve wanted this since I met her, and our ‘almost there’ from yesterday only makes it worse.

  I lap her up, nip and nibble, greedily take every last ounce of strength she has. And when I can’t hold on a second longer, I use one hand to unsnap my jeans.

  “Oh god,” Idalia cries out when I bite her clit. She lifts her hips higher off the counter, searching for more, as frantic as I am.

  I push my zipper down and free my cock, and once it’s out, when the cool air touches the wet tip, the hunger inside my gut only intensifies. “This might be fast.” I slide my tongue along her slit. “I’m gonna fuck you, Idalia. I’m gonna use you up until there’s nothing left. Because I don’t have the strength to go slow.”

  “It’s okay.” Panting, she pushes up to sit—sort of—and grabbing my shirt, she yanks it up over my head, so rough that threads snap. But she makes no sounds of apology, there’s no questioning herself.

  Tossing the fabric to the floor, she’s struck still for a moment, staring at my chest and licking her lips. “You have lots of tattoos.”

  “Yeah.” I yank her close and press my lips to hers. Mine are coated with her pleasure, but she doesn’t object. She doesn’t complain.

  Her tongue duels with mine, demanding, commanding, and when I press my cock to her opening, she maneuvers her legs so she can start lowering my jeans with her feet. Her heels scrape along my thighs, pleasure and pain in one, but we’re so desperate, it doesn’t matter.

  Our dinner sits untouched, our drinks, still full. Dirty pans sit on the stove, and Hootie has made way for something else, something slower, more heart-wrenching.

  Panting breath races between us, hot breath that empties from my lungs and sprints into hers. Grabbing her hips once more, I drag her to the edge of the counter. Our eyes meet, for just a moment, there’s silence, peace, and possibly a flicker of more, something beyond lust, but then she nods, and I slam deep inside.

  “Oh, merda!” she shouts, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and cinching us close. “Oh god.”

  “Hold on to me.”

  Mindlessly, I pound deep inside her, rhythmically fast to sate the hunger in my blood. My peak sprints closer—the perils of wanting someone for so long and not finding relief elsewhere. My lungs seize, and my heart thunders so hard it becomes a physical ache. But with Idalia Mazzi wrapped around me, I can endure anything.

  “I’m going to come,” she cries by my ear. “Oh god, Nixon.”

  I tighten my grip on her hips and make good on my promise of doing this without tact. My thighs slam against the lip of the counter, my hips grind against Idalia’s core, and when my release races ahead and tiptoes the edge of oblivion, I hold my breath and wring every second out of this that I can.

  My orgasm is like fire, burning me up from the inside the longer I hold it in. But when Idalia turns to a vise around me and her orgasm explodes between us, her molten lava laughs at my fire.

  I bury my face against her neck, warm, scented, home, until our releases free us. Gasping for breath while she wrings me dry, I clamor for air, dizzy and weak, while she continues to pulse around me. My throat is dry, my heart speeding, and my eyes, all for her. Her hair, dark and thick, and her skin, light and creamy.

  My legs feel like jelly, my jeans sitting around my ankles and binding me to where I stand. If I try to move, I’m likely to eat the tile floor.

  When Idalia’s orgasm ends, when she stops clamping me close, she drops back on the counter and stares up at the ceiling. Her stomach and chest lift with her need for air. Her breasts, peaked beneath her bra. But her fingertips reach out for me.

  When I lean closer, she smiles and strokes my cheek.
/>
  “That was…” She sniggers, low and satisfied. “Wow.”

  “Same,” I grunt. I lean over her, over the counter, and rest my face between her breasts. I hold up most of my weight, but nevertheless, I have to lie down at least a little, or I risk falling. “You wrecked me.”

  She snickers. “The wrecking was mutual. That was, uh…” She scratches my hair with long, gentle strokes as she searches for a word. “I don’t know what to say in English. My brain stopped working.”

  Smiling, I press a soft kiss to the swell of her breast and snuggle closer. “It’s okay. Whatever cuss word you wanna use… same.”

  “Is that the end of it, then?” Her words seem serious, but her body remains lax on my kitchen counter. “Should I go home now?”

  “No.” A lock of her hair tickles my hand, so I grab it and twirl it around my finger. “We haven’t eaten yet. We haven’t danced. We haven’t told our most embarrassing memories from middle school.”

  She snorts. “That could keep us going for a long while yet.”

  “Exactly.” Pushing up to rest on my elbows, I meet her beautiful eyes, and smile. “Stay with me until you absolutely can’t. Stay for hours, be with me, and go home only when it’s time for you to mom again.”

  “Until it’s time to mom?” she questions. “Max won’t wake until around six. That’s a long—”

  “Then that works perfectly.”

  I glance around us and search for the shirt I was wearing. Finding it on the tile five feet away, I look back to Idalia and wait for her eyes.

  “Ready for me to pull out?”

  She nods. Silent. Perhaps even a little scared.

  “I’ll get you my shirt if you wait just a second.” I lean forward and press a kiss to her lips. “Then I’ll show you where the bathroom is.”

  “A shower?”

  “Mmm. Or a bath in the jacuzzi tub. Your choice.”

  “Jacuzzi,” she says instantly. “Definitely the jacuzzi.”

  Chuckling, I pull back and nod. Then glancing down between us, I slowly pull out, and though I should probably be more of a gentleman, I watch every single inch that slides out. I watch her pussy clench to keep me in, and when I’m free, I watch as my cum follows.

  “Here.” I step away and snag my shirt. Balling it up, I press it between her legs. “I don’t care about my tiles, but word on the street is that drip isn’t a pleasant sensation.”

  Her cheeks warm as she giggles. “It feels gross, and though it’s the male’s, it always feels like something I have to be embarrassed about.”

  “Such a self-assured woman,” I reach out and take her hand to pull her over the edge of the counter and down onto her feet. “No way could you ever be embarrassed.”

  “You’ll change your opinion once we share embarrassing memories,” she counters with a smirk. “You’ll never take me seriously again.”

  “Ha.”

  I lead her out of the kitchen and away from the mess we’ve made of the dinner we never ate, then into the hall, and down to the end, to my bedroom. It looks presumptuous, but I lead her right past my bed and into the attached bathroom.

  “Ohhhhh…” She stands, all but naked and with my shirt between her legs, and when I release her to start the water, she comes closer and smiles her approval when I drop colored salts into the water. “Really?”

  I glance over my shoulder and lift a brow. “Huh?”

  “You have colorful bath fizzers on hand?”

  “Don’t judge me,” I snicker. “It’s not about the color. It’s about the oils in each one. They’re relaxing as fuck.”

  “Succinct of you.”

  “I have a stressful job, okay? I’m allowed to come home to a relaxing—Ah, shit.” I bite off my mistake when Idalia’s cheeks pale. “Forget the thing I said about work.”

  “But how can I?” Her words, at least, are gentle when I would have expected them to be snapping. “It’s everywhere I look.” She points toward the hall. “The trophies. The bath salts, since you’re so stressed. The scar marking your ribs after the injury you sustained recently.” She looks back into my bedroom. “The painting above your bed is red, embers,” she presses. “I see that it’s abstract, and maybe it was intended to be something else, but I see embers.”

  Nope, she nailed it. It’s embers, and more specifically, the painting is in remembrance of the devastating fires that swept through Australia a few years back. As it often is between allied countries, they send guys out to help us when we need it, and in exchange, we go there in their summers if the bushfires are out of control.

  I sleep under a painting of out-of-control fires every single night, and not once did I think to remove the artwork before bringing her here.

  Though, in my defense, tonight was supposed to be in a restaurant.

  “I’ll move it,” I promise her. When the water is at the right temperature, I stand tall and push my hands into my front pockets. The button is unsnapped, but at least I pulled them up and fastened the zipper. “I’ll remove the painting tonight, and it’ll never be in my room again.”

  “No. I don’t want you changing things for me. That’s not fair.”

  “Why? I expect you to change things for me.” I pull her closer and tuck her under my arm so my lips rest against her forehead. “I expect you to make room for me in your shower on the days we can get away with it. I expect you to continue saying yes to me when I ask you out, even if it scares you. Eventually, when you realize I’m kinda fuckin’ awesome, I expect you to tell Max that I might hang around a little more than I have in the past.”

  Her body quivers.

  “I expect you to take a breath before you pass out. Then we’re gonna have a bath together. I’m gonna bring food in here, we’re gonna chill the fuck out, and after, we’ll probably fuck again.” I press my lips to her temple. “And again.” Her cheek. “And again.” Then her lips, where I swallow her breathy sigh.

  “To make these things work, both parties have to allow a little room for change. Your life was full before you met me, and mine was full before meeting you. Now, we’re gonna try to smoosh a few things together so we can see what we get. But to make that happen, we both have to shuffle things around. I’ll give you a work radio, which is in my living room, by the way, and I’ll move the painting. And you…”

  “And I what?” she presses when I pause.

  “You’ll work on accepting me for who I am. All of me. My work, my crazy family, my lack of sensitivity sometimes, and my want for you. The hunger is so fucking real,” I groan. “We just finished, and I already want you again.”

  “Ever had sex in a bathtub?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. You?”

  She shakes her head and grins.

  “Good deal.” I release her from my hold and turn her to face the filling tub. “You take care of what you’ve gotta take care of. Use the toilet or whatever, toss my shirt into the hamper, then slide into the water and relax. I’ll be back in five with food, alcohol, and your phone, so you don’t have to worry about not hearing it.”

  Surprised by my words, Idalia’s lips quiver. “That was sensitive,” she murmurs. “And thoughtful.”

  “Yeah? That’s just the beginning. Wait until I buy us some ribbed condoms.”

  Bursting out with laughter, Idalia smacks my arm and sends me toward my room. “And you ruined it! What is wrong with you, Nixon Rosa? Huh?”

  “Proving to you I’m not a walking red flag,” I smirk as I back out of the bathroom. “Showing off my flaws so you know there’s no act.”

  As soon as I’m in my bedroom and my view of Idalia is cut by the doorway, I step onto my bed and pull the painting off the wall.

  I love it, because it commemorates a time in my life that’ll never be repeated—which is a good thing. People die in those firestorms, animals die, and forests are butchered. But although I never wish to repeat it, that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy having the art to remember what happened that year in the southern hemisphe
re.

  Setting the painting on my bed, I jump to the floor and collect the art once more. With it in my grasp, I peek into the bathroom to make sure Idalia isn’t watching, and I catch a view of her back, naked and beautiful, as she hesitantly dips her toes into the steaming water.

  When I know she’s not paying attention to me, I place the painting in my closet and close the door.

  Maybe tomorrow, I’ll go searching for a painting of the Colosseum or something. But until then, I dash into the hall and skid across my kitchen in search of food and booze. Enough to last us our stay in the tub.

  13

  Idalia

  Wash it all away

  Nixon left without powering up the jets in the tub, but it takes nothing more than a sex-sated, fuzzy-brained Italian woman to find the button and mash it with my thumb. The moment the jets begin, I lay back and rest my head against the tile with a groan.

  This is what heaven feels like.

  Hot water, fragrant so I can’t help but smile, and when Nixon steps back into the bathroom with a dining chair, I watch him from the corner of my eye as he sets it just beside the tub. Confused, I draw my brows together as he leaves the bathroom without a word, only for him to return a moment later with a long, wooden tray. He sets it on the chair and presents me with a smorgasbord of food: cheeses and crackers, olives and onions, skittles in a bowl, and beside those, Cheez-Its… because I guess he’s still a child underneath all that culinary skill.

  The toasted cheese sandwiches he served up earlier sit on a small plate, and beside those, our bottles of beer.

  “I know the sandwiches are cold now,” he hums. “But I can vouch for the fact they’re delicious even like this. If you don’t want them,” he grabs my beer from the tray and offers it to me, “that’s fine. I’ve also got salami here, chorizo, and peppers. But if you’re curious and still hanging out for carbs, try the sandwiches. You’ll love them.”

  “Okay.”

  Grabbing onto the side of the tub, I reach over with my other hand and take a quarter from the sandwich plate. Settling back in the warm bath, I nibble at the corner and watch on as Nixon pushes his jeans down and reveals himself without a single beat of hesitation.