Sparking Sara (The Men on Fire Series)

by Samantha Christy

  He kisses me again, harder this time. I sink deeper into his arms, wanting nothing between us. One of his hands threads through my hair while the other explores the small of my back. I moan when I feel his erection pressing into me.

  “God, I want you,” he says.

  “I want you, too.”

  He studies me, gauging the truth in my words. “Are you sure, Sara? Because I can wait.”

  “I think we’ve both waited long enough. Now pick me up and take me to bed, fireman.”

  A brilliant smile overtakes his face. “Gladly,” he says as he sweeps me into his arms.

  He carries me up the stairs and to his bedroom—the bedroom I’m going to share with him until I find another place. As soon as we cross the threshold, I’m assaulted with the heady smell I’ve grown to love. His clothes. His cologne. Him.

  He places me on the bed, removes our shoes, and then climbs over me, hovering like he’s awaiting an invitation. I pull him down on top of me, needing his body against me, needing his lips on mine. He doesn’t disappoint me as he kisses me again. He kisses me with so much passion it makes my heart thunder. I’ve never felt this way before. Being in Denver’s arms is the only thing that makes sense to me anymore.

  He runs a finger over the scar from my trach. Then he kisses it. “A reminder of how strong you are.”

  My eyes mist up. Oliver never kissed my scar. He bought me scarves to cover it up.

  Denver traces the edges of the birthmark by my left ear. “A reminder of how unique you are.”

  I stare into his eyes. This man. My heart is exploding with emotion.

  He rolls off onto his side and brings a hand up to palm one of my breasts through my shirt, groaning in appreciation. I run my hand along his strong bicep and then down to his denim-covered hip.

  He fondles the hem of my t-shirt. “I’d very much like to remove this,” he says.

  I tug on the seam of his jeans. “And me—these.”

  My insides are quivering at the thought of what’s about to happen. It’s still daylight outside and his bedroom is bright. We’re about to see each other completely naked for the first time. Normally, that might make me self-conscious. But not with Denver. Because he makes me feel anything but self-conscious. He makes me feel like my imperfections aren’t imperfections at all. He makes me feel like the only woman on earth. Better—he makes me feel like the only woman on earth for him.

  He sits up and reaches behind his neck, pulling his shirt up and over his head. Then he removes mine, staring at my bare breasts. In my haste to leave Oliver’s house last night, I didn’t have time to put on a bra. Not that it matters much; it’s not like I’m hugely endowed. But Denver looks at me like I’m the hottest centerfold he’s ever laid eyes on.

  “You’re gorgeous,” he says, just before his mouth finds my chest.

  He teases my nipples with his tongue as I squirm and buck my hips off the bed. I rub his erection through his jeans, wanting to feel him with nothing between us. I fumble with the button before he comes to my rescue and does it for me. He quickly removes his jeans and boxers in one fell swoop, giving me the first glorious look at him.

  I can’t tear my eyes away from his manhood as it twitches in anticipation. I reach out and take him into my hand, fulfilling all the secret fantasies I’ve had about him over the past few months. I can’t believe I’m here, in his bed, touching him.

  “God … Sara,” he says as I run my hand up and down his silky-smooth hardness.

  He lets me work on him for a minute, but then he pushes my hand away. “You keep that up and this will be over far too soon.”

  I giggle into his shoulder, loving how he’s affected by me.

  He unbuttons my pants and then slowly, methodically peels them down my legs. He looks up at me. “I want to remember every second of this. Because I’ll only get to see you for the first time once in my life.”

  I’m not sure I’ve ever heard more romantic words. Tears cloud my vision and I squeeze my eyes shut, causing droplets to fall down the sides of my face.

  Once my jeans are off, he runs a finger under the elastic of my panties from hipbone to hipbone. His tactile perusal is driving me insane. He hasn’t even touched me down there and I’m about to explode.

  He shimmies my panties off and then sits back on his haunches, studying me. Appreciating me.

  “Sara, this is”—he shakes his head in disbelief—“this is every fantasy I’ve ever had. Do you know how many times I’ve dreamed about having you in my bed?”

  “Me too,” I say.

  “Now that it’s happening, I can’t even believe it.”

  I smile up at him. “Believe it, Denver. I’m yours.”

  Oh, God—did I really just say that? I throw an embarrassed arm over my face.

  He removes my arm. “Say it again, Sara.”

  Heat flushes my entire body. “I’m yours.”

  His eyes close for a brief second. When they open, he becomes an animal devouring his prey. His hands are everywhere on me. His fingers find all the right places. His mouth touches just the perfect spots. I’m putty beneath him, melting under his expert manipulation.

  His fingers push into me as his tongue circles my clit. I buck beneath him at the exquisite feeling that’s overtaking me. “Denver!” I shout when my insides tighten and my body shakes as I ride out the waves of pleasure coursing through me.

  I let out a long, slow breath, my head sinking back into the pillow. “Wow,” I say.

  He climbs up my body. “You can say that again. That was incredible.” I feel his wet lips on my neck. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

  I smile at his proclamation. I let my hands wander below his waist once again. He’s hard as steel, throbbing in my hands. He reaches over the side of the bed and opens a drawer, grabbing a condom. He shows it to me with a question in his eyes. Even after what we just shared, he’s still asking permission.

  “Yes,” I say.

  He wastes no time ripping open the square package and rolling it on. Then he hovers over me. I can feel him at my entrance. He looks down into my eyes and I swear I can remember. I can remember the first time he looked at me. The first time his eyes burned into mine. And somehow, I know this man will always be there for me. He will always make me feel this safe. This protected. This loved.

  Our eyes remain locked on each other as he pushes into me. The urge to close my eyes is strong at the feel of him inching inside. But I keep my focus on him, needing to share this moment, needing to remember this moment for as long as I live. Because if I never remember any other moments, if this is the only one I get to keep, I’d still die a happy woman.

  “Sara,” he moans into my shoulder as he makes love to me.

  I reach around him and run my hands across his strong arms, down his muscular back, over the taut globes of his ass. I grab him and push him deeper inside me.

  His rhythmic movements, his groans, his whispered declarations—they all have me building back up and writhing underneath him. I start to shake, feeling another powerful orgasm crash down on me. I scream into his shoulder and then I feel him stiffen as he leans down and shouts into mine.

  He collapses down onto me, trying his best to keep most of his weight off my body. But he’s languid and spent. I’m loopy and satiated.

  “Damn,” he says.

  I start laughing under him. He joins me.

  He rolls off me and rises up on an elbow. “Now that was worth waiting for.” He takes a lock of my hair into his hand, playing with it. “I meant what I said earlier. I love you, Sara.”

  Tears fill my eyes once again. “I’m not sure about much of anything in my life. My past, my future. But the one thing I’m sure of is you. I love you, too, Denver.”

  He leans in to kiss me. Then he pulls me against him and I lay my head on his chest, feeling sure about something for the first time in a long time.

  As he removes the condom, I look at the wall next to the bed and see my painting hanging on i
t. Our painting. I was so focused on Denver that I didn’t notice it before. “You hung it up,” I say.

  “Of course I did. It’s the most honest painting I’ve ever seen. And it tells the story of us.”

  I smile, thinking my paintings can still do that—tell stories.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever paint something I will love more than this one.”

  “What do you think you’ll do, sweetheart? As far as painting? I know you’ll never stop doing what you love, but have you given any thought to going back to work?”

  I laugh sadly. “Only every day. Oliver doesn’t think I’m ready.”

  He stiffens. “Oliver is an asshole.”

  “Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong about my painting.”

  “He’s wrong,” Denver says with conviction. “Just look, Sara.” He points to the wall with the painting. “You did that. It’s incredible.”

  “I think you might be a little biased.”

  “I’m not. I took it into Davis’s gallery.”

  I lift my head off his chest. “You did?”

  “I wasn’t going to sell it,” he says. “I’d never sell it. But I wanted to know what he thought about it.”

  I close my eyes. “And?”

  “And he offered me ten thousand dollars on the spot.”

  My eyes fly open and my heart races. “He what?”

  Denver nods. “You are so talented, Sara. In so many ways. You can do anything. You can be anyone. Your life is a clean slate just waiting to be written upon.”

  “What if I say I want you in that story?”

  He kisses my forehead. “I’d say I’m a damn lucky man.”

  I put my head back on his chest, content to be exactly where I am. “I still want to paint. And I like the idea of other people having my paintings on their walls. But not like before. I don’t want to travel so much.” I trace the edges of his abs, pondering something I’ve been thinking about for a while now. “Do you think I could still do what I do without traveling?”

  “Are you kidding me? Remember the painting you did of me and my family in the snow? You did that from a simple story—a story you didn’t even recall hearing. But the details were spot on. You have this incredible ability to see what people have experienced and bring it to life. You didn’t need to go to a mountain and stand in a blizzard to paint that picture.”

  I nod, hoping he’s right. I don’t want to live my life going from one time zone to the next, taking sleeping pills to help me cope. And perhaps I can do different kinds of paintings. Who says I have to keep painting people’s memories?

  “One thing’s for sure—I don’t want to have anything to do with Oliver Compton.”

  I feel him tense beneath me. “I’m going to kill that motherfucker when I see him again.”

  “No. Don’t. I don’t want you to jeopardize your job or your future over me.”

  “You are my future, Sara.”

  “I wish I had my phone with me so I could video you saying that.”

  He looks at me in confusion.

  “That way, if I ever lose more of my memories, I’ll never forget what you just said.”

  He smiles and then moves me aside as he retrieves his phone from his jeans. He pulls me back to his chest, covers me with a sheet, and holds the phone at arm’s length before he starts recording.

  “You are my future, Sara Francis. And I’ll tell it to you every single day. I won’t ever let you forget that I love you.”

  “And I won’t let you forget that I love you.”

  He kisses me for posterity and then turns the video off.

  “There,” he says. “Recorded for all of history.”

  Tears prickle the backs of my eyes. “How did I ever get so lucky?”

  “I wouldn’t call what happened to you lucky,” he says.

  “No, it was. It is. I’d go through it all again if it meant finding you.”

  He stares at me, and I can tell he’s holding back tears of his own. He turns his phone back on and starts recording. “I definitely need that one on video.”

  We laugh and joke around and record more silly declarations of love.

  And I realize, three years gone or not, this is hands-down the best day of my life.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Donovan wipes a tear from his eye. “That’s the most romantic story I’ve ever heard, honey. I knew he was the man for you.”

  “I think I knew it, too,” I say. “I was just too stupid to listen to my gut.”

  “You are anything but stupid, my girl.”

  “Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way when I can’t read a magazine from cover to cover.”

  He gives me a sympathetic look. “Healing can take a long time with injuries like yours. But if I had a man like that at home to read to me, I’m not sure I’d be too eager to do it myself.” He winks at me and fans himself. “Oh, that voice.”

  I flush, remembering when Denver read Baylor’s book to me at the rehab center, and I wonder if Donovan overheard it.

  My left leg slips off the pedal of the foot bike and I rest my foot on the floor. “Do you think I will ever have the normal use of my leg again?”

  “It’s hard to say. Maybe this is your new normal. Maybe having a limp is part of who you are. That doesn’t make you any less of a woman.” He directs me to put my foot back on the pedal. “But if anyone can overcome their obstacles, it’s you, Sara. I don’t mind telling you that when I first laid eyes on you, I never imagined you’d be the person you are today. I see a lot of patients with brain injuries. And you, my girl, are a true miracle. So, limp or not, you’ve been given a second chance at life. Not a lot of people get that.”

  “I know. And I’m grateful. And even if I never regain the full use of my leg or the ability to read a full Stephen King novel, I would never take back what happened.”

  “Because it’s how you met Denver,” he says.

  I nod.

  “Girl, your story should be made into a movie.”

  I laugh. “Who will play you?”

  “Zac Efron, of course.”

  “Wow—that didn’t take you long to answer. Obsessed much?”

  We spend the rest of my session discussing which actors would portray us in our movie.

  All this talk of love stories has me thinking of Baylor and her books. Since I still can’t read all that well, I bought and listened to the audio version of her book that was based on her own love story. And I’m suddenly struck with the urge to finish her painting.

  “What is it?” Donovan asks. “It looks like a light bulb just went off in your head.”

  “I’m just eager to get home,” I say. “There’s something I need to do.”

  “Or someone,” he jokes.

  I laugh. “Yeah, that, too.”

  ~ ~ ~

  When I arrive back home at the townhouse, Denver has company.

  “Sara Francis, this is Brett Cash and his son, Leo. Brett and I work together. He’s a lieutenant on Squad 13.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say to Brett, but my eyes are on his son. “Leo is adorable. How old is he?”

  “Eighteen months.”

  “You and your wife are very lucky.”

  Brett shakes his head. “It’s just me.”

  I mentally smack myself in the head. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. Long story.”

  “Are you staying for dinner?” I ask. “I’m not a very good cook, but I can order some mean takeout.”

  “We’d like that. Thank you.”

  “Brett and I have something to show you,” Denver says, pulling me towards the basement. “Come on.”

  He leads me downstairs, and now I understand why Denver didn’t go with me to therapy. A corner of the basement has been transformed into an art studio. My art studio. Right down to the old front door.

  I came down here last night when Denver gave me a tour of the townhouse. The basement is huge, just like the rest of the place. It’s ba
sically one large open space with separate areas for a home gym, a conversation corner with a couch and a chair, and a wood shop. I had never seen so many wooden butterflies in my life. Denver explained that woodworking is Sawyer’s hobby.

  I cover my mouth in amazement. I knew he said I could paint here, but I never imagined him setting up an entire studio for me. “This is what you did all day?”

  Denver puts an arm around my shoulder. “I told you I’d take care of it.”

  “It’s perfect,” I say, turning into him for a hug. Then I look over his shoulder and see Brett looking at us sadly. “Thank you, Brett.”

  “My pleasure,” he says, still holding his son. “Your paintings are amazing, Sara. You’re very talented.”

  “Thank you.” I look at Leo. “You did all of this with a toddler in tow?”

  “Ivy came over with her daughter. She watched the kids while we moved your stuff.”

  “I’ll have to thank her, too,” I say.

  “You’ve gotten close, haven’t you?” Denver asks.

  I spent quite a bit of time with Ivy after my release from the rehab center. She’s become a good friend. “Yes, we have.”

  “Good,” he says. “I’m glad you have friends. Real friends.”

  “Me, too.”

  I can’t help but think of Lydia, and I promise myself I’ll call her later tonight and catch her up on everything that’s happened in the past few days. We’ve had lunch a few times since the day she came to see me at the apartment. And I’ve painted a picture of her. Of us—the way I remember us in high school when it was us against the world. I plan on giving it to her for Christmas.

  Leo starts to fuss in Brett’s arms. Brett puts him down and Leo proceeds to run into an easel, knocking over a painting. Then Leo picks up a paintbrush out of a pail on the floor and pretends to paint on the wall with it.

  “Damn, I’m sorry,” Brett says, righting the painting and running after Leo.

  “Don’t be, maybe you’ve got an artist in the making,” I say. I sit down by Leo’s side and grab another brush, pretending to make my own masterpiece next to his.

  Leo likes that and crawls into my lap as we both ‘paint’ on the wall.