Reburn

by Anne Marsh

  “You don’t need me here?” He countered Evan’s two words with five more of his own.

  Evan thought it over, shook his head, and cleared another foot on his part of the line before opening his mouth. “Needing isn’t the problem.”

  There was more than enough daylight for the chopper to make it safely back to base. He figured Livy would be on the ground in thirty, forty minutes tops. She’d probably have to debrief with the FBI—or whatever it was the feds did when someone took out the man riding the top of the most wanted list—but then she’d probably be done for the day. He tried to imagine where she would go or what she would do, but he drew a blank. He didn’t even have an address or a phone number so, if she headed straight out of town, he was S.O.L. Again.

  “You saying I’m the problem?” He knew he sounded defensive. Hell. He was still half watching that chopper wing away like some kind of lovesick hero in the movies. The rest of him was just glad that Livy was well on her way to safety. He didn’t want her out here in the middle of a wildland fire.

  “Maybe,” Evan said finally. “You want that girl. The one you let go. A blind man could see that.”

  “It’s not a question of wanting.” He gave the other man back his words. “Letting her go is the right thing to do.”

  “Shit.” Evan actually stopped shoveling for a moment and rested his arms on the handle. “Did you ask her what she wanted? Or did you just jump in to rescue her? Because I’ve got it on good authority that women like asking.”

  Now that was a damned good question. Tonight was going to be a long one, and he was still feeling the effects of an all-night watch followed by his hand-to-hand with Holm Arthurs. Tomorrow would hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

  “Jumped,” he finally admitted.

  At least their line was shaping up well. Beautifully straight, that line was eighteen inches of raw dirt. They’d dug straight down to the mineral soil, clearing out the vegetation on either side. Swipe and step, following in the footsteps of the guy in front of you with another guy behind you. Dade had complained once that digging line was like a line of dancing elephants, linked trunk to tail, but Sam liked the simplicity of it all.

  “Hell.” Evan shot him a commiserating look. “Well, she’s got twenty-four hours to calm down before you see her again. At which point, I recommend doing some apologizing.”

  “And groveling,” Rio called, grinning. His teeth were a wicked slash of white in his soot-streaked face. If anyone knew women, it was Rio. The man had dated his way through most of the Western states and, as far as Sam could tell, the majority of those women were still talking to him. Sam had no idea how Rio managed it.

  “You think it’ll come to that?”

  “Man.” Rio sighed. “How long did you watch that chopper fly away?”

  When Sam didn’t answer, Evan nodded, like he knew exactly where Rio was headed with this line of questioning. “Yeah. I think groveling is going to be involved.”

  “You want to practice, just lay it on us,” Rio invited, then danced away when Sam tossed a shovelful of dirt at him.

  Chapter Eight

  No going back.

  After spending the night out in the woods with Sam Clayton, Olivia had to admit a few basic facts to herself. First, the man was still the hottest she’d ever laid eyes on. That was a no-brainer, as was her attraction to him. He’d kissed her and touched her—and she’d come right undone.

  The question was: How soon could they do it again? And where would it lead?

  Hell, she hadn’t even got his number, although donuts to dollars Sam had the same number he’d always had. The man didn’t do change. So all she had to do was pick up the phone and call, or drive by his place and knock on the door. She knew now she wanted to go back to him. The only open question now was whether he wanted her back. Sure, he wanted the sex. They both did. But did he want anything more? Or had she blown that chance when she’d walked away from him ten years ago?

  Undecided, Olivia pumped hard and the swing flew up, the strip of forest beyond the little playground expanding as she climbed higher. The wooden seat pressed into her ass, her legs and arms moving in the old, familiar rhythm. The effort pushed her skirt up her thighs, but there was no one to see. Behind her, the park’s ranger station sweltered in the afternoon heat but, up here, the whisper of a breeze cooled the back of her neck and pushed her higher. That airy tease was almost enough to pretend the California heat hadn’t stuck her blouse to her back.

  The clearing behind her was just large enough to accommodate the ranger station. The summer heat, however, swelled out of the too-small space, the air hot and dry, even as the punch of black smoke far off on the horizon told her the fire wasn’t out yet. The R missing from the sign declared her temporary pit stop an ANGER STATION. Like her life, the sign was missing something, something her mind filled in almost automatically, glossing over the absence.

  Ten years and now she was back again. The campground still had the same fifty sites, side by side, and all with a full-on view of Big Bear Lake. She’d parked her teenage ass on those picnic tables more than once and just sat there, staring out at the lake and the watercraft buzzing cheerfully over the placid surface. The place was an easy jumping off point for day trippers into Sequoia National Park, but still civilized enough to offer running water, plus there was a small grocery that sold Frosted Flakes, white bread, and Folger’s.

  The sound of a truck jolting along the dirt track between the trees broke her rhythm. When her feet came back down and her ass hit the bottom of the swing’s downward arc, she spotted the pickup, a rugged, battered, been-through-helland-back vehicle that never quit. Scorch damage blackened one side and the bed was full of gear. The driver killed the motor and opened the door. Two powerful, very masculine legs slid out, wrapped up in blue jeans. No Nomex today.

  She’d blown past the closed and keep-out signs, because her military training had taught her to out-balls any guy. Except Sam. He was a fucking force of nature, immovable as a rock and twice as hardheaded. So she kept right on swinging, waiting for him to come back to her.

  As if on cue, he slammed the truck door.

  “Park’s not open,” he drawled. Déjà vu.

  His eyes dropped to her bare legs and stayed there. She’d always liked this skirt. The material was filmy and light, the kind of deliciously feminine fabric that made pretending to be a princess easy work. Each hard forward push shoved the skirt up, until the return arc settled everything back into place. Yeah, she was teasing him. From the looks of Sam, though, he liked the view just fine.

  He smiled, slow and hot, a mighty fine erection punching at the front of his jeans.

  “It looks open to me,” she said, pumping her legs harder. Sam had fine lines around his eyes now—he was pushing thirty-five. He hooked a thumb in his belt and her eyes followed the confident movement. That could have been the same leather belt with the silver buckle that he’d sported back then. When they’d been a pair and summer had seemed like it could last forever. God. The fantasies she’d had about undoing that belt.

  “Uh-huh. You off-duty today?” Like they’d seen each other just a week or a month ago and the absence was due to a busy stretch at the office or a cruise or a dozen other, planned reasons. Rather than the truth.

  “Yeah.” She pushed her legs harder. “I am. We caught the bad guy, remember?”

  “I remember plenty,” he said. She looked down on top of his head as she soared. Too much time, too much distance. She wasn’t sure what the hell she’d hoped to find here or if she’d got a start on it two nights ago on the crest line.

  “Good memories?” Please say yes. She wanted to stop, wanted to say the right things, but where did you start when there was ten years of saying nothing when you should have been saying everything?

  Sam, being Sam, didn’t hesitate.

  He eyed her and plunged right in, fighting for what was his.

  “You never wrote,” he said, his eyes following her, following her legs a
s she stretched towards the sky.

  Her Sam. Blunt as hell and not willing to overlook the elephant in the room. He’d cut right to the chase.

  She stopped pumping, letting the momentum carry her up, up, up. “I did.” Once. Before she’d chickened out.

  He shook his head. “I didn’t get any letters from you.” His thumbs hooked into his belt, not moving closer. “I wrote but you never answered.”

  “I never mailed it,” she admitted. Sam had never given her anything but the truth; she owed him the same.

  “Your letter is still AWOL.” Reaching out his hand, he dragged the swing to a standstill. She tightened her fingers around the rope as the rough jerk broke the smooth glide. Tension thickened the air, the charged calm before the storm.

  “You can’t be here,” he repeated, but he pulled the swing back towards him, his fingers wrapping over hers, pinning hers in place. He wasn’t letting her go anywhere.

  “Because the park is closed.” She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that she’d fantasized about this meeting. Wondered what he would say when he saw her again. What he would do.

  The swing stopped and his fingers slid down the rope and found her arm. She sucked in a breath, waiting. Maybe coming back hadn’t been so crazy after all and maybe she didn’t have to make the first move this time.

  “Because then I’d want to do this.” The rough hunger in his voice didn’t quite prepare her for the sensation of his hand dropping to her thigh. Just the sight of his hand on her bare flesh had her panties dampening. His fingers ran lightly over her skin, found the muscles of her inner thigh and massaged. Like there was nothing he’d rather be doing right now than this.

  “That’s a wicked tease.” Desire made her voice hoarse.

  He kept right on touching her, as if he had every right.

  “You always did like that,” he said roughly. “I’m not stopping, Livy.”

  She should move away, should close her thighs and slip off the swing and back into her own life. But she couldn’t help wondering. What if? He hadn’t married, she knew that much. His ring finger was bare, with no tell-tale strip of white. Sam Clayton was the kind of man who’d want a wedding ring, a man who wasn’t afraid to claim or be claimed. Sam had never been afraid of anything.

  She’d been the one running scared.

  Sam had spent days and months—fuck, years—pushing his body. He’d worked hard and always driven himself to his physical limits. That kind of burn and tired was good, the feeling that told a man he’d done everything he could and that now whatever happened was out of his hands. He’d cut line and he’d held his ground, fighting fire however, whenever, he could.

  And he’d fought.

  For each inch of ground and, now, for each moment in this woman’s arms. She’d done a number on him, and he wanted more. He’d always been intensely physical. People looked and they saw a big, rough-cut man who worked with his hands and spent just about every hour he could outdoors. He wasn’t one for inside or offices. About as inside as he got was the cab of his truck. Working outside was all kinds of right.

  And now he wanted to be back inside Olivia Albert where he belonged. He had the same sense of right when he looked at her. She’d teased him with that little skirt of hers and he loved her games. He loved her, and that scared him more than any fire ever could.

  He slid his hand higher, where the soft curve of her thigh met the sweet mound of her pussy. This was heaven, right here, her letting him love her and touch her, showing her everything he couldn’t find the words for. He couldn’t tell from the little sounds she was making whether she had her doubts about this meet up or not. Ten years she’d been gone, and he wanted to pick up where they’d left off. In some ways, it was like no time at all had passed.

  “Swing some more with me?” she asked.

  “Whatever you want, honey.” Lifting her up, he slid onto the swing and deposited her onto his lap, facing him. The sexy catch of her breath said she liked that. A lot.

  “You should tell me now,” he suggested, pushing them off the ground, “if all you’re after is a quick ride in the sky.”

  “Meaning?” She tilted her head back, lashes drifting shut. Her thighs pressed around his hips and he could feel the heat of her through his blue jeans. He didn’t know what had brought this on, but damned if he would pass on what was turning out to be the most erotic afternoon of his life.

  “You want me to swing—or do you want something else?” He didn’t need two hands to swing, so he traced the length of her spine, pressing her closer. She arched into his touch.

  “Mmmm.” Her throaty murmur had parts of him standing to attention. “Definitely something else, hotshot.”

  “This.” His hand headed south.

  Their swing moved faster, but the world slowed down around them when he touched her. He could feel the moment she stopped thinking and let herself just feel the lush, slow sensations building in her pussy. He stroked her gently up and down. Short strokes after that first, possessive touch. Over and over. This he could do for hours. There was no rush here and nowhere to be, no need to tear towards sex or orgasm or anything other than this.

  This moment.

  He focused entirely on that connection between his finger and her clit. All those summers ago, she’d been the good girl, the scientist, and the observer. She’d watched and she’d hung back, while he’d always been right in the middle of things. They’d discovered each other and he’d never imagined how sexy questions could be. “Try this,” she’d say. “Or how does that feel?” And he’d laugh and do exactly that. He’d answered her questions with his hands and his mouth. He’d loved her curiosity.

  She’d been special even then. Smart. Always lost in a book—or three—until one day she’d looked up and looked at him. And she hadn’t looked away. No, she’d looked at him like he was some kind of delicious puzzle she just had to figure out. Christ, her explorations had just about killed him. All sensual curiosity and no inhibitions, even though she was brimful of questions. She wanted to understand—and he wanted to share. One hot, wild, glorious summer.

  And yet, he’d wondered—had she really seen him? Had she been interested in the man holding her, or just in the wonderful puzzle of her own sexuality? He wanted her not to think, just once. To feel and open up and share spontaneously with him.

  She’d been all fierce focus as she learned him, learned his responses. What made him come so hard he thought he’d die from the pure, hot pleasure.

  So he’d spin this afternoon out as long as he could. He touched the very core of her with his fingers, pumping his legs as the swing arced higher and higher into the sky. He’d take whatever she’d give him.

  She was hot and wet beneath the silky tease of her panties. Little moans and whispers spilled from her mouth, like she was trying to find a way to tell him this was good. He knew. Christ, he knew. This was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

  She arched her head back and he held on to her. Pushed them both higher and faster, her throaty moans a sexy little song in his ear as he sank into the warm, hot press of sun and the tease of cooler air as the swing cut through the heat with each smooth arc.

  Sam didn’t pressure her, just gave her that light, gentle touch of his. Over and over. At first, she had to work to feel the sensations, then sink into them. Yes. She could feel herself melting, thawing in his arms.

  His touching her wasn’t enough after a while, so she trusted him to hang on to them both and slipped her hands between them, finding the buttons on his jeans. She popped them free, one by one, enjoying the contrast of soft cotton and his iron-hard erection. Even better, when she slipped the tips of her fingers through the space she’d made, he was hot and slick and eager.

  “We really doing this here?”

  “You bet, hotshot,” she whispered against his throat. “So make it happen.”

  “No worries.” He covered her mouth with his. Still not rushing, he just kissed and kissed her, whi
le he rose to her challenge all right. His fingers found the little ribbons holding together the sides of her panties. One hard tug and the nylon scrap came apart in his hands. God, that was sexy.

  “Up,” he growled, cupping her ass in his hand.

  She pushed up, her thighs tightening around his hips. His hand opened, closed, and her panties fluttered away behind them as they soared back up—a lacy white flag of surrender.

  Then, before she could do any more thinking, his fingers sank deep inside her. She pressed down into his touch, savoring the raw intimate connection. His knuckles pressed against her and sensation streaked through her. One callused finger stroked the side of her clit. With each gentle stroke, with each long, luscious minute, the swing sailed higher and smoother. The muscles in his thighs bunched beneath her legs and her rear.

  “Don’t make me wait.” Leaning forward, she nipped his bottom lip, savoring his harsh groan.

  “You feel damned good.”

  “Make me feel better,” she whispered throatily.

  “Sure will,” he promised. Swiftly, he rolled on a condom, before lifting her up. He took her weight and lowered her slowly down over his penis. Her bare thighs rubbed against his denim and the sweet, hot push of that hard shaft inside her drove her crazy. His mouth found her throat, and pressed a greedy kiss against her skin.

  “Yeah,” he groaned. “Ride me just like that.”

  In. And then the long, slow slide out. Once. Twice. Oh, God. She lost count and hung on, her nails marking his shoulders.

  She was so close.

  The muscles in her thighs burned and each deep thrust had her trembling with the pleasure.

  God. So close, close, close. The forest came up, then fell away. The whole world could see her riding Sam, driving them both over the edge.

  Afterwards, it was a sweet glide back down to earth. His arms wrapped around her, holding her tight, and her head pressed against his shoulder and the cotton T-shirt beneath her cheek. She wanted him naked. Now.