Ready To Burn (Due South Book 3)

by Tracey Alvarez

  She shushed him with a finger on his lips. He could taste her, still—sweet, hot, better than any top-shelf drink he’d been craving. In fact, the craving seemed a distant itch in comparison to how much he wanted Shaye kissing him again.

  She shoved up his shirt, exposing his stomach and chest. Cool air danced over his skin.

  “Pretty.” A wet tongue circled his right nipple. “A juicy little bud just waiting to be licked.”

  Del choked back laughter and the desire to reclaim control of the little witch—then her hand slithered down his body, and a fingertip traced the ridge of his cock from base to head. His hips jerked, the laughter dying in his throat. The finger vanished, replaced with the light weight of her palm. Through the denim, her touch ignited his blood to a fast boil.

  Fuck. He was a goner.

  ***

  Not even her cranberry and dark chocolate chip cookies tasted as good as Del’s skin. She could’ve spent hours exploring the muscles spanning his chest, the ridge of his abs, and the narrow sprinkle of hair below his belly button—now he was at her mercy, and all.

  She ran her fingers over him again, and his breathing became choppy. Something about the power of watching him while he couldn’t see her removed her remaining inhibitions.

  Propping herself up on her elbow, Shaye studied the rest of him. Nicely muscled thighs filled out his long legs; strong corded arms developed from lugging heavy kitchen equipment all day, and tanned skin that disappeared beneath his waistband.

  Not to mention the package straining the front of his jeans.

  Holy-freaking-guacamole-with-spicy-salsa.

  She cupped him through the layer of buttery-soft denim. Thick, hard, he pulsed against her palm. Del made a small rough noise, his jaw bunching.

  Perfect. Revenge.

  Shaye slid her gaze along his golden skin to where the waistband of his jeans lifted off his flat stomach. She popped the button and eased the zipper half-way down. Another glance upward. Del’s Adam’s apple bobbed frantically.

  With a last ffzzzt, she finished unzipping him and peeled the denim edges apart. The smiley face boxers didn’t detract from what strained under the fabric. God, nothing was funny about this beautiful man’s body or how much she wanted him, even though she shouldn’t.

  She slipped her hand under the tented waistband of his boxers, raking through crisp hair and hot skin—finally wrapping her fingers around his girth. Her fingertips couldn’t quite meet around him.

  Wow.

  Her happy-place squeezed low and hard, and a fever flush travelled from hairline to tip-toes, threatening imminent combustion.

  Loosening her grip, Shaye slid her palm down his length and up again. Something bumped against her, and she glanced over her shoulder. His hand, clenched into a fist, knotted around the sheet near her bottom.

  Oh, he liked that, did he?

  She liked it, too, so she did it again.

  Del moaned a hoarse, gut-wrenching sound. She couldn’t help tease, because dammit, she remembered how badly she’d wanted him in Next Stop, Vegas…

  “Shhh, baby.” She pressed a feathery kiss on the head of his penis. “That’s all you get for now.”

  For a man supposedly drugged senseless with passion, Del moved freaking fast. One second she had her hand wrapped around him, and the next, the washcloth went flying, and he flipped her onto her back. Pressing her into the mattress, he kissed her, kissed her until she couldn’t think any more deluded thoughts about being in control.

  He pulled away, his eyes the blue fire of a gas flame, raking over her face as his breath came in harsh pants.

  “You. Are. A big. Tease.”

  “You teased me first.” She arched her hips, rubbing against him.

  “Better finish what I started.” He braced his weight on one arm, and his hand stroked down her body to bunch up her skirt.

  Finish what he…? Wait—what?

  His fingers trailed up her thigh, skimmed under the edges of her panties.

  Oh…right!

  Thank God she’d brought a spare pair of panties to change into after the dress fitting. “Del. Someone might…”

  He parted her thighs and cupped her through embarrassingly damp lace.

  Ohgodohgodohgod. They couldn’t do it now—here! Could they? Damn. She very, very much wanted to.

  “Yeah. Someone might.” He ran a knuckle over her cleft, and even with the barrier of fabric, his touch electrified. “Which is why I’ll let you keep your clothes on this time.”

  “This time.” She licked Sahara-dry lips.

  “Cupcake, this isn’t gonna be the main course. This is a hors d'oeuvre. A bite-sized taste of the real thing.”

  “Bite-sized.” Her turn to ache, to need, to lose her mind along with her ability to form complete, intelligent sentences.

  “Lift your bottom.”

  She obeyed, and he eased her panties down her legs and flicked them over her bare feet, then stuffed them into the pocket of his jeans.

  “Now, spread your legs.”

  Shaye sucked in a startled gasp, her thighs involuntarily squeezing shut.

  “Don’t make me go all bad-boy chef on you, baby.” He bent to nuzzle and suck the soft skin of her exposed throat, one large hand spanning her knee but not forcing her in any way.

  His fingers slipped off her knee and stroked higher, teasing through her soft curls. Her heart flittered and thrummed like a trapped bird.

  Ohgodohgodohgod.

  Her legs fell open without any further prompting.

  Del tracked one finger down the crease of her thigh—not, quite, touching. Her happy-place wailed in disappointment, but he moved to fondle her nipples that were drilling their way out of her bra. He smiled down at her, rendering her a quivering mess. His hand drifted down to rest on her bare hip—covering the small cupcake tattoo.

  Intimacy this intense was as unfamiliar to her as sky-diving—and almost as unwelcome. But she couldn’t pull back. Withdrawing wasn’t an option since every part of her screamed for his touch on a cellular level.

  “Please. I need you.” The whispered words pulled from her throat seemed to come from far away, from another time or from another woman who had far less inhibitions.

  “I know.”

  Strong fingers slid between her folds, stroking down her slickness before plunging deep, filling her, twisting her from the inside out with pleasure so raw she would’ve cried out if Del hadn’t kissed her again.

  His thumb found her core and rubbed with sure, precise strokes. The man touched her with the same intensity and passion with which he cooked. No hesitation, no asking permission, just focused on making magic.

  His tongue thrust into her mouth, mimicking the motion of his fingers—his magic fingers. Shaye writhed beneath him, bucking her hips in time with his strokes. Pressure built, and she wanted to claw him, rake her nails down his perfect butt and shred his clothes like a female version of Wolverine. She wanted to feel every inch of his hard body against her, inside her—but the orgasm came from nowhere and flung her wants into oblivion.

  Shaye whimpered, clutching at one rock-solid biceps, which anchored her in place while the world went to kaleidoscopic pieces.

  After her heart stopped needing a portable defibrillator, she let go of his arm. Del was propped on his side, a cat who’d gotten the cream look in his eyes, his smugness amplified by the action of leisurely licking his fingers.

  Somehow, that was light-years more embarrassing than the fact she still lay spread-eagle under him, recovering from the most mind-blowing orgasm in…well…ever.

  “Why are you looking mortified?” Del grinned down at her. “You taste as delicious as you look right now, all flushed and sated and sexy.”

  “God. Del…” She couldn’t think of one thing to say, not with her blood still galloping around her body. Not with her brain reduced to total gooey mush.

  “If we weren’t short on time, I wouldn’t be satisfied with just licking my fingers.” He br
ushed a light kiss over her mouth, and she could taste herself on his lips. “But I’ll keep savoring the anticipation.”

  Shaye wriggled out from beneath the leg he’d thrown over hers. She scuttled off the bunk bed, smoothing down her skirt and glancing at her watch, the two tiny hands a blur since she couldn’t stop trembling.

  “Someone’ll come looking for us soon; we must be nearly to the harbor.”

  Any excuse to get away from Del, who lay there with his jeans undone and low on his hips, the evidence he still wanted her front and center. He wasn’t the only one anticipating, and give her a few seconds, and she’d crawl onto the bed again. She darted a glance at him, and he grinned wickedly, as if he could read her mind.

  He stretched, rolling onto his back and tucking his equipment—Lord, he was so beautifully equipped!— into his jeans.

  “You go on now. I need to, ah, compose myself.”

  “Right. Okay, yeah,” she mumbled, then bailed like the big chicken she was, slipping out of the bunkroom and shutting the door behind her.

  “Hey!”

  Her head jerked up at the voice across the hall. Carly peered out from the doorway of the other stateroom.

  Oh, freaking crap.

  “Hi. Feeling better?” She pasted on her most innocent no, I haven’t been fooling around with your brother smile.

  “Meh,” Carly said. “Are we nearly there?”

  Shaye checked her watch again, forcing her brain to make a quick calculation. “Yes, about another fifteen minutes and we should be on dry land.”

  “Amen-thank-you-Jesus.”

  A cool whisper of sea breeze swept along the walkway and swirled up Shaye’s skirt. She froze, back against the wall, bare butt cheeks pressed to her cotton skirt.

  Double freaking crap! Del had her panties!

  Carly cocked her thumb to the right. “West and Piper still in there?”

  Shaye nodded, surreptitiously holding her skirt to her side in case another wind gust blew past her legs.

  The redhead’s gaze narrowed. “Del’s in there behind you, isn’t he?”

  No point lying, so time to call on whatever acting genes Shaye’d inherited from her mother. “Poor lamb is puking his guts up—he’s not much of a sailor. I was just checking on him.”

  “Checking on him, huh?” Carly’s pursed lips turned into a wide grin. “Is that a Kiwi-ism for kissing the turkey stuffing out of him?”

  Clearly acting wasn’t Shaye’s strong suite.

  “Absolutely not,” she said.

  Absolutely was—and she wanted to do it again. After she’d killed him for stashing her panties.

  “Uh-huh.” Carly mimed zipping her lips. “I got your back, almost-sister-in-law.”

  “It’s not like that,” Shaye said, and then at Carly’s raised eyebrows added, “Well, maybe a little. It was a moment’s insanity. A really crazy moment of insanity. Like certifiable.” Somebody slap her so her mouth would stop moving. “I’m shutting up now.”

  “It’s natural to feel a little crazy about the guy who put a hickey on your neck.”

  “What?” The word squawked out of her, and Shaye clapped a hand to her mouth. “He what?” She hissed in a lower tone.

  Carly chuckled and curled a finger. “Come with me. I’ve got a scarf in my bag you can borrow. We’ll kill two birds with one stone—no one’ll know about my brother’s vampire-like tendencies, and everyone’ll think you’ve accepted me as your new best buddy since we’ve graduated to the clothes-swapping stage.”

  Shaye hurried into Carly’s stateroom. “Far as I’m concerned, you are my new best buddy.”

  She touched a finger to the tingling spot on her neck, and although she wanted to be mad at Del for marking her, the feeling floating to the top of her emotional pool was a little more like pleasure.

  Chapter 11

  Stewart Island lived up to its reputation for crazy-ass weather the next morning. Del hoped Ethan Ward and his crew enjoyed their turbulent, twenty-minute flight over from Invercargill. He and West had taken Due South’s courtesy van to the airport to collect them and to help transport the crew’s equipment.

  “How many of these Hollywood nobs are we expecting again?” West said from beside Del as they lounged in a row of plastic chairs in Oban’s tiny airport terminal.

  “Terminal” being a generous term for a single-storied, shoebox of a building with an office desk and a single staff member who handled everything from bookings to luggage.

  Del rubbed his hands down the legs of his jeans—again. Jesus, sweating like a pig. “We get the bare minimum. Nine crew plus the talent’s personal make-up artist.”

  “The talent being Ethan. You don’t like this dude, do you?”

  “Never met him. And it doesn’t matter whether I like him or not.”

  West grunted, slouched farther into the plastic seat. “Me and Pipe watched a couple of episodes of Ethan’s last TV series. Is he for fucking real?”

  “Nothing’s real in Hollywood, West. Nothing and no one.”

  West laced his hands over his stomach. “You included?”

  “Some days I’d say yes.”

  An empty plastic bag cartwheeled down the runway and disappeared into a thick grove of trees with branches waving like crazed football fans. Heavy droplets of rain pelted the airport windows and glass sliding doors.

  “Then as your brother, I’m telling you to quit chasing Shaye. She is real, and she’s got real feelings. She can’t disguise them at the best of times—like when she’s got a killer poker hand or somebody’s getting on her last nerve—and she sure as shit can’t hide her feelings about you. She’s giving you the same sappy glances she gives to Donny when he whines.”

  Much as he hated being compared to a dog, Del realized West was right. Everything Shaye thought showed on her face—the woman was completely transparent.

  Del shot a sideways glance at his brother. “I’m not chasing her, and there are no feelings, real or otherwise, involved.”

  West sat up straight, while Del’s knee started bouncing like crazy. He felt like a thirteen year old again—like when West had threatened to punch Del’s lights out if he continued making puppy eyes at one of the summer girls West lusted after. Even then, Del’d known West wouldn’t have smacked him, so Del had shrugged off his brother’s threats…especially as the girl in question had a laugh like a hyena on meth.

  Shaye was a different matter—he didn’t like West’s implication that Shaye’s feelings were directed at Del. Neither of them should have any sort of feelings for the other. Feelings were a big-assed red flag for someone’s gonna get hurt.

  “You douchebag. You’ve already slept with her, haven’t you?” West punched Del in the biceps. “Fuck’s sake, Del.”

  West kept his voice low, since the terminal’s only employee, Robert, hovered at his desk, typing on his computer, presumably figuring out the best social media websites for posting candid photos of Ethan Ward.

  Del continued to stare straight ahead, but blood thundered around his body. His brother was right. He was a total douchebag. He should never have touched Shaye.

  “I haven’t slept with her.” Yet. But hell, he wanted to, needed to—needed her. “We’re not discussing this now.”

  “Leave her alone, Del.”

  His heart wrenched again. “I tried, West. I fucking tried.” He couldn’t say he was still trying though, since he’d gone way past the point of walking away without having her first.

  “You like her? Or are you messing around?”

  “Thought we weren’t discussing this?” At his brother’s pointed stare, Del threw up his hands. “Okay. Fine. I like her.”

  West’s shoulders slumped as he stretched out his legs again and lounged on the plastic seat. “Dad’ll be pissed if you break his sous chef’s heart. If he were well enough today to come with us, he’d be threatening to fry up your junk in his six-inch pan.”

  The mention of his father did nothing to stop the spikes pounding in
Del’s head. Invercargill hospital had called a couple of days earlier to let him know the blood results. He’d passed stage one. Which meant he now couldn’t hide behind ignorance. He had to make a decision. Was he prepared to submit to the next, more invasive round of testing? And then—well…then he had to decide whether he’d allow surgeons to hack out a kidney and transplant it into a man who kissed him off thirteen years ago.

  He wanted to hate the old man still. But Bill didn’t seem anywhere near as cantankerous and cold as in Del’s memory. The other day, when Bill helped with morning prep, Del found himself laughing at his father’s dead-pan jokes.

  Del folded his arms and stared out the window. “I don’t want to break Shaye’s heart or anyone else’s.”

  Outside, a small plane, wings dipping erratically, zipped into view and landed on the runway. Del stood, walking to the sliding doors as the plane taxied to a crawl, and then drew to a halt opposite the terminal.

  “She and I both know the score.”

  “That’s the biggest bullshit cliché ever invented.” West stood alongside him. “There’s no scoring in Shaye’s mind. Once she decides you’re hers, she’ll never let you go. You’ll rip her to shreds when you leave.”

  “Who says I’m leaving?”

  West inhaled sharply, and Del’s teeth clicked together. Where the fuck did that come from?

  He slanted his brother a quick look and found West staring as if Del’d sprouted a sparkling white unicorn horn.

  “You’re staying?”

  Outside, the plane door opened, and a uniformed pilot hopped out. The man cranked the stairs down, and moments later, Ethan Ward, in jeans and a battered leather coat, came into view. Ethan…Del’s ticket back to his real life in LA—or Chicago, since he’d burned his bridges on the West coast.

  Would he consider staying here? The ass end of the world? Sure, he’d be the big fish in a small pond, as opposed to a tiny guppy in a shark’s tank like he was in the States. But seriously? Staying on Stewart Island?

  Del shook his head then scratched at his freshly-shaven jaw. “You know me—knee-jerk reaction is to argue with you.”

  He made light of it with an elbow to West’s ribs, but West just held Del’s gaze for three long beats.