by Anne Marsh
Being kissed by Sarah Jo is so much better than anything I’ve imagined—and I have a great imagination. While her tongue explores my mouth with the enthusiasm of an orchestra racing toward the crescendo of a really awesome symphony, I kiss her back as much as she allows. I’m not just gonna be the audience on this kiss—after all, we’ve already got one. I’m dimly aware of raucous background noise as my fellow Rogues whoop and holler. Pretty sure even the kitchen staff is getting into it, laughing and waving the verbal pom-poms for us. As if I could stop this kiss. As if I’d want to. Mostly, though, I’m aware of the woman in my arms and the sweet scent of her pressed against me. Whether it’s shampoo or perfume, or some secret female thing, she smells damned good.
When she pulls back, her lips pink and swollen, and tries to dance away from me, I hold on tight. That mischievous smile of hers tugs at the corner of her mouth.
Too bad for her I’m not done with her yet.
Tossing the tray away, I scoop her closer with one arm. “Honey, I’m definitely wanting seconds today.”
Sarah Jo
Pick threads big hands through my hair, holding me in place for his next kiss. He’s either forgotten about or doesn’t mind our avid audience, because his mouth covers mine in a take-no-prisoners kiss. He pulls me into his body, a body that’s every bit as hard and muscled as I’ve fantasized—and I’ve done more fantasizing than is good for me. It’s hard not to notice how strong Pick is, from the muscled forearms I’m clutching like a sexual lifeline to the way his shoulders stretch the cotton of his T-shirt. Everything about him shouts that he’s got your back, that you’re safe from everything and everyone. My inner cave girl squees with delight—she’s not totally on board with my no man—stand on my own feet plan.
When Pick kisses me again, the rest of me rejects the plan, too. God, he’s gorgeous. He’s got brown hair that’s just long enough for me to run my fingers through, but not quite long enough to hold onto. Pick’s the kind of fantasy man who slips through your life, your arms, your dreams. But the way he grins… his whole smile lights up his face and you just have to like him. He’s built like an ox—or a stallion. A really big, really hung stallion. This man is Grade A, panty-melting male.
The firm press of his lips follows that full-body caress and then his teeth nip my lower lip with a sweetly erotic sting. When I gasp, he sweeps inside like he belongs there and he’s just been waiting for me to open up and hang out the welcome sign.
The whole gosh-darn fire camp could burn down around us now. I don’t care—screw fire safety. I want more of this. More Pick. More kissing. As first kisses go, this one is amazing and it’s going to be the crown jewel of my collection. His tongue strokes mine, mapping my mouth with slow, deliberate thoroughness and leaving behind a wicked burn of pleasure. Hell, the man kisses as if he’s the one in charge, and the heated arousal building low in my belly warns me that my body, at least, has zero complaints about the change in management because Pick is one hell of a kisser. Sliding my hands up over his arms, I hang on to his broad shoulders like some kind of sex-crazed kudzu vine as he deepens the kiss further.
This attraction exploding between us is a five-alarm blaze. Pick doesn’t pull his punches—he just goes all out as he devours the mouth I’ve offered him in lieu of pancakes. I’ve tossed a lit match into dry grass, and now we’re both on fire. His mouth moves expertly over mine as he plays a game of show-and-tell about how he’s feeling. Hungry. Possessive.
Unlike my city dates, who sport expensive colognes, Pick smells of smoke and pine, a woodsy, outdoor scent as wild and rugged as the man himself. He’s every lumberjack fantasy come to life, and he needs his very own warning label: smoking hot fireman… danger of smoke inhalation. Because when I breathe in, he just works his way deeper inside me. He’s big, he’s rough, and yet he’s impossibly careful in the way he holds me. This is no he-man clinch. I’m not bent over backward like a movie poster heroine. He wraps his enormous arms around me and holds me close while his mouth works wicked, dirty magic on the rest of me. The chest beneath his ash-smudged white T-shirt is as hard and unyielding as the muscled thighs pressed against mine, but I’ve already figured out for myself that there’s not an ounce of give in Pick.
But I’m not supposed to kiss him for real. This is just a hazing rite, a ritual so I can be one of the girls and hide in plain sight just a little more thoroughly. I’m the cook. He’s the firefighter. The only thing we have together should be pancakes—not the extremely thick, most impressive dick that makes its presence known when he tugs the plastic lunch tray from between us and tosses it somewhere. Away. If only his clothes would follow.
Pick’s big, protective, determined, and rough around the edges. So damn sexy. And for the cherry on my hotshot sundae, he’s out there fighting fires to protect homes and lives. That’s hero material right there.
The problem is, I’ve dated heroes before. Sometimes, heroes aren’t all that heroic when they get you alone and the capes come off. And I’m not precisely heroine material, either. Why would anyone want to rescue me? And why would I let them? This time, when I pull back, he lets me. And we both know it’s let. My girl parts sigh in happy protest because they’re really, really enjoying his alpha male lumberjack highhandedness even if my head’s shrieking danger danger.
Chocolate eyes stare at me, probably making connections I don’t need him to make because Pick’s as smart as he is pretty. Looking at him makes me want to do stupid things, like throw myself at him again, or maybe that’s just the rich, warm brown of his steady gaze making me want to lick him. Everywhere.
Pick regards me for another way-too-long minute. I’m not sure what he sees, but he slowly untangles his fingers from my hair. As he steps back with a polite nod of his head and a “Thank you, darling,” whoops and catcalls erupt from the hotshots watching the Pick and Sarah Jo Show. Our audience is clearly jonesing for a sequel.
Is that what I want?
He took charge of our kiss and then he just plain took over. So letting him know that he’s shaken me—woken me—to my very core isn’t an option. I’ll never let him know how close I came to losing control. Men like Pick don’t just take an inch. They take the whole goddamned mile and then some. Putting him in his place suddenly matters a great deal. He’s turned the tables on me and I need to turn them back. Fast.
I saunter back to the laughing, clapping cooks.
Game. On.
3
PICK
It takes twenty-four hours for me to get Hunter alone. The four-thousand acre fire blowing up the side of the nearby mountain is partially to blame for the delay. The blaze starts out small enough. The Rogues arrive and scratch out a line, shoveling dirt over the smoldering embers. But as the day goes on, more grass burns and the fire gets happier, although no trees catch. Right about dinnertime, however, Mother Nature picks a side, the wind kicks up, and we end up with flames crossing the line. The scene explodes, flames devouring the dry grasses and rushing upslope. Boxed in by cliffs, the fire’s crackle is overly loud, amplified by the rock walls. The tall, black column punching up into the sky guarantees that every breath I take is thick with smoke and the unmistakable smell of burning. Eventually, the fire’s head hits rocks upstream and dies, a lucky break, leaving only the treetops flaming, along with patches of smoldering grass.
Now, fighting fire becomes a routine mop-up followed by a quick break while we wait for the helicopter to swing by and lift us out and back to base camp before it gets too dark to fly. My teammates pass the time by giving me shit about my having been on the breakfast menu yesterday. Several produce videos shot on their phones, and I’m pretty certain we’re now Facebook stars. I take a bow, pretending that Sarah Jo’s kiss is just a prank. A funny stunt that means nothing.
Maybe it doesn’t.
Maybe I’m crazy for thinking that kiss came with possibilities.
I definitely understand the value of a good joke. I get that the camp cooks were teasing Sarah Jo and that I�
��d been a convenient bystander with a penis and a set of lips to kiss. Any other summer, any other woman, and I’d laugh it off right along with them. I’m not claiming to have fallen in love on the spot. Nope. Not claiming that at all. It’s just that I felt something when Sarah Jo kissed me, and I’m almost certain she felt that something right back. Maybe I believe in insta-lust. Or sex-ever-after.
Even if I’m not supposed to.
I don’t need the HR lecture to know that shaking the sheets with a co-worker is a dumbass move. After the orgasm, I still have to work with her—and she has to work with me. It’ll suck if having seen each other naked becomes an issue instead of spank bank material. Ergo, I steer clear of my co-workers, and that includes the camp staff. So it’s just too damned bad that Sarah Jo kissed me, because she put ideas in my head and now I’m curious.
Beside me, Hunter’s Pulaski chews through the iron-hard ground. Two regulation inches down and then straight back up, turning over the dirt nice and neat. Too bad it isn’t as easy to get a handle on Sarah Jo.
I give Hunter side eye, not breaking my own rhythm. Hunter’s all muscle and he can keep pace no matter how fast I dig. The front line is loud. Men shout over the roar of chain saws, almost drowned out by the crackle of the fire and the steady chop of the helo ferrying new crew in.
Too tired to bother with subtleties, I open with the truth. “You set me up.”
“That kiss?”
I shoot him a look and Hunter just grins. “Uh-huh.”
Hunter flips the Pulaski, dropping the hoe end down into the dirt and spreading it around. The line is good. The trees, however, are still a damned problem.
“Hazard tree,” I say, jerking my head toward the nearest snag. “She’s leaning and the fire’s got her good.”
Hunter tilts his head back and gives the tree a onceover. He comes to the same conclusion as me. “Let’s drop her.”
A quick round-trip to the pickup and he returns with a chain saw, the rest of the hotshots falling back to a safe distance.
I fall into step with him as we case the tree. It’s a big, gnarly motherfucker, slanting worse than the Tower of Pisa. The risk isn’t unacceptable, however, and we’ve got the team cleared out. Better to drop her safely before her top snaps off and lands on someone’s head. Good men die that way every year.
Hunter starts checking the chainsaw while he picks up our previous conversation. “Rumor has it those girls do that every year. It’s just a game to them.”
Yeah. That secret, unreasonable disappointment comes right back. Sarah Jo kissed me like she meant it. Had she? Or was it all just the game Hunter mentioned? She’s got a playful streak if the color in her hair and her T-shirt collection is any indication, but now that I’ve had a taste of her, I want more.
Lots more.
If she’s playing games, I’ll play. I totally rock at games. I’ll be in it to win it.
I smile. “She distracted me.”
Hunter grunts something unintelligible. I don’t think it’s encouragement.
“Have I ever told you how much I love games? I’m a huge fucking fan.” I pin my eyes on the snag, ready to call any movement. Doesn’t matter how dirty my plans are for Sarah Jo if my dick gets squashed by a falling tree. Since Hunter’s got a girl, I’m assuming he’s similarly attached to his equipment.
“Right.” Hunter yanks the cord and the chain saw roars to life. “More like you saw Sarah Jo standing there and you lit up like a Christmas tree.”
“Did not.”
Hunter shakes his head, making the first cut through the trunk. “Say what you want, but if I’d gone first, Lola would have killed me. Those girls are friends.”
“Maybe.” Lola’s definitely a firecracker—the kind with a really short fuse and an endless number of explosions. She’s all color and pinwheeling shit that lights everything up while you knock back a beer and try to figure out if it’s a dragon or a comet or cosmic poop up there in the sky. I consider pointing this out to Hunter but he’s already started on his second cut and he might be tempted to use the saw on me instead. He’s super touchy about any implied criticism of Lola.
Do you think she would have gone off on him if her own girlfriend had done the kissing? It’s hard to pass that kind of liplock off as an accident. You don’t just slip and shove your tongue into some random guy’s mouth. Still, Lola’s got a great sense of humor. She’s also not afraid to use her own mouth. I’m betting she’d either do a whole lot of yelling at Sarah Jo or simply kiss Hunter long enough that he forgot all about an unexpected lip-lock.
“You liked kissing Sarah Jo,” Hunter says. Okay. He fucking bellows it loud enough to be heard two states away because the chain saw’s not shy about making noise. The blades roar through the back-cut, and the snag topples. For a long moment, the charred treetop hangs there in the smoky air, undecided which way to fall.
Hunter makes a give-it-up gesture at me. See that look of glee on his face? The way his eyes light up and the corners of his mouth quirk? The bastard got an eyeful when Sarah Jo kissed me, and now he thinks he’s getting details. Which he’ll then share with Lola, who will turn around and unload on Sarah Jo. Do I look stupid?
I smile. “Watch the sky, hotshot. You’re not getting me to kiss and tell.”
Calling a warning, I step back. Right on target, the snag comes down in a slow-motion, flaming arc. The clearing lights up like a birthday cake for an octogenarian.
Hunter Black is no talker, either. He’s the one who first made friends with the bunch of women who’d rented out a string of cabins ignominiously called Baby Bears Lodge. If you’re going to name your place after wildlife, you should at least aim for the top of the food chain. Pick a badass predator—not something cute and fuzzy. However bad the name was, however, the cabins are now well-stocked with hot, lonely chicks hosting some kind of summer camp for adults. Hunter confided once that the girls called themselves the Break Up Club and that they were working through the end of their most recent relationships. Since club meetings seem to involve pajamas and ice cream, I can understand why Hunter chooses to stick around. Hell, if they add naked pillow fights to the agenda, I’d join.
Although, on second thought, that might be more of Hunter than I need to see.
Hunter, of course, seems perfectly happy that his days are seemingly numbered. “So was that kiss a onetime thing?”
Let’s pause that line of questioning, okay? Anytime someone starts questioning the future of a relationship, it’s quitting time. Time to hit the road, to get the fuck out of Dodge before things get even stickier. Sarah Jo kissed me. And she didn’t protest when I kissed her back, did she? I’m thinking that if the movie preview is that awesome, I’d be crazy not to see the whole show. Still, I go with the safe answer.
“Sarah Jo’s the boss.” I’m no prize. Hell, I’m working-class all the way. In the off-season, I own my own garage where I work as a mechanic. I pay my bills, but I’ll never be a California billionaire. I’ll never wear a suit. I like Budweiser, Monday Night Football, and burgers. That doesn’t mean I won’t try other things—when I look at Sarah Jo, I can imagine all kinds of things I’d like to try on her—but I prefer my shit simple and straightforward. Sarah Jo is going to be complicated as fuck. If I’m a straight line about sex and relationships, she’s some multivariate calculus—in Mandarin.
She kissed me—and then she let go so fast I still have whiplash. She peeled that pretty mouth of hers off mine and then she’d danced back behind the serving table. As the guys had jostled forward, elbowing me, I’d stared at her like an idiot. Thanks, she’d said, like I was just the Mr. Helpful who’d popped a lid on a jar or passed the salt.
Thanks doesn’t begin to cover that kiss. My dick is still singing Hosannas, my fingers itching to find her waist again. Yet she wants to pretend that nothing happened.
Hell, I’d half-expected her to call next, and I still don’t know what I’d have done then.
Because I’m going to be her next and her
last, at least as far as this summer goes.
3
sarah jo
The door to my eensy-weensy, closet-sized cabin shudders, waking me from a deep sleep and a very nice dream about a Prince Charming with a shoe fetish. The sound of determined pounding fills my ears, and taking the hint, I bolt off the lumpy mattress and grab my go-bag. Which is really just an extra-large tote with all of my essentials and some clean underwear, but I’ve prepared. I haven’t quite managed to diet down to a size that will fit out the bathroom window easily, but I’m banking on desperation adding oomph to my wriggle.
The door shakes beneath the force of a new blow. Shit. I’m busted, bagged, and nailed. Okay. Not nailed, although my dreamy Prince Charming was about to give it to me good. Focus.
I stumble toward the bathroom, clutching my getaway goods. I have to pee, I have to run, I have to…
“Emergency intervention!” Lola bellows from outside. Lola is a stage actress and a drama teacher, so her voice carries effortlessly through my locked door. My sleep-deprived brain is still a few pages behind in the script, so I need a moment to process the words. I haven’t been found. Everything’s fine, or as fine as it gets when you’re on the run and nearly broke and the big, bad wolf’s going to bite your butt any day now. Sometimes I think it would be easier to just sit down and wait. Screw the sick anticipation, right?
“Be right there,” I croak out. I’ve spent the last few months trying not to be noticed, so I have to repeat myself—twice—before Lola hears me. At least she stops knocking and goes away, although I know she’ll be back if I don’t make an appearance.
I shove my go-bag/purse back under the bed, grab a sweatshirt, and stagger out. It’s approximately dark o’clock, the sky a dense black like a squid pooped ink all over the stars. The late hour doesn’t seem to faze Lola, who’s now plopped cross-legged in front of our sleek new fire pit.