". . . horribly," he replied to Dyna. "Things are going horribly."
Just that morning, he had gotten out of the shower and accidentally stepped on the tail of Alex's cat, Raphael. The orange tabby had streaked off like a bat out of hell, yowling, and Alex had flown out of her room partially dressed as if she fully expected to find her cat being murdered.
Landon, for his part, had been pursuing the cat, wrapped only in a towel . . . a towel that turned out to be covered in cat hair.
"Landon, I told you before, you have to be careful getting out of the shower!" Alex had exclaimed. "Raphael always goes in there when I get up in the morning!"
"I closed the door!" Landon had shouted back at her. Even now, he couldn't be certain why he shouted, only that he felt compelled to match Alex's volume. "He must have opened it!"
"He's a cat, Landon. Are you kidding me?"
And I don't trust cats as far as I can throw them, he wanted to say, but refrained from mentioning it. The last thing he needed was for Alex to throw him out for suspecting him of purposefully mistreating Raphael. And as for accidentally . . . "I swear I did. I even locked it. He must have been hiding in there before I got in. And anyway, maybe you should think about instituting a new rule to keep the door closed at all hours." He pulled the top of his towel away from his waist and glanced down his navel, considering. "He must sleep in the towels, because I'm covered in cat fur."
"Sorry, but that comes from living in a house that has a cat in it." Alex stared at where he had separated the towel from his skin. Her expression was almost worried, but Landon knew that wasn't it. In fact, if he didn't know any better—if Alex hadn't talked so incessantly about boundaries already—he could have sworn she wore the look of a woman exceedingly interested in what he was hiding beneath his towel. He thought it might be her own interest that worried her.
"Cats are useless," he blurted out. The heat of her eyes was causing him to stir physically, and he wanted to get an equal rise out of her to distract from it.
"Cats are not useless!" she protested.
"Dogs are better."
"Dogs are not better!"
His eyes raked her figure. Did his glance deceive him, or had she been halfway to removing her bra beneath her scrubs before she came running out into the hall?
He stepped nearer. He thought about dropping the towel around his waist, but wasn't sure yet that the calculation would pay off.
Alex gazed up into his eyes.
"I'm a dog person," he said at last.
"Of course you are." She didn't look away.
"What's that supposed to mean? You make it sound like I just insulted myself."
"And while we're talking about what kind of people we are, Landon," she had said as she turned from him. "You should probably know that I'm a widow. So don't try anything. Now or . . . in the future. And stay the hell away from my cat."
I'm a widow, Landon.
I'm a widow.
Now, Landon dropped his face into his hands. Dyna made a sympathetic tutting noise and rubbed his back. "Am I the only one who didn't know?" he asked finally. "About Alex. Am I the only one who—?"
"It's common knowledge around these parts what happened to Henry," Dyna said. Her intuition was sharper than a chef's knife and as on point as ever. "Seeing as you're not from around here, I assume whatever sins you've committed can be forgiven."
That's the problem, Landon thought as he walked home alone that afternoon. It's the sins I'm not committing that are driving me crazy.
About ten minutes into his walk, a hoarse yip drew him from his thoughts. Landon looked up and saw a four-legged shadow flanking him between buildings. The dog froze when it noticed him looking. Its tail gave a half-hearted wag of greeting.
"Hey there. I remember you. How you doing? You healing up all right?" Landon called to it. The dog wagged again, then it turned and bolted off down the alleyway.
Landon sighed. "I knew I didn't just dream you up," he muttered, gazing after the elusive creature. He wasn't sure what else he could do about the dog.
And he still wasn't sure what to do about Alex.
Dyna had given him the lowdown on Alex’s Henry. He had been a police officer, she’d said, and a hell of a good one before he passed away. Landon understood then that Henry was the clean-cut face of the man staring out of most of the photos scattered around Alex's house. Considering the man himself didn't reside with Alex, Landon had always assumed the cop was a brother of hers . . . and if he had thought to assume otherwise on occasion, he’d never asked. He figured it wasn't his place.
Maybe there was just a part of him that hadn't wanted to know the answer.
I don't care that you're a widow, Alex. I want you. I have feelings for you.
He recited the words mentally, but he had no real intention of saying them to her as he climbed the porch and shouldered open the door. It was unlocked, and Alex's car was in the driveway.
He found her stirring a steaming pot of chili in the kitchen in shorts and a T-shirt. Raphael wound around her bare legs. Landon swore the cat knew exactly what he wanted and was teasing him now by showing the easy proximity he could get to Alex's slender calves.
Fuck, he needed a drink.
"Those are my beers," Alex pointed out as he pulled open the fridge behind her and fished out the first six-pack within reach.
"Better grab two of them, then."
"Chip in a few dollars and you can drink them both," she said. "It's likely I'll be called in tonight—hey, what are you doing?"
Landon had closed the fridge. He’d left the beers forgotten. He’d been wrong about what he thought he needed. The thirst in him wouldn't be satisfied with a lonely bottle of cold ale.
He moved behind Alex and dialed the stovetop down until it shut itself off. She turned inside the cage of his arms, an angry remonstration hovering on the tip of her tongue. He could see it forming there.
He decided to taste it instead.
"Lan—"
He caught the second half of his name in his mouth as he kissed her.
Alex made a muffled sound of surprise and dropped the spoon she held. It clattered to the floor, splashing hot and spicy red splatters in every direction, and Raphael tore out of the kitchen with a startled yowl.
Good. Landon didn't exactly want to share right now.
His hands roamed down Alex's body, desperate to feel her shapely legs and move along those maddening curves. She gasped and gripped his head as his mouth dropped to her neck, her shoulders, her heaving breasts . . . his kisses raced along every inch of her like they were running out of time.
In a way, Landon was running a race. He was racing against their better senses. He had to convince her it was worth crossing the finish line before they had even pulled the trigger on the starting pistol.
"Landon—!" When she was finally able to voice his full name, it was beautifully strained. His hands, his mouth—they were having an effect on her. Both of her hands alighted on his shoulders as if it had been her original intention to forestall him, but she had forgotten.
His lips skimmed back up the curved angle of her neck. She shuddered at the mercy of his mouth.
"I don't care that you're a widow." He breathed them out then. The words. "I want you, Alex. I want all of you. It's driving me crazy not having you."
"We can't—" she protested.
"Why can't we? There's nobody here but you and me. And I know you want this, too." He yanked her against him. In that moment, he needed to feel her as much as he needed her to feel him. His cock thickened, stiffening upright with the proof of his desire. He heard Alex's gasp before she closed her mouth over the sound to try and hide it. He leaned in and forced her lips open again with his own. This time, her tongue retaliated against his invasive sweep. It wound around his, returning every plunge and stroke, until Landon found he was the one reduced to moaning. He tugged her close again, felt the press of her slender body against the firmness of his need.
"I do wan
t it." Her admission was also a plea. "I do."
"Then what's stopping you? What's stopping us?"
"Oh God, I don't know anymore!" He kissed her behind her ear and she went rigid beneath him. "I can't think. Give me a second—!"
"Fresh out of seconds," he whispered. His apology was also a promise. "Let us have this, Alex. Let me have you. I want you more than you can possibly imagine."
He groaned explosively as a hand came up between his legs and grabbed hold of him. Alex's hot palm kneaded his erection, and he thrust into her touch unselfconsciously. He needed more: more heat, more friction. He needed it like he needed the wildfire. He needed the conflict, the resolution, the being needed . . .
"Fuck it," Alex gasped against him. Her mouth was suddenly on his ear, and electricity shot down the back of his neck.
He moved his head aside, cupped her face, and captured Alex's kiss. Their tongues clashed in a twisting dance as he pressed her back against the kitchen counter.
Dinner would have to wait.
Chapter 8
Alex
Alex knew she was in trouble.
She definitely knew it when Landon pulled her so close she was forced to jump and hike her legs around his waist. Yes, forced, she told herself as their lips continued to collide passionately. She had no choice in the matter, none at all . . . not if she wanted to keep kissing him.
Which she did.
And that was why she was in so much trouble.
Landon spun them both around. He was taking them somewhere, but Alex wasn't sure where . . . she could barely concentrate on anything outside of the hot crush of his lips and the hand roaming along the curve of her ass. A shiver raced through her as she let herself be touched, anywhere and everywhere, by the infuriating man she had allowed to move in and throw her life into chaos. Hadn’t she been the one to talk so fastidiously of boundaries? Why hadn’t she ever outlined any of those for where his hands were allowed to go? And what her own legs were allowed to wrap around, for that matter?
They were out of the kitchen—out of the living room. Fuzzily, she thought she knew where he was headed. It was the same room she had caught him outside on more than one occasion, late at night, when she rose unexpectedly to go and get a glass of water. Twice, she had discovered a shirtless Landon on the other side of her door; once, he had played it off like he was only headed to the bathroom. The other time, he had mentioned his burns . . . and Alex knew it was an excuse to throw her off the scent of his real motive. Landon never brought up his burns unless asked.
Now, he shoved open her bedroom door and maneuvered her down onto the bed. The mattress sagged beneath their combined weight. Alex's head spun as she found herself both cradled and cratered beneath a well-muscled male body. She had convinced herself that four years wasn't that long a time to go without sex, but she was hyperaware of everything that came into focus now: the familiar creak and settling of the bed, the rising temperature of the room . . . and Landon's powerful body eclipsing hers, seemingly everywhere at once. The breadth of his shoulders could fill the whole house they now shared.
It's too much. It's too soon. The panicked thoughts cannoned around her skull. Alex listened to them, paralyzed, even as his fingers slipped beneath the collar of her shirt and his lips followed.
Four years is too soon?
You can't do it here. You can't do it in the bed you shared with Henry.
I threw the old bed out.
You're still betraying him.
Around and around it went, a constant carousel of doubt and mistrust of herself. Of fear. Well, Alex wanted off the shitty carnival ride for one night. She wanted to scream and beat her fists against the furniture (old or new), rip Henry's picture off the refrigerator, and give her body what it so desperately needed. She needed Landon's hands, blazing a hot trail along her writhing curves. She needed the way he pinned her, the way he pressed all his weight down on her, the way the hard angles of his pelvis slid against her own. She thought she must have been going slowly crazy for years before she had met him and had only just now been informed that there was a pill, a remedy, to the creeping madness taking her over from within.
"Landon," she panted, and, "yes."
What more was there to say, really?
He groaned in helpless surrender, then, and Alex realized the effort it must have taken him to hold himself back for so long. Being in her proximity must have taken its toll. What silent price had Landon been willing to pay to respect her boundaries? A shudder coursed through her, and she realized that the thought of a man desiring her so intensely was a massive turn-on. She didn't care if it made her shallow—and she definitely didn't care if a need for release that trumped every other consideration in that moment made her worse than shallow. She didn't just want this, she needed this—and judging by the darkening timbre of Landon's voice, so did he.
Those hands that doused fires ignited them now. His callouses skated along every squirming curve of her. Despite giving her express permission to be taken, Alex suddenly found that she couldn't hold still.
It had been too long, and no amount of self-pleasure she had given herself in the intervening years could compete with the living, delving hands of a lover. Landon's exploratory touches were the opposite of restrained, or even hesitating—he caressed every inch of her as if he were a blind man mapping a long-quested terrain. His palms moved beneath her clothes, skimmed up and down her navel, glanced along the heaving outline of her breasts until Alex had to stop her throat to keep from begging him further. She still had some dignity left, despite their compromising position . . . no way was she going to plead with Landon Brenner to go further, faster. Just a few weeks ago, she had occupied a position of relative authority over him; and now—
Now he thrust his hands beneath the twin cups of her bra. Alex gasped and bucked up off the bed beneath him, but he pinned her unruly hips with his own. The increased pressure, the suddenly display of physical dominance, made her inner thighs turn to jelly. Landon was so cordial by the light of day, so much the classic, consummate gentleman, that experiencing him now in this way was something of a panty-drenching revelation.
It was only now Alex realized how disconnected she had allowed herself to become from her body. She thought she knew every inch of herself that required gratification, and she had dealt with her urges over the years with dismissive, borderline-guilty expedience. She was a driven, working widow: Orgasm was a requirement to get through her week, and often she could take care of it within minutes. She habitually detached herself in her fantasies: She didn't allow herself to think of Henry, to dwell on memories of their intimate time together, nor did she let herself imagine any other man moving between her legs.
It was only recently, after Landon had moved in, that she had found herself taking more and more cold showers . . . that she found her hand wandering between her legs late at night under cover of darkness. Even during the daytime, she touched herself to thoughts of him—before pulling her hand back suddenly as if an invisible nun had swatted it with a ruler.
Now, in this moment, she didn't have to fight herself anymore. And best of all, she didn't have to imagine. It was the flesh-and-blood Landon palming her breast, experiencing for himself just how hopelessly aroused he made every inch of her.
Her nipples weren't the only thing tightening rapidly as a result of his fondling. She felt the damp walls of her womanhood loosen and contract, already anticipating the deep friction that would satisfy. She hadn't realized how much she needed to be filled until the moment she felt Landon's clothed erection press against her.
He groaned at the contact as if it was painful, when Alex guessed the opposite was true. He rubbed himself against her again and confirmed her thoughts.
"Do you . . .?" She was too embarrassed to get the words out suddenly, and bit down on her lower lip to stop it from trembling on the rest of her sentence.
Thankfully, Landon seemed to have gained the ability to read minds. He whipped around, only long
enough to fish a square package out of his back pocket. Alex's heart fluttered at the sight.
They were doing this. They were really doing this. The condom question had been her last stalling tactic, the last door closing on any possible escape.
It was a profound moment when Alex realized that she really, really did not want to escape this. She gazed up into Landon's eyes, certain she must have looked stricken at his preparedness because Landon now looked down guiltily. Not that looking in that direction helped any: Her naked breasts thrust upward proudly from where he had excavated them from her bra.
"How long have you had that on you?" She reframed her query to fill the sudden, tense silence. It wasn't awkward, but obvious anticipation charged the air between them. If she thought this was the moment of no return, then Landon must have thought so also.
"You wouldn't like it if I told you 'since I moved in'," he replied.
Alex supposed she had her answer. "I figured they didn't sell them at the hospital store," she quipped as she drew him back down. The wrapper crinkled audibly as Landon braced himself on the bed.
"Why?" Landon asked as he lowered himself further to whisper in her ear. "Have you ever checked?"
"Let's just say I never had a need to," she replied. "Most of my male patients behave themselves better than you do."
"And just look how far my bad behavior got me."
Talk of him being a patient served as a much-needed reminder for Alex in that moment. She scrutinized the bandages around his arms as Landon sat back to tear open the condom package. She even allowed her hands to linger a moment on his bulging biceps, trying to convince herself she was satisfying clinical curiosity rather than a long-held desire to test their firmness with her own hands.
He flexed beneath her touch, although she had a feeling it was a subconscious response. He was a virile male specimen, and something deep within him needed her to understand his strength.
"Landon . . . wait a moment," she interjected breathlessly. "Your injuries—"
"Nothing hurts," he replied, which Alex knew was an absolute lie. Still, as her eyes searched his, she couldn't identify any telltale tightness or see any pained creases.
Californian Wildfire Fighters: The Complete Series Page 17