“What do you mean? She could live, that’s a happy ending.”
“She could. I hope she does. But you saw the extent of her burns. They’re not going to heal easily. If they heal at all, it means a lifetime of debilitating scars.”
“Right, a lifetime. Are you saying it would be better if she’d died?”
“Of course not,” he bit out, not taking his gaze from the road. It wasn’t a long drive, and he’d managed to survive most of it with her blathering on in that verbal decompressing way she had of thinking through events with her mouth.
They pulled into the camp’s lot and he exited the truck, leaving her to follow in his wake.
She held her tongue until they were back inside the cabin, where no one would overhear.
“Tell me what you mean, then. Because I have rolled your words around in my head at least twenty times since we parked, but it still sounds to me like you think her death would have been better.”
“You’re twisting what I said. That baby’s too young to understand now, but once he grows up, even if she survives, he’s going to think of what happened to her every time he looks at her. Every time he sees those scars, he’s going to know she got them because of him. If she dies, he’ll know it’s because of him. There is no happy ending. There is only life or death.”
“It won’t matter to him knowing how much she loves him?” she said, recalling their conversation on the bus. It hadn’t gotten through as much as she’d hoped it had.
He did look at her then, standing in the cabin, hands rolling at the wrist from the tension she could see biting through his peace. “What he’ll know is if he hadn’t been there, she could’ve run the other way.”
It always came back to that. To this notion he’d caused his mother’s death somehow.
“Is that what you think about your mom?” she asked, unable to keep her voice level. “You think if you hadn’t been born, they would’ve saved her? Or if she’d gone first, something no good mother would ever do, she would’ve ever been the same if she’d lost you?”
“If I hadn’t been born, there would’ve been time to save her, yes.” He conveniently ignored her other question, because there was no way around it—or the concept just shut him down. It seemed to have done so on the bus.
Which was fine. He wasn’t ready to deal so she’d fight him on the front he offered. “If I hadn’t been born, my mother might not have died of breast cancer. Pregnancy hormones very likely triggered her cancer. Is it my fault she died?”
“That’s health stuff. It’s different.”
“It’s exactly the same. You’re saying if you were never born, your mother could still be alive. If I was never born, my mother could still be alive. So, answer me. Is it my fault she’s dead?”
“No,” he said softly, then thumped onto the small, lumpy sofa, head in his hands. “Do we have to talk about this? We worked together well. We got the job done. You wanted to know what I was thinking. I told you. Why does it have to be a fight?”
“It’s only a fight when you’re thinking things that make no sense.” But maybe he needed to hear these things said out loud to see that. He was talking to her now, and, as angry as his words made her, shutting them down wasn’t going to help him. “Am I not supposed to try and talk you out of thinking this way? Just let you say these things that you know are wrong?”
“I don’t know they’re wrong. They’re wrong in your head, you weren’t there.”
She couldn’t contain the breath that rushed out of her, and she suddenly couldn’t keep standing either. Two steps, and she sat beside him. “You’re right, I wasn’t there. So, tell me what you want me to do.”
His laugh was mirthless, and he leaned back, laying his head on the back of the sofa so he could stare at the ceiling. “You don’t want to know what I want you to do.”
The words would’ve sounded depressed but for the undercurrent of bitter amusement.
She didn’t want to know?
Suddenly, she knew she did want to know. And, was pretty sure she knew already.
He didn’t want help working through this. He wanted help forgetting about it.
She stared at his profile—strong jaw, angular cheekbones, long eyelashes entirely wasted on a man—then let her gaze track down over his shoulders, chest, arms with enough definition the muscle always looked flexed one way or another.
He was a sight, one she enjoyed looking at.
Having an unreasonable voice on eternal loop in her head got exhausting, and hers had just broadcast the ways she wasn’t good enough. His blamed him for the death of his mother. She couldn’t shut hers up, and she didn’t even have to wonder if he could his.
Tonight was too fresh a reminder of his loss, and even if she didn’t think the memory was ever far from his mind, she wanted to push it out. Wanted him to forget, at least for a little while. With her.
“Tell me,” she said softly.
He didn’t answer, but his breathing picked up.
“Tell me,” she said again, then reached over and brushed the backs of her fingers over his chiseled cheek.
He opened his eyes then and turned his head to look at her. “You’re playing with fire, Autry.”
Her skin heated just from the way he looked at her and she couldn’t help teasing. “Am I? It’s only a force of nature.”
“So am I,” he said, reaching for her. He picked her up for the second time today, this time pulling her onto him, not pushing her away. He guided her legs to either side of his hips so she straddled him, chest to chest.
She didn’t wait for him to kiss her, just wrapped her arms around his neck to pull his mouth to hers. This mouth that could say such terrible things to himself was still heady and bewitching against hers.
Large hands slid up and down her body, seeking, squeezing, tugging, palming her butt to grind her against him, tight enough she could feel every inch of his firm flesh against her. But his mouth claimed more—demanding and thorough, he might as well have been kissing every inch of her body, she felt it sparking and sizzling everywhere. Pleasure-seeking exploration that only took a moment to rocket into something needier.
There was some roughly handled material, a bra that might never fasten again, and him rolling onto the couch with her, pinning her beneath his big body, then kissing his way down every inch he wrestled free of fabric. Sucking, licking, dragging his teeth along her slender curves.
She’d meant to touch and please, but he didn’t hold still long enough for her to get her mouth anywhere near him. His curling black hair tickled the plane of her belly as he continued lower, not stopping until he had one of her legs over his shoulder and her staring, dazed, down at him.
“If you don’t want this, say it now, please.”
“Bed.” One word, the only word she could muster, loath as she was to interrupt his intentions. The next she knew, he’d picked her up and whisked her to the bedroom, never pulling his eyes from her face.
Despite telling herself it would be foolish to get involved with him, she’d become involved. She wanted to become more involved.
Seeing him tonight, the fear in him for her, for the people who needed them, the dark emotions that swam over him that he pushed aside to do the best he could for everyone. She’d be lying if she tried to pretend she didn’t want it to continue, to see what they could become together. She’d be lying if she tried to pretend she didn’t care in a way she knew wouldn’t ever diminish, even if she didn’t want to put a word to it.
That feeling had only grown stronger, and had ruined her from that first, secret jump he’d arranged. She’d be lying if she didn’t admit she’d known it would come to this since that following weekend, when, in a moment of honesty while in town, she’d bought condoms despite her declarations otherwise.
Beck laid her down on the bed, but didn’t join her. There was no seduction i
n the way he pulled and yanked at his own clothes, but the way his dark eyes roamed over her would stay with her forever. Appreciative, obsessed, soaked with enough want to leave his movements a little mindless. As soon as he’d stripped away anything that could separate them, he stretched out on the bed with her, and found her mouth again.
She loved the heat and demand in his kisses. The way he couldn’t seem to get close enough to her, his hands constantly moving, his mouth always wandering, only to lunge back to hers again, as if he couldn’t go long without her kisses. She loved that it wasn’t practiced or smooth. Outside that room, in their lives, they were both so in control, their bodies obeying when forced through the daily punishment that was their profession, but together, seeking only to fit together, they were both clumsy and uncoordinated, drunk on sensation and need.
With them finally skin to skin, every bit of physical control left. She barely remembered the protection in her bedside table, and it took three tries to babble some semblance of the words out. By the time she managed to get the drawer open, she’d knocked the table around so hard the lamp had fallen. Actually getting it on him required complete cessation of all touching.
He stood and staggered several feet from the bed, gasping and trembling, desperate and tearing at the foil with his teeth. It was only half rolled down when he was back on her and thrusting the thick length deep, face hovering above hers, eyes locked as he began to move. Under the ripples and spasms of pleasure his body wrought on hers, there was a connection that left her raw. Intense and overwhelming, the unavoidable truth she saw in his eyes crashed over her.
Avoiding the word didn’t change the feeling. She loved this man, every broken part of him, from the support he gave to the infuriating distance he threw up inexplicably; from the fierce heart that would risk everything to save someone, to the still-wounded little boy she caught in glimpses. Brave and a little crazy, but wasn’t she too?
* * *
Beck so rarely indulged physical needs he’d either forgotten how it felt to be wrapped up in a woman, or had never been so thoroughly wrapped up before this woman. So wrapped up, nothing else mattered. The whole world could be turning to ash and soot, and he’d still want another hour with her, another minute. There was nothing else. Just her and him, no past to haunt them, no future holding bounty or punishment, nothing but right now, right here. The way she gripped him. The heat of her. His name sighed, whispered, pled. Her beautiful eyes, watching him, holding him, seeing him.
He was as shocked and gutted by the bonds he felt weaving around them both as by the pleasure of her touch, by his own urgency—moving too fast, too hard, too driven by primitive needs he could no more control than the weather.
He didn’t know how long he’d been there, locked with her, moving in her, taking and giving, only that it wasn’t long enough. Her strong, silken body had already tightened past the point of no return, and he saw it in her eyes. No shielding, no hiding, no bolstering of her confidence. Her kind, loving heart shone in her eyes, and she let him see everything, the depth of her feeling for him, and how much he could hurt her if he wasn’t careful.
When her climax hit, her eyes took on an unfocused quality that wavered with every quaking pulse of her orgasm, taking him with her.
By the time the madness passed, his strength was gone. He could do nothing but lie against her, his head on her breasts.
He was vaguely aware of her brushing his hair back from his face, and then nothing—the emptying he’d been after since that terrible day last season when it had all gone wrong.
All he knew was that he couldn’t lose her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“WHAT ARE WE going to do when training is up?”
Beck hadn’t fully opened his eyes yet, and she patted his shoulders and asked again.
“I don’t know.” Still too spent to do much more than slide off her and up the bed so he could pull her to him rather than smashing her into the mattress. “Somewhere. Can’t make real plans when we don’t know where you’ll be stationed.”
“Or if we’ll make it through training without another strike.” She settled her head on his chest, but there was enough tension in her shoulders to show the possibility of a third strike weighed on her.
He just didn’t know if it should. She might be going all in on a life she wouldn’t have even chosen if she’d been allowed to find peace and acceptance in her fire station.
It was still too early to start that conversation, but he had to say something. “Do you want to go to breakfast or sleep more?”
It was Saturday, they could lie in bed all day with the door closed and no one could say anything to them, though they might start a few rumors.
“Maybe one of us should go get breakfast so we have strength later.”
“Later?”
She pulled from his arms and eased out of bed, moving somewhat stiffly. “For all the sex I’m planning to demand.”
Even in the face of her moving like she was sore, he smiled. An easy smile, unfamiliar as that was. “Are you stiff because of all the sex I demanded, or the day before that?”
“Pretty sure the day before. Fire on top of all-day calisthenics.” She dug clothes from the bureau. “I’ll get breakfast. You’ll get dinner.”
“And lunch?”
“I’ll get extra breakfast, because between the demanding sex, there will be more sleep and I’m not sure that leaves time for three cafeteria runs.”
“We also need to make time to talk about something.”
She froze, pants pulled half-up, eyes wide. “What is it?”
From playful to fearful just because he wanted to talk?
“Really?” He pushed onto his elbows. “After everything, after planning the day in bed, you think I want to have a breakup talk? Or a this meant nothing to me talk?”
She pulled her pants the rest of the way up, but now moved with less energy.
“Well?”
She shrugged in a helpless but disgusted-with-herself way. “Maybe. Before you said that.”
He dragged himself up from the bed and didn’t stop until he had her sweet face in his hands and shared a long, promise-filled kiss. “How about now?”
“Pretty much not now, but curious.” Sparkling eyes, pressing closer, her voice slid to seduction.
Almost as eager to get back to bed as he was.
“I can do without breakfast.”
“Well, I can’t.” She kissed the center of his chest, then pulled away to finish dressing. “I’ll hurry, though.”
Fifteen minutes later, she climbed back into bed with the food and a caddy of coffee, and kicked off her shoes. “Spill it.”
“Don’t want to eat first?”
“You said it wasn’t bad.”
“I said it wasn’t a breakup talk, but you might still get mad.”
A grunt answered him, and she shoved a breakfast sandwich at him. “Talk fast.”
With last night’s fire in his mind, and how she’d moved through it, he said, “I’m wondering if you really want to be a smokejumper.”
* * *
Beck’s words should’ve sounded like a question but rang in her head like a final statement. A statement built to make her hackles rise.
“Why else would I be doing this?”
He didn’t answer for a very long time, no doubt formulating a follow-up statement-question.
Don’t get mad yet. She had to mentally say the words to herself. Maybe he had some other reason for asking than criticism, but she’d heard no implication she couldn’t do it. “I want to be here.”
“I know you do,” he agreed, speaking slowly—as he usually did. “But do you want the job afterward?”
“That’s a weird thing to ask.”
“Play along?” he asked, and were it not for the concern she saw in his eyes, she might have said no.
He set his sandwich aside, and tugged the hem of her shirt up so she had to transfer the sandwich to get it off. “Let’s say you’ve just had the best day at work ever.”
“Okay.”
“What happened?”
She shrugged. “A fire?”
There went her bra. He moved on to her shorts. “Close your eyes. Tell me where the fire was.”
Being undressed while she was eating and being questioned by her lover about her career path meant at least thirty different sensations overloading her senses, not counting the knot of agitation that came from being questioned. The man spoke so infrequently she couldn’t discount anything he said as flippant—he didn’t do impulsive conversations, didn’t think as the words came out. He thought, probably for a long time, before deciding to speak.
She closed her eyes.
“Picture your most exhilarating day on the job,” he prompted again.
Not the easiest request. She laid the sandwich aside and concentrated.
He gave her a minute. “Tell me where you are.”
Where was she?
The picture should be a wildfire. A mountain, like that one bad jump. Or even working as a spotter from one of the planes, but that wasn’t what formed in her mind.
He didn’t prompt again, just left her to it as she worked through her own thoughts.
“House.”
Not usually a word that would make someone sad, but she felt the good feelings she’d been riding since last night float away.
“Are you saving someone?”
She nodded, then opened her eyes, trying to ignore the rotten hollow feeling in her belly.
“This doesn’t mean anything.” Even if she felt the weight of it squashing her insides. “I’ve been programmed to think like that since I was little. It’s a remnant.”
Suddenly, she didn’t want to play along anymore. And she really didn’t want to tell him she’d decided she had to come clean to Treadwell, despite having worked to get the experience she’d been lacking. At some point, probably after she finished training and they were more inclined to be forgiving. When it couldn’t become her third strike.
Rescued by Her Rival Page 13