Forged in Fire

by Trish McCallan

  Her fingers knotted in the material of his scrubs as her muscles loosened, flushing with liquid fire. The damp flesh between her legs swelled. Throbbed in time to her heart.

  God, she ached for him. Ached for the long, hot stroke of him.

  She released his shirt and slid her hands up the hard plane of his back, relishing the way his muscles bunched beneath her fingertips. A sense of power engulfed her. She had done this to him. The way his heart thundered against his chest was because of her. Her touch, even through cloth, made this strong man quiver.

  “My weapon.” The warning came on the tail end of a groan as she wrestled the hem of his shirt up.

  Avoiding the waistband and the gun tucked at the small of his back, she glided her hands up his spine, smiling as taunt flesh rippled like velvet steel beneath her fingertips. A grunt erupted from him and pulsed in her mouth.

  The ache between her legs turned vicious.

  Feeling wicked and powerful and more feminine than she’d ever felt before in her life, she scraped her nails down the muscled curve of his spine.

  You’d think she’d electrified him, the way his body seized. If her nails on his back evoked such a storm, what kind of reaction would they elicit if she concentrated on more sensitive areas? She couldn’t wait to find out.

  But first she needed to breathe.

  She dragged her mouth from his and gulped down a breath, resenting the necessity of feeding her starved lungs.

  His mouth dropped to the side of her neck and feathered kisses up to her earlobe, where he stopped to suckle. Each damp tug shot an answering pulse to the flesh throbbing between her thighs.

  We need to get out of the hall. She won’t appreciate an audience.

  The strange thought was suddenly just there. In Beth’s mind. Alien. But he distracted her by running his tongue down the length of her neck. When he caught the flesh with his teeth and gently bore down, she was the one to quiver.

  An electrical pulse spiked through her, raising goose bumps and chills.

  He lifted her higher, until her toes left the tile, and then stepped to the right, his mouth suckling her neck. One of his hands disappeared from her butt. A door opened and he walked forward. She caught a vague impression of shelves full of crisp, white sheets and folded towels before the door closed behind them.

  Darkness fell.

  He’d moved them out of the hallway. Somehow that seemed important, but before she could pinpoint why, he distracted her with a sharp little nibble. His fingers brushed hers as he pulled the gun from his waistband and reached out to stash it on the metal shelving.

  And then both his hands were back, pulling the hem of her blouse loose from her slacks. He slid his palms inside, along her ribs, his calloused fingers scratchy and erotic against her bare skin. Tingles exploded in their wake, coursed up and down her spine, electrifying every nerve. The sheath between her legs clenched, only to melt in a molten rush. When he reached the straps of her bra those sandpapery fingers slipped around back, concentrating on the clasp.

  Her breath caught as her bra loosened.

  The dark, warm nest of the closet heightened each sensation. His touch. His taste. His scent. Until every memory of past kisses, past touches, past lovemaking fell from her mind.

  There was only Zane. Only now.

  His mouth found hers in the darkness and he drove his tongue between her lips in a parody of lovemaking—the thrust and retreat, the urgent stroking—while her tongue met each thrust with teasing little flicks and flirty little rubs.

  She waited with caged breath for those calloused hands to slide around front and cup her swollen, tight breasts. Instead, the moment her bra loosened, his hands dropped to the hem of her blouse and tried to tug it up. She wrenched her lips from his.

  “Buttons,” she reminded him on a breathless rush.

  His soft curse echoed in the velvety darkness and a bubble of laughter escaped her.

  While he fought to release the row of buttons, she tugged his shirt up. He swore again when the material of his scrubs trapped his hands and quit working on her blouse long enough to tug his shirt over his head.

  His bare skin was hot beneath her palms. Surprisingly smooth. She ran her fingers up the ridges of his muscled abdomen, smiling as his skin rippled beneath her touch.

  A rumble broke from him. An urgent sound of need.

  Somewhere, in the vicinity of her heart, something cracked. A thick, liquid heat spread out in waves. He was so responsive to her touch. So responsive to her.

  Suddenly, she needed to taste him, to connect with him in the most elemental of ways. He froze as her mouth found the muscles of his chest. She licked the damp, salty skin. Felt, as well as heard, the groan rip through him, the way his breathing literally stopped. And when she raked his nipple with her teeth, his whole body shuddered.

  An image suddenly exploded in her mind. A vision of herself—on her knees, her hands wrapped around the shaft of his penis, while her mouth worked the head.

  She jerked upright. What in the world? And then another one of those weird, alien thoughts swallowed her mind.

  Jesus. Jesus. Stop it. Imagining her going down on you isn’t helping. Keep it up and the first time you come with her is going to be in your pants.

  She took a step back, unease prickling. She had to be losing her mind. She could swear she’d just heard Zane’s voice in her head.

  Before the alarm had a chance to escalate, he worked the last button free and her shirt fell open. He stripped both blouse and bra down her arms, and lifted her, his mouth finding her breast with unerring accuracy.

  She choked back a shriek of shocked pleasure, her disquiet vanishing. With each moist tug on her breast, an answering twinge throbbed between her legs. In an effort to ease the aching pressure, she climbed his body, wrapping her legs around his hips so she could rub her burning core against the bulge between his legs.

  Christ. She tastes like strawberries.

  This time the foreign thought barely registered. She was too focused on the rhythmic suckling against her breast and the echoing pulse between her legs. Oh, God, she needed him inside her, filling that hungry void. She needed him to take away this empty yearning.

  She arched in his arms, widening her thighs so she could get closer.

  If we were naked, she’d be riding my cock right now.

  Her fingernails scraped down the small of his back to the waistband of his scrubs. She loosened her legs and pushed his pants down, only to find herself distracted by the surprisingly cool globes of his butt. She cupped them. Raked her nails across the taut flesh. He was full of delicious contrasts. Hard yet smooth, hot yet devilishly cool.

  He spread his legs as she explored lower, giving her access and encouragement. Her hand slid around his hip, down the crease at the top of his thigh. When her fingertips found the heavy weight of his testicles he hissed and arched into her hand.

  She’s killing me.

  While she fondled him he shoved her pants down, slid his fingers into her panties and rubbed her damp slit. She shuddered at the rough caress, her hand tightening around his sack, smiling as his big body twitched—at least until he took her nipple between his teeth and delicately applied pressure.

  An inferno rolled through her, settled in the heated void between her thighs. With a soft groan, Beth loosened her legs, holding her breath as his hand started moving again. The finger he pushed inside her felt huge, rough, scraping the sides of her sensitive sheath in an erotic caress that rippled through her like quicksilver.

  She choked back a shriek, arched against his chest, and bore down, forcing his finger deeper. Oh God, he felt so good. So perfect. But she needed more of him.

  His lips sucked hard at her breast while he worked a second finger up in her. Only to withdraw both, and thrust them in again. He repeated the motion over and over, then shifted his thumb to the bud of her sex and rubbed.

  Flames caught, billowed through her in waves and a thin scream erupted from her tight
throat. She pressed down, straining against his hand, a current of energy twining tighter and tighter, tangling her in gossamer strands of urgency.

  With a thick curse, his hand withdrew. She moaned in protest and rocked against his arm.

  Christ, she’s seconds from flying. I’m damn well going to be inside her when she does.

  The words were clear as a bell in her head. Except, he hadn’t spoken them. She was certain of it.

  And then he shifted, jerked down her panties, and lifted her. Something huge and hard pressed against her molten core, parted the swollen, slick folds and nudged inside.

  She flinched from the contact, her breath exploding in shocked realization.

  Oh, God. They were about to make love. In a closet. In the emergency room. Something stirred in the back of her mind, a fragment of a memory, something she needed to remember.

  “Wait.” The plea emerged slurred, but unrecognizable.

  She has got to be fucking kidding.

  His muscles clenched in protest. He stopped breathing. But he froze beneath her.

  His hunger pounded at her, she could actually feel his urgent need to thrust, to bury himself deep. But he’d stopped, because she’d asked it. The crack in her heart widened. Wept something tender. Something she didn’t want to explore too closely.

  He shook as he waited, the head of his penis burning against her. If she pressed down, she’d take him inside. The realization tantalized her. Driven by instinct, she rocked against him.

  The head of his shaft slipped inside. Lodged there. Hot. Hard. Throbbing. They both groaned. She rocked again, forcing him deeper.

  Ah, Christ, I can’t hold back much longer.

  This time the alien thought didn’t faze her. She lifted herself up and bore down, taking him deeper still, the muscles of her sheath clamping around his invading length.

  He arched into her, his hips flexing.

  She’s killing me, killing me.

  Her heart pounding so hard she could hear it, she lifted her hips and bore down again, hearing his hiss as she took him the deepest yet. His muscles bulged beneath her as he fought to rein himself in. Sweat dampened his skin.

  But he held himself in check. For her. That crack in her heart split wide open.

  So fucking tight. So fucking hot. So fucking perfect.

  Distantly, she was aware of his rigidity as she rocked on him, lifting herself up and pressing herself down. The awareness he was holding himself in check for her sake, for her comfort, added to the pleasure. His hand slipped between her legs, his calloused fingertips tracing her tightly stretched opening.

  A current of electricity jolted through her at the intimate, rough caress. She stifled a scream against his neck. Her core clenching.

  Jesus. I need… I need… ah… Christ.

  His hips bucked, driving his penis deeper. He stroked her sensitive opening again, eliciting another muffled shriek, and then rubbed the tight bud of her sex.

  She needed… she needed… oh God, she needed.

  This time she couldn’t hold back her scream, but he was waiting and swallowed it with his mouth.

  She felt the moment his control snapped. Welcomed his hard thrust with tight arms, clutching hands, and coiled legs.

  * * *

  She was only taking half of him, riding the front of his cock with increasing urgency as she reached for her peak. With each surge of her hips, he fought the instinct to thrust. To bury himself in her tight, satin depths.

  Holy Mother of God.

  Her thoughts swam through his mind. Fragmented. Urgent. She was moments from coming. He could sense the coil of her approaching orgasm as clearly as he sensed his own. Could feel the pleasure pouring into her with every thrust of her hips.

  She dropped her mouth to where his neck met his collarbone and latched onto his sweaty skin. His hips lunged. Light-headed, he tried to rein himself back, but his body had broken its leash and was firmly in control, refusing to take direction from his brain.

  His hips surged again, slamming into her. Driving her against the closet door with a dull thud.

  Christ. He was out of time.

  He scraped her clit with his thumbnail, and pressed her against the door.

  Oh God! Oh God. Oh God.

  The feminine wail ripped through his mind and she jerked wildly against him. He caught her scream with his mouth and thrust hard. Penetrating her to the core.

  Dragging his hand from between her legs, he shifted his grip, tilted her slightly and thrust again. Pulled out, thrust harder. Pulled out. Hammered into her again and again, vaguely aware of the door banging behind them.

  She convulsed, clamping down, milking him as wave after wave of contractions swept through her. And then his own release slammed into him. He drove into her one last time, his balls tight against her ass and bucked—straining. His climax boiled up and out as he lodged himself deep, spilling himself into her swollen, convulsing depths.

  Gave her everything he had to give. His seed. His heart. His life.

  When he regained awareness, his cock still twitched. Tremors shook his arms. His knees were actually weak.

  “Christ,” he said, shocked at the breathlessness of the word.

  He rolled his sweaty forehead against her neck and breathed in the thick, earthy scent of strawberries and sex. Contentment spread through him. Finally. He had her exactly where he needed her. In his arms. Their bodies merged. Their minds mingling.

  His cock, still locked within her sleek depths, twitched. His hips flexed.

  She hummed in contentment. “I can’t believe we did it here. In a closet, for God’s sake. It’s a bad cliché.”

  “It could be worse,” he murmured, licking the damp skin of her neck. “The towels will come in handy.”

  The taste of her, salty and seasoned with strawberry hit him like a shot of whiskey. His cock hardened. His brothers hadn’t exaggerated the potency of the bond. It was a natural aphrodisiac. He thrust again, the door rattling behind them.

  She groaned, her arms tightening around his shoulders. Her head turned, her mouth seeking the sweaty skin of his collarbone. He doubted he tasted nearly as good.

  “Towels?” she repeated absently. Her thighs tightened around his hips and she arched into his next thrust. “What do towels have to do with anything?”

  He grunted. Kept the roll of his hips slow and lazy. But the urgency was already building.

  “For cleanup,” he managed. Christ, she felt so perfect. Sleek and hot and tight.

  “Cleanup?” She gasped as he pushed into her again. “What do we need to clean—” Suddenly, her breath caught. She froze in his arms. “Why would we need to clean up?”

  This time the question emerged sharp enough to skewer him.

  Zane frowned at the change in her tone, but his hips were already moving.

  Only this time his thrust tore a curse from her. She shoved two determined palms against his chest and leaned back. “Stop it.”

  Shit. But Zane’s hips stilled.

  “What did you mean?”

  He suspected she already knew, and didn’t like it. Her body had tightened to rigidity. He reached out with his mind, tried to reestablish that earlier connection between them, but she’d locked herself down tight.

  “I didn’t wear a condom,” he told her carefully, hoping she hadn’t picked up on his fierce satisfaction.

  She flinched. The link cracked open and allowed a wave of horror to roll through.

  Hell. His stomach tightened.

  He’d never been so careless before. Never. Not even during the horny days of adolescence when he’d been a walking, talking erection. And Christ, he hadn’t planned this. Condoms simply hadn’t entered his mind. But the lack of protection wasn’t a big deal. If there were ramifications, they’d adjust their time table.

  “You’ll want to clean up before we get dressed,” he said delicately, feeling like he was tiptoeing around an unstable batch of dynamite.

  “Oh, God.” Her voic
e thinned. She banged the back of her head against the door.

  Frowning, he ran a palm up the naked length of her spine. Her damp skin was already drying. Proof she was no longer in the mood.

  Damn. He sighed, his cock still hard and twitchy inside her. “Look, it’s not a big deal. If you get pregnant we’ll get married immediately instead of waiting.”

  Which suited him just fine.

  A vision took root in his mind, an image of her belly rounding, filling with his child. Christ, he hoped she was pregnant, hoped she carried a little carbon copy of herself. A baby girl he could spoil for the rest of his life.

  His cock swelled at the thought. His hips flexed. Except another wave of horror rolled through her. She shoved her hands hard against his chest.

  “Are you crazy?” She tried to shimmy up his body, to disengage them, but she slipped. The movement drove his shaft deeper.

  He groaned and leaned forward, pressing her into the door. Without volition his hips pushed forward, deepening the penetration.

  Her breath escaped in a hiss. “Hell no! We are not doing this again. Let me down!”

  “Then stop moving,” he gritted out.

  Frustration boiled as she locked up in his arms, as inflexible as stone. He stepped back and her legs loosened, releasing him. As he pulled out of her he could feel the gush of fluid that followed—his and hers. Reaching out in the darkness, he snagged a towel off the closest shelf and pressed it into her hands.

  His frustration eased as she took the cloth. Her hands were shaking and there was a panicked hitch to her breathing.

  It was a damn shame he couldn’t read her thoughts now. At least then he’d know what the hell was going on in her mind. “Look if you’re worried about disease—”

  She choked on a strangled sound. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”