Burning Flame: Californian Wildfire Fighters Book Three
Page 4
Hank rose. "I shouldn't have come here. I knew it was a mistake."
"A mistake?" Lana's vision wavered as she watched him grab his jacket off the coat tree. Her disbelief at seeing him leave again so overwhelmed her reality that, for a moment, she could almost imagine their dinner together had been a dream.
Or a nightmare.
Hank froze. He ducked his head, and she wondered if he was deliberately preventing himself from looking over his shoulder at her. "We can't recapture the past, Lana. What we had doesn't exist anymore."
"Is that true?" she asked quietly. "Is that really true, Hank? Is it gone?"
He stood with his back to her. His broad shoulders seemed to create an impenetrable wall between them. For a moment, she found hope in his silence. Then he responded. "Some things that are lost stay lost, Lana. I shouldn't have come here."
If he repeated the refrain one more time, Lana thought she would scream. It was all she could do to hold still now and watch him go. A desperate part of her wanted to throw herself at his feet, to beg him, plead with him, to reconsider.
"I'm sorry," Hank said. He raised his head to look at her, but the depths of his hazel eyes were darker now, seemingly unreachable. He turned and exited the kitchen.
She had the magic words to call him back. She knew she did.
She still hadn't told him about the pregnancy.
Lana held her tongue. She listened as the front door closed behind him. The gravel of her driveway crunched beneath his boot heels as he retreated into the night.
She rose, calmly took hold of his empty glass—and flung it with all her might. It exploded in a shower of crystalline shards against the back of the door.
It was too late for the glass, and it was too late for her heart. If both were going to shatter tonight, then she at least wanted to do some of the smashing.
"I'm done," she whispered to the walls of her empty house. Her hand fell, touched her stomach. The anger bled out of her until she felt like a listless, empty shell. Hollow. But there was a new life growing inside her, and with it, Lana felt a spark of resilience. Of rebellion.
The years had only hardened Hank Logan. Everything about him had changed, and nothing had changed. He hadn't learned a damn thing from his past actions, and what's more, Lana wasn't even sure he regretted them. Over the course of their encounters, she had actually allowed herself to think that he might be looking for a way to make amends for his mistakes.
But it didn't matter now. Lana had herself to look after, and more. Pregnancy or no pregnancy, Hank wouldn't have a damn thing to do with it. If he could run out on her again now, what was there to stop him from running out on her and a baby?
Lana wilted down into a kitchen chair and rested her head in her hands. Maybe she couldn't stop herself from loving Hank. Maybe there was no hope for it. But there was hope for a future without him.
"I'm done," she whispered again.
The words held such finality that she could almost believe them.
7
HANK
"Storm's come in early." Chase called out a warning to the rest of the house as Hank slammed the front door.
He took a moment to collect himself in the darkened hallway. His chest rose and fell as he tried to grasp some for some sort of inner Zen. At the very least, he needed to come to terms with what had been said that night.
What he had said.
He couldn't take it back now. He couldn't banish the memory of the stunned expression on Lana's face as he’d dismantled everything they had been tentatively building between them. Ten years ago, he would have given anything for her to follow him out of Cedar Springs . . . but she couldn't see how impossible that was. She didn't know the full story. It was better this way—better if she moved on—and found a man more worthy of her love than he was.
She still didn't know what he had done.
Hank redirected his thoughts into his hands, clenching his fists at his sides. He turned and strode into the living room.
Chase was camped out on the couch in a T-shirt and boxers, flipping through channels. Landon sat in the armchair across from him, reading. Hank was surprised to see them both home, but it was just as well. He'd been meaning to talk to them.
"You look like you're in a good mood," Landon noted. He turned a page in his book without raising his eyes.
It used to be that Hank could rely on Landon to not give him shit. He surveyed the two of them, arms crossed, and let his displeasure be known with a glower. He didn't remember Chase and Landon being this chummy back in Alaska. "We need to discuss the timeline for going home," he said. "The day's coming sooner than you might think. I'd rather stay on top of our plans to avoid any surprises when the local fire chief dismisses us."
Chase and Landon glanced at each other. Again, Hank was left wondering when their friendship had evolved to allow them to silently communicate. "Thing is, Chief . . ." Chase began.
"Neither of us is sure we want to go home," Landon concluded.
Hank stared at them. Had he accidentally pulled the wrong squad into a meeting? Were these his men, or weren't they? "And where the hell is it you expect to go, exactly?"
"We-e-ell." Chase scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "I sort of figured I'd go wherever Sookie goes. She can't just drop the National Guard and come with me to Alaska. I'm a lot more moveable than she is."
"You have a job," Hank pointed out.
Chase shrugged. "There are fires to fight everywhere. Right? Cedar Springs is just Exhibit A. We left our jobs in Alaska to go where we were needed."
Hank turned to Landon. "What about you?"
"I'm staying with Alex." Landon closed his book and set it aside. "Or did you forget that I'm engaged?"
Hank had forgotten. But he admitted to nothing.
Landon raised an eyebrow and sat forward in his chair, but he didn't push it. "The truth is, Chief, even if we were to go back to Alaska and help you square everything away, neither of us would be there for very long. Nothing serious ever happens back at the station."
"And there's a line of guys around town who would love to replace us," Chase put in. He was sitting up now, as well. Of the two of them, Hank generally had a hard time taking Chase the most seriously—especially considering the man was sitting there in his underwear. But he couldn't dismiss the look on his youngest squad member's face. The guy looked clear-headed and focused. He looked like he meant what he said.
"That's fine," Hank replied. "Just let me know what you want to do."
The two men exchanged looks again. "Really? Just like that?" Chase said.
"Just like that."
And just like that, Hank was no longer in the room with them. He imagined himself back at the Alaska station, doing . . . what? Barking orders at another squad of interchangeable faces? Pulling cats from trees and answering house calls? He was the station chief; what more was there for him to reach for?
It wasn't just the two faces of his men, but hard reality that stared him down now in that living room. There was nothing waiting for him back in Alaska but a history of hiding out.
He just hadn't been able to admit it to himself until he came to Cedar Springs.
"You all right, Chief?" Landon's question seemed to come from miles away.
"I think we broke him," Chase said.
"I'm going for a walk," Hank responded. He turned and exited the living room, grabbing his coat along the way out. Once outside, he forced himself to pivot in the opposite direction from Lana's house. It shone like a lighthouse in his mind, a beacon calling to him . . . but he couldn't bring himself to answer after all that had already been said tonight.
Every way I turn, I make a mistake.
He headed into town. He needed a drink. He needed to muddy his thoughts, or clear his head, or both.
Or maybe he didn't know the first damn thing about what it was he needed.
8
LANA
The day after the ill-fated dinner, Lana cleaned her house.
In a final, desperate act, she removed her favorite picture from the fridge and tucked it inside a drawer. She felt horrible as she shut it away, exiling those beaming faces to darkness. She convinced herself that she would feel better with time. She was making the right decision.
Hank had made it very clear that there was no other decision for her to make.
". . . and with the storm still closing in, viewers are advised to batten down the hatches," the local weatherwoman was reporting. Lana went into the living room and turned up the volume. She dropped down onto the couch, surprised at the fact that she felt winded, and studied the cartoon raincloud shown sweeping toward Cedar Springs.
"Well, well, Dyna. Looks like you were right," she murmured to herself.
"And we've got a warm front from the south setting record highs throughout New Mexico," the forecaster continued with a sweep of her arm.
Someone knocked at the front door. Lana rose, still studying the television screen, and went to answer it. She had an ill feeling, but maybe the beginning stages of her pregnancy were to blame. Inviting company into the freshly-scrubbed house might be just the thing to make her feel better.
She pulled the door open and found Hank standing on her porch.
"Hank!" she exclaimed. "What are you . . .?" But she couldn't finish the question. Seeing him standing there stole the breath from her lungs. After ten years of imagining this exact scenario, she feared she would get used to it, no matter how many times the moment had seemed ready to repeat itself in recent days.
"Lana." He gazed down at her, and her heart trembled at his look. "Can I come in?"
Lana moved aside before she could think to do otherwise. Not even five minutes ago, she had been ready to file away her favorite photographs and start fresh—now look at her! She was hopeless.
Casting memories of Hank Logan out of her house was proving a lot easier than turning the man himself away.
". . . I didn't think you were coming back," she mentioned as she closed the door.
"Neither did I." Hank stood with his back to her. "I told myself I didn't want to."
"Why would you tell yourself that?" she asked desperately. "Hank, why are we doing this? We keep reopening old wounds the moment it seems like they've healed. You keep ending things with such finality . . . and when you come back here, it makes my head spin."
How many more times can I find you on my porch, Hank Logan, before the déjà vu drives me absolutely crazy?
"If your head's spinning, Lana, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't be a better man and make things right by you." His fists clenched at his sides. "But I can't stop my own head from spinning. And I can't make myself stay away from you."
"Why won't you look at me?" Her voice sounded so small in her own ears. She pushed herself to speak louder. She needed to gain his attention, and she needed an answer. "Hank."
"Because every time I look at you, Lana, I want to do all the wrong things," he replied. He turned in place, and his eyes swam like liquid amber beneath her hallway lights. "I'm tired of being the kind of man who makes a good woman like you suffer because he's selfish. If I was a good man, I'd stay away from you. For your own sake. This thing between us, it's—"
"You said before that it's a mistake, what we're doing. It's not a mistake, Hank. You have to know that." Tears sprang into her eyes. "You know that, right? You feel it, too?"
"Yes, I feel it."
He caught her face between his hands and kissed her. Lana almost sagged with relief against him. Feeling his lips on hers was like gaining that first long-needed release. And she knew now that there was more to come.
Hank wasn't going to leave her. A man who kissed her the way he did was as helpless to tear himself away from this as she was. They were addicted to each other. They were no good for each other.
. . . but couldn't they be? How could something that felt so right, time and again, be so absolutely wrong?
We are right for each other, she thought as his hand slid up her thigh beneath her dress. We have to be. We've created a new life together.
But only one of us knows it.
"Hank, there's something I need to tell you—"
But he was too far gone already. His eyes were closed as he kissed her, dragging his lips from hers to anoint her cheek, her jawline, that special spot just beneath her ear.
Lana shuddered, and her own desire overtook her. There could be time enough later, she thought, once things had cooled down, to discuss the sobering results of their torrid night together. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and let him suckle her neck. She panted hotly in his ear, blowing on the lobe and dragging her fingers through his hair—the way she knew he liked it. It was a pleasure of his they had discovered together, long ago. They had been each other's first.
"Fuck." He muffled the curse into her neck, and Lana sighed. "I can't hold myself back when I'm around you."
"Then don't."
The restraint he showed by the light of day wrenched at her. Hank was so closed-off to everything, so unemotional and above it all. Was that what it meant to be a fire chief?
Somehow, Lana didn't think so. Hank had gone so many degrees beyond what his job required, it was as if he had lost himself and didn't know how to find his way back.
But he could find it, here, in her arms.
Or she could find it in his.
Hank picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. He positioned her on the edge of the bed and skimmed her panties down her calves. They flew across the room.
Lana tossed her head back, wetting her lips as he drew her knees apart. She tried to keep them from quaking with anticipation as Hank bent his head between them.
It was like licking a spark plug—or how she imagined the licked spark plug must feel. His tongue teased and thrust against her wet folds, and electricity jolted through her.
Lana arched her back and moaned. When her legs did begin to shake, Hank forced them firmly still. His tongue flicked along her slit and up again. He gave her clit a hard stroke, then sealed it with a kiss. Lana convulsed. She grabbed his hair. It was almost too short to clench her fingers through, but she managed to raise a few tufts. She closed her eyes and lost herself to the overwhelming sensation.
"Hank . . . kiss me," she sighed.
He didn't respond. His mouth worked along her entrance. Lana's legs began to shake harder.
"Hank . . ."
Pressure bloomed in her belly, unfurling petals of hot desire. The pressure of Hank's mouth increased in seeming accord. He thrust his tongue into her.
Lana snatched at his hair and cried his name. Her knees shook uncontrollably as she came. Hank pulled back, and his thumb replaced his tongue on her clit. He rolled the nub of flesh, eyes trained on her intently as she rode the wave of her orgasm.
"Hank," she panted. "I need you. I still . . ." She couldn't complete the thought.
Thankfully, she didn't have to. Hank shrugged off his shirt and undid the front of his pants, shoving them down his hips as he joined her on the bed. Their mouths met again, and they kissed—now languidly.
Lana still felt that throbbing between her legs, and Hank's kisses only made the sensation more pronounced. If he didn't fill her up soon, she thought she would go insane.
His erection pressed against her slick entrance. It slipped inside her, aided by the additional lubrication from his mouth. Lana shuddered. Hank's right hand gripped her waist, raising her up off the bed slightly to better accommodate their joining.
"God, Lana, you feel so good," he whispered.
"I want to make you feel good, Hank," she crooned. They were speaking in an almost nonsensical call-and-response, but she lived for nothing else in that moment. To hear the fire chief surrendering to his passion was heaven
itself. She caressed his neck and then laced her fingers behind his head as he began to move.
Their lovemaking was agonizingly slow. Lana, still coming down from her first orgasm, relished it. She felt charged and oversensitive, aware of every miniscule movement he made within her. As Hank's pace increased, so did the rate of her breathing. Try as she might, she couldn't hold back the little cries of pleasure that seemed to escape her at every opportunity.
Soon the cries were more than little. Her moans were loud and sharp and came again and again with each thrust. She hoped the neighbors didn't hear. She didn't want them to know what innocent Lana Sweet was getting up to late at night, with a man so enigmatic, sometimes he made sex feel like an illicit encounter with a stranger.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the way Hank moved within her felt wonderfully familiar. It felt right. This was exactly where they were meant to be: loving each other.
He took hold of the sheets around her and twisted them up into a fist. The way his hands clenched was tell-tale. He was close.
"Hank." Lana's fingers brushed down between his powerful shoulders. "Come for me, Hank."
Hank groaned. The sound shook unbearably in her own chest. And—the blossom started to unfurl again. Lana dropped her head back, dizzy with anticipation. Her hips rocked beneath his. The bed strained and squeaked.
He propelled himself into her. Lana clenched. Her thighs, locked tightly around his waist, shook as the pressure in her belly built. "Hank . . .!" She gasped his name, and he sank against her with a groan. His cock filled her with its thickness, and she felt herself contract around him. She was coming again. Her thoughts fragmented and flew beyond her ability to call them back.
When it was over, they collapsed back onto the bed, together. Lana tried to steady her breath; her breasts rose and fell with the effort. Just when she seemed about to succeed, a pleasurable aftershock would course through her, and her breath would hitch again. She wanted to laugh at the struggling state he had left her in, but she didn't have the additional air to pull it off.