Blood and Fire

by McKenna, Shannon

  “The place is fine. I am not fussy.” She lifted the corner of the blackout shades and peered out. Nothing to see. Dawn was long in coming. Lily came back to stand over the heater, rubbing her hands. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “I could heat some water for tea,” he offered. “I could run down to the diner and get some—”

  “No, I’m good.”

  That left him speechless, at a loss. Nothing to do, nothing to say. He considered and abandoned several ways to make her laugh. What came out of his mouth surprised him. “Is your hair dyed?” he blurted.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why? Does it look wrong?”

  “Oh, no, no,” he backpedaled. “It just seems, um, dark. For your skin. It’s pretty. Sexy. It’s just a really tough look. That’s all.”

  Her chin went up. “I really am tough. Very tough.”

  “Never doubted it for a second,” he said hastily.

  She stared at him for a long moment. “It’s a wig,” she confessed.

  Oh. A wig. Imagine that. “I see,” he murmured, and gazed at the fake coif for a long moment before taking his courage in both hands.

  “Can I, uh, see your real hair?” he asked.

  She looked like she was about to refuse. Then she dropped her mascara-loaded eyelashes in a gummy black fan to hide her eyes, pulled off the cat-eye specs, and reached up to pluck out the pins.

  No moment of revelation had ever been as sexy as the moment she pulled it off and faced him, her eyes defiant.

  Her real hair was strawberry blond, curly wisps plastered fuzzily close to her head, like some retro, pin-curled twenties ’do.

  She’d been stunning as a brunette. She blew his mind as a red blonde. The harsh eye makeup and the violently red lipstick had made sense with the severe black bob, but their effect was different now. She looked vulnerable, delicate, lost. An innocent child who’d been all painted up. She’d lied about her age. He would swear to it.

  She reached back and unwound the coil of tangled hair. Fluffing it loose so fuzzy corkscrews unwound, dangling voluptuously over her shoulders. So pretty, he could hardly breathe. His fingers itched to touch that flossy, soft mane. “Your real hair is beautiful,” he said.

  She let out a sniff. Unimpressed with his compliment.

  He felt that prickle again. The buzz of wrongness, danger. Something wrong with this picture. She’d declined to answer before, but he tried again, with different words, in a different tone.

  “What do you want from me, Lily?” he asked softly.

  She took off her coat, tossed it on the back of the couch, and shook her hair loose. “Turn off the light,” she said. “I’ll show you.”

  He stared at her. This wasn’t like him. Why couldn’t he just take it at face value? A beautiful girl he hardly knew, hot for him and saying yes. It had happened before. “Yes” was good. “Yes” should not scare him to death. He played for time, lamely. “You mean, ah . . . you want . . .”

  “You know exactly what I mean.”

  The blood in his body rushed to his groin, leaving his brain dangerously undermanned. Lighten up, he lectured himself. She was just a girl. Not a cosmic love goddess, wielding the power of life or death, dangling his destiny carelessly in her hand. He cleared his throat. “Are you sure . . . I mean, wouldn’t it be better to wait until—”

  “No,” she said.

  “Look, I don’t want to come across like I don’t want this—”

  “You don’t,” she said. “I know you want it.”

  Her calm bothered him. So sure of herself, when he was a stammering mess. “Don’t confuse me,” he snapped. “I don’t know why I’m resisting, because my dick is about to explode. But this thing with you is important. I don’t want to start it off wrong.”

  She glanced at her wrist, miming looking at a watch. “Looks like we’ll never start at all, if you have anything to say about it.”

  He tried again, doggedly. “If we just do it, then it’s done. And we can’t ever undo it. We can’t ever do it over again.”

  “We can’t?” She sucked in her lower lip, blinking. “Aw. How sad.”

  “Don’t mock me,” he ground out. “You know exactly what I mean. The first time is a one-time deal, and if we blow it—”

  “Shut up, Bruno,” she said. “This is actually harder for me than it may seem, and I’m reaching the end of my nerve. When that happens, I’ll panic and disappear in a puff of smoke. Bye-bye. You get me?”

  “Do not bully me,” he snapped. “Here I am, trying to do the decent thing for once in my life, and you’re giving me a hard time about it.”

  She took a step toward him. “Stop trying so hard,” she said. “I didn’t ask you to be decent. I asked you to turn out the light.”

  One last, flailing stab at caution. “It’s like, with cooking,” he blurted. “If you put too much salt in the stew, you can’t take it out.”

  She considered that. “That’s true,” she said. “But you can put more food into the pot.”

  A massive flush started from around the center of the earth, encompassing his body as it rose up. The reaction appalled him. He wasn’t like this with girls. He kept things light. He showed girls a great time, spent money on them, made them laugh, made them dream, made them come. Until the moment arrived when they were no longer content with matters as they stood. At which point, it ended flat. Full stop.

  So what was he doing, being terrified to put out for this girl for fear she wouldn’t respect him in the morning. Afraid of giving her the milk for free. Afraid, in his gut, of giving her that much power over him.

  Mamma and Rudy flashed through his mind, cramping his guts into knots. The man Mamma picked to father her son ran out on her before he was born. The last boyfriend she’d hooked up with had been a viot mafioso thug who had murdered her with his fists and his knife.

  When it came to relationships, Bruno was genetically challenged.

  Rudy hadn’t been fit to scrape dog shit off Mamma’s shoes. Bruno had known that, even at eleven. Rudy had been handsome, in a gold-chains-and-chest-hair sort of way, but that was all he had going for him. But Mamma had been beautiful, strong, smart.

  Just not smart enough.

  He didn’t get it. Not then, not now. And in his rare moments of self-analysis, he’d figured that was probably the reason that he kept his love affairs so light. A guy just couldn’t make mistakes that big if he kept things light enough. Featherlight. Light as air. Because what person could ever really guess at the depths of his own idiocy? Mamma hadn’t had a clue about hers. And as for Bruno himself, well, hell. He certainly didn’t have any great claim to self-knowledge. He just bumbled along as best he could. Hoping not to fuck up too badly along the way.

  He went to the light switch by the door and flicked it off. When he turned, she glowed in the golden light from the space heater, and the shadow over her shoulders on the wall seemed a looming, black-cloaked figure. An ancient, mythical harbinger of doom and destruction.

  He blinked. It turned into a pattern of blocked light again.

  Jesus, what the hell was that about?

  He was rattled, jittery, scared half to death. But he could no more say no to this girl than he could stop breathing.

  7

  He’d turned off the light just in time, right before the big, fat tears flashed down over her cheeks. Damn. Her makeup job was not tear-friendly, with all that coal black eyeliner and mascara. She’d gone with the unpredictable late-night vixen look, but it was a short step from that to a dripping raccoon mask. Vixens didn’t cry.

  She sniffed the tears back and gathered her courage. She was shivering, nipples poking out. The room was dim, just the glow of the halogen heater wavering and squiggling in her watery vision. Her legs wobbled as she sashayed toward him. She stopped to kick off the heels. She regretted the lost height, which she needed with this guy, but it wasn’t worth taking a tumble.

  The glow of the heater would be flattering for her skim-milk pallor, so she tossed h
er hair back and yanked the stretchy black lace shirt off over her head. Shoulders back. Boobs out, up. Ribcage tilted. Suck in the belly. Good posture did wonders for breast perkiness.

  His eyes glittered. Suddenly the room seemed almost hot.

  Lily kept her eyes open wide, hoping the tears would evaporate from her eyeballs. She wouldn’t choke up now. She’d started this, and she would see it through. She struggled with the zipper on the denim skirt, got a grip, yanked it down. The skirt flumped ungracefully to the floor, denim studs clattering, leaving her clad in the black lace thong and the thigh highs with the rubberized thingies that were supposed to theoretically hold them up without garters but never quite managed the job. She hoped the rips and runs enhanced the ragged vixen effect. It wasn’t just a look. Couldn’t afford new ones.

  He took a step closer. Her lungs locked. No air going in or out.

  “I should take a shower,” he said. “I smell like frying grease.”

  “No, you don’t,” she said. “You smell like coffee. And disap.”

  “Dish soap?” He looked rueful. “Wow. Seductive.”

  “It is,” she assured him. And it was.

  He was close enough to touch but taking his time about it, just vibrating at her, his very body heat a tender touch. He laid his hands on her shoulders. She gasped. His hands were so warm. How could they be so warm in this cold? A penetrating, tingling warmth, full of sparkles. It flowed into her body, stealing through her like a river of honey.

  She’d just started to relax when he sank to his knees. She seized up again in a sudden panic. His hot breath tickled her navel. His hands clasped her hips.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Her voice was shrill.

  He hooked his pinkies into her thong and tugged it. “This.”

  Oh. That. Like she hadn’t asked, begged, ordered him to get on with it. And now she was getting all sissy missy about it.

  But she trembled as he pulled the garment down. It snagged, the crotch locked in the grip of her clamped, quivering thighs.

  “You sure you’re OK?” He tugged inquisitively at her thong.

  Irrational anger gripped her like a charley horse. OK? What did that word even mean? As if anything in her fucked-up world could ever be OK again in this lifetime. But it wasn’t Bruno’s fault. None of it.

  And she’d die if he stopped. “I’m fine,” she squeaked.

  “Then relax,” he coaxed.

  Yeah. Like it was so easy. He petted her thighs, long, soothing strokes. She clutched the thick muscles of his shoulders to steady herself, and her legs unlocked, letting the gusset of her thong finally go.

  He peeled it off one ankle, then the other, then lifted the scrap of black lace to his face, eyes crinkling from a hidden grin as he inhaled. He pressed his face against her navel, nuzzling. Slid down until his mouth rested against her muff. Just leaning there. The rhythmic swell of his breath was a subtle caress. “I want to make you come,” he said.

  She tried to laugh. The sound strangled itself. “So I should hope.”

  “No, I mean right now. With my mouth.” He stroked the sides of her thighs, each caress coaxing her to relax, let him do his magic thing.

  She cleared her throat. “Not now. Maybe later. If you’re good.”

  “I’m very good.” His voice vibrated deliciously through her groin.

  He pulled her down onto the couch and slid between her legs, cupping her head to pull her close. To kiss her.

  She arched away in panic. “No!”

  He rocked back. It was hard to make out his expression in the dimness, silhouetted against the heater, but she could feel puzzlement and frustration coming off him in waves. “What the fuck?”

  She was going to cry again. She didn’t dare speak. She shook her head, blinking madly. Kissing would crack her along all the fault lines.

  “You don’t want foreplay or kissing? What the hell do you want?”

  He was angry, and she didn’t blame him. She was angry at herself. “Turn that thing off,” she said, gesturing to the heater. “It makes too much light.”

  “What’s wrong with light? Who are you hiding from? You’ll freeze!”

  “I won’t freeze.” As if. She felt feverish. She was going to combust

  Bruno gave the switch on the heater an angry slap. The light faded to a million shades of deep charcoal gray. He rose to his feet.

  She grabbed his hand, terrified that she’d scared him off. “Where are you going?”

  “If you don’t want the heater, we need a blanket. There are springs coming through. I don’t want you to get scratched.”

  It was so cold without Bruno to generate heat, but he was back a moment later, his arms full of fuzzy blanket. He arranged the blanket over the couch, half draped over the back, half draped over the seat.

  He gestured sharply for her to sit. This was like an anxiety dream, only worse. Stark naked except for thigh highs, with a very large and volcanically hot sex god, who she’d cleverly wrangled into a really bad mood, looming over her in the dark. Nice move, Parr. Very smooth.

  She tugged on the bottom of his jacket. “Won’t you take that off?”

  He shrugged the jacket off. Pried off shoes, socks, sent them flying. Yanked his T-shirt off over his head. She was transfixed as every sensual promise was abundantly fulfilled. He was ripped and beautiful, even in the dark. He wrenched his belt loose, shoved down his jeans. Kicked them off. Stood there, his cock jutting toward her.

  Wow. She’d seen plenty of male sexual equipment, being as lusty and curious as the next girl, but she’d never seen anything like this guy. Not that she was a size queen, or anything. But even so. Oh, my.

  He stood silently in that belligerent pose, legs wide, letting her look. Waiting for her to chicken out.

  “Touch me,” he said. “If you really want this. Touch my cock.”

  “My hands are freezing cold,” she warned.

  “They won’t be for long.”

  She lifted her hands, tentatively. He grabbed them, wrapped them around the shaft of his cock. They gasped, him at the cold, her at the heat. Delicious, volcanic. The velvety supple softness, gliding over that hot, hard, urgent pulse of blood in his shaft. So thick, stiff, and ready. Her thighs tightened. Her hand barely closed around him.

  Her body felt tight. Her skin felt too small. Bruno flung his head back. She wanted to kiss the taut tendons in his throat, but she was trapped in his tight grip. His fists clamped over her hand, guiding the long, squeezing strokes, the twisting swirls.

  It was so quiet, just occasional night sounds of the city, their harsh breathing, the wet sounds of her hands moving on him. Rougher than she’d expected. Her lungs were squeezed small with excitement, thighs clenched around a hot glow. She pried a hand free and cupped his ass. Dug her nails into the taut dips and curves of his flanks, pulling him. She wanted to savor his slick, salty taste.

  His hand blocked her face as she leaned closer. “No.”

  She was utterly taken aback. Men never refused blow jobs. The craving for fellatio was hardwired into them. “No?” she repeated.

  He held her face firmly at a distance. “If I can’t, you can’t,” he said. “Not unless it’s mutual. It’s my sexual code of conduct.”

  “Oh, come on!”

  “Fair’s fair,” he said. “No compromise. Take me or leave me.”

  She squeezed his hot, pulsing rod, milking it. “I’ll take you.”

  “Yeah?” He covered her hands with his around his cock. “I’m getting a weird feeling. I’ve been letting my d was the thinking, but even with a nonfunctioning brain, I feel like you’re messing with me.”

  “No.” Panic twisted in her middle. “No, I’m not. Really.”

  “Oh, I’ll still do it,” he assured her. “I want it. But I’ll tell you right now. If you try to make me feel bad afterward for having done it, it will piss me off like you would not believe.”

  “I won’t,” she assured him.

  “Yeah? Good. If
you have any doubts, this is your chance to put your clothes on and leave.”

  She grabbed his hand, pulling until he sank to his knees again. “No doubts,” she said, pulling his hand between her legs. “Feel me.”

  His fingers dipped into the slick, hot moisture that bathed her pussy. Air hissed sharply out of his mouth.

  He shoved her down onto the blanket. The lumpy cushions gave, aged springs creaking, and she shuddered with pleasure as he teased her pussy, sliding his fingers inside while his thumb sought out her clit.

  He diddled her, dragging kisses up her belly that left a trail of wildly overstimulated flesh in their wake. When he reached her breasts, heat bloomed, unfolding from inside her chest and swelling helplessly to meet the call of his hot mouth. She made a shocked sound.

  He lifted his head. “What? Don’t tell me your tits are taboo, too.”

  The sour note in his voice made her giggle. “No.”

  “Thank God.” He bent his head to her breasts again.

  She usually got bored with foreplay, though she always awarded a guy points for the effort. But this was pleasure on a whole new scale.

  She shook, straining, as each slow thrust caressed her sweet spots. His mouth coaxed her into a sparkling froth of sensation, until she was writhing, hips jerking, chest heaving against his hot mouth. “Enough,” she gasped out. “Please . . . please. I want you.”

  “Give me one, first,” he said.

  She blinked in the dark, utterly lost. “Huh? Give you what?”

  “Come for me. Before we do it.”

  She didn’t have enough air in her lungs to laugh. Like orgasms were so easy to come by. “I can’t do that on command,” she explained. “It’s not that easy for me to come, but I’m having a really great time, and you’re doing everything right, so don’t take it personally if I can’t—”

  “Shhh.” He pressed his fingers to her lips. “It’ll be OK. Just stop fighting. You’re small. You need to relax. Trust me.”

  Trust him. Hah. She didn’t even know what it would feel like to trust him, or anyone. He kept doing his thing, and the pleasure warped out of control, swelling into something huge, scary, something lethal—