Red Hot

by Lisa Childs

  “You’re an idiot for not appreciating how much your sister loves you—”

  “I don’t need her kind of love,” Matt said. “Just like I don’t need your mentoring anymore, either.” At twenty, it was his right to end their mentoring relationship. He was an adult now. The kid tried to edge around him.

  But Wyatt blocked his way. “You do need my mentoring,” he insisted. “You need me to make you appreciate having people in your life, family who love you.”

  “You think she loves me?” Matt asked. “She tries to manipulate and control me. If that’s how she loves, then she must love you, too.”

  Wyatt sucked in a breath. But the kid was wrong. Fiona didn’t love him.

  “She was only using you, man,” Matt said. “You—with your psychology degree—should have been able to figure that out.”

  He had. But he hadn’t cared. Admitting to that would make him look like a user, though.

  “What I’ve figured out,” Wyatt said, “is that you resent her for something over which she had no control. She didn’t want to leave when you were kids. Her grandparents and a judge forced her to leave.”

  “I know.” But the petulance of his tone and the look on his face belied the claim.

  “If she’d had the choice, she would have stayed,” Wyatt said.

  Matt shrugged. “Why? I would’ve gotten the hell out and never looked back, if it had been me. How do you know what she would have done? Did she tell you that? Did you two actually talk or just—”

  Wyatt caught him—not with a blow—just with a hand clasping his shoulder tightly before Matt said something that would make Wyatt want to hit him.

  “She didn’t have to tell me,” Wyatt said. “Her actions speak louder than words anyway. She came back. She wouldn’t have done that if she’d actually wanted to leave. She wouldn’t be trying to have a relationship with you if she didn’t genuinely love you—especially with how obnoxious you’ve been to her.”

  Matt shook his head, and his lip curled with disgust. “I suppose that’s why she slept with you, too—because she genuinely loves me.”

  It was. But Wyatt wouldn’t share that with her brother. The kid already knew too much. Or at least he thought he did.

  “Don’t talk about her like that,” Wyatt warned him.

  “I don’t want to talk about her at all,” Matt said. “I don’t want her in my life. And now I don’t want you, either.” He shrugged off Wyatt’s hand on his shoulder. “I thought you were my friend.” This time he didn’t just try to edge around Wyatt, he shoved him out of his way and ran for his truck.

  Where had the scrawny teenager he’d first met gone? When had the kid become a burly man?

  Wyatt sighed.

  “Thank you for trying,” a soft voice murmured.

  He glanced back at the house and found her standing in the doorway. Sunlight caught in her red hair, making it glow like fire.

  Maybe that was why his heart stopped beating—for just a millisecond—as it did when he first saw the flames. When he wondered if he would survive the fire…

  Usually he pushed aside that momentary fear—because he knew he would make it. He always did.

  This time he wasn’t as confident. This time he worried that the fire would get him—because he was falling for her.

  15

  “THANK YOU,” SHE SAID, “for driving me home.” She had invited him inside, which was probably a mistake. But it wouldn’t be the first one she’d made. She’d made so many—probably just that day. “Mandy picked me up here earlier and brought me to her place so that Matthew wouldn’t see my car when he came over to pick up his mail.”

  Wyatt nodded, but he seemed distracted—or nervous as he stood tensely in her living room. She’d forced herself to mess it up a little, so she would learn to live with it. There was a glass left out on the sofa table. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to forgo the coaster, though. But the glass had been there before she’d left with Mandy.

  She’d even messed up the pillows on the couch and hadn’t folded the blanket. Her hands itched to straighten things now—probably because she was nervous. So she curled them into fists and held them against her sides. And she noticed that Wyatt had done the same. She doubted he wanted to straighten her living room. Maybe he’d done it so that he wouldn’t reach for her.

  They had never spent much time in her living room before—only as long as it had taken him to carry her across it to her bedroom.

  Images rolled through her mind, and heat flashed through her. She had the sudden urge to fan herself—or to reach for Wyatt. But she forced her focus back to their conversation. Back to Matthew.

  “My mother’s little plan didn’t work,” she said. “The minute he saw me he forgot all about his mail. He was running out when you showed up.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Why?” she asked. “You tried to talk to him.”

  Wyatt snorted derisively at his efforts. “Only because I physically stopped him from passing me on his way out.”

  “Thank you.”

  “For restraining your brother?” Humor glinted in his blue eyes.

  And Fiona’s pulse quickened. She loved his humor. She loved so much about Wyatt Andrews. “Thank you for defending me to my brother—for trying to explain why I…”

  “Slept with me?”

  She gasped. But she couldn’t defend herself without admitting that sleeping with Wyatt had been more about wanting him than helping her brother. She still wanted him. And she was pretty sure that there was nothing either of them could do to help her brother.

  He was too resentful and angry right now.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just kidding…”

  He did that so much and until now, it hadn’t occurred to her to wonder why. She had just thought it was his personality. But she’d heard something else in his voice when he had been talking to Matthew about family; she’d heard yearning.

  “Were you kidding when you told my brother he should appreciate having family who loves him?” she asked, and as she asked, she studied his handsome face. If she hadn’t been looking, she might have missed it—the brief flicker of a sorrow so intense it struck her heart.

  And that yearning was in his voice again when he said, “That’s what he should appreciate more than anything else in this world.”

  “Tell me about your family,” she urged. They had shared and acted on every sexual desire with each other, but they had never actually talked—never had the kind of getting-to-know-you conversations people did when they were dating. But they hadn’t been dating. They’d only been…

  “You’ve only met a few of the guys,” he said. “The ones that work out of this firehouse with me and Captain Zimmer—like Cody and Dawson. But our team is made up of twenty members.”

  Unaware that she’d even closed the distance between them, she reached up and pressed her fingers to his lips. “I’m not asking about your Hotshot team,” she said. “I’m asking about your family.”

  The tension was back on his face, twitching in a muscle along his tightly clenched jaw. “The team is my family.”

  And she was beginning to suspect why even before he added, “They’re the only family I’ve got.”

  “You were an orphan?”

  He shook his head. “Not like Cody was an orphan,” he said as if she knew it already.

  She hadn’t talked to Cody long enough for the man to tell her his life story. But she had spent time with Wyatt—a lot of time. She should have known about his life—about his past. But he’d never talked about it; he’d never shared with her. “You were an orphan,” she said, amazed that he’d never mentioned it.

  He shook his head. “After my parents died, I didn’t have to live in foster homes. I had an aunt who raised me…great-aunt,” he said, as if correcting himself. “She raised me until she passed away. But I was already in my first year of college then.”

  “Your parents died when you were a chil
d,” she said, her heart heavy with his loss and pain. Even the aunt who’d taken over for them was dead, too. “That made you an orphan. How old were you?”

  “Almost twelve.”

  The same age she had been when a judge and her grandparents had taken her away from her family. Fortunately, her grandparents had been family, too. And they’d loved her—even if they hadn’t respected her wishes.

  She sucked in a breath. “That’s so young.”

  “Weren’t you younger than that when your dad died?” he asked.

  She nodded. “But maybe that was easier, since I don’t remember much about him.” He’d always been gone—racing cars. Mandy had often left Fiona with her grandparents so she could travel with him. She’d been there the day her young husband’s car had struck the wall and burst into flames. “And I still had my mom. I wasn’t an orphan.”

  Not that Mandy had been around much after that—either physically or emotionally. She’d gone out a lot—trying to ease her pain. But when she’d fallen for Matthew’s father and then lost the drummer to a drug overdose, she’d been in even more pain.

  Wyatt finally unfisted his hands and reached out, closing them around her shoulders. She hadn’t said anything—hadn’t complained—but it was as if he knew. Maybe Matthew had told him. He clasped her close, giving her comfort when he was the one who needed it.

  She clutched at his back, holding him as he held her. “How did your parents die?”

  “Fire.”

  She gasped and pulled back. “What?”

  “They’d gone out west for their second honeymoon—some little cabin in the middle of a national forest where they could be alone. They died together—in a wildfire.”

  He said it all so calmly, so matter-of-factly. But the pain was there, buried just beneath the surface. She heard it in the gruffness of his voice and saw it in the darkness of his usually bright eyes.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, and she tightened her arms around him, trying to give him comfort. Trying to take away the pain she could still feel in him.

  His broad shoulders moved as he shrugged off her sympathy. “It happened a long time ago.”

  “But it still affects you,” she said. “Or you wouldn’t do what you do. It’s why you became a firefighter. Why you wanted to be a Hotshot. Right?”

  “One of them—a Tahoe Hotshot—died trying to save my parents,” he shared.

  “Is that why you do it?” she asked. “You’re giving your life for his?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not giving my life up. It’s not that dangerous.”

  She stepped back—out of his arms. “How can you say that? You just admitted that a Hotshot died. And he’s not the only one. There was the whole team that—”

  He pressed his fingers to her lips now. “You’ve given me this argument before.”

  As the reason why her brother shouldn’t become a Hotshot. But it was also the reason why she hadn’t wanted to fall for Wyatt. She worried now that it might be too late.

  *

  WYATT SHOULDN’T HAVE stopped her. He should have let her continue the argument that illustrated why they could never be together. She thought his job was too dangerous—so she would want him to quit. Even after he’d shared with her what he hadn’t with anyone else, she still didn’t understand him—didn’t understand his need to do what he did.

  To fight fires…

  He also shouldn’t have touched her. Because the feel of her silky lips beneath his fingertip was distracting him with thoughts—with memories—of how those lips felt beneath his. Or on his body…

  He groaned. And then he replaced his finger with his mouth. Kissing her was another way to stop her argument. And to make himself feel better. In sharing his past with her, he’d opened up wounds he’d thought healed long ago.

  Nearly twenty years had passed now. Why did he still miss them? Would he feel that way about her when they were over? Would he miss her for years?

  She kissed him back with all the passion with which she usually argued. Her hands moved through the hair at his nape, pulling his head down so that she could slide her mouth across his. She nipped at his bottom lip, then stroked her tongue over it but not quite into his mouth.

  He groaned and lifted her, with one hand on her butt, the other holding the back of her head. And he deepened the kiss.

  She wrapped her legs around his waist and rubbed her hips against the erection straining to break through his jeans. He had to have her. Now.

  Instead of carrying her into the bedroom, he turned and lowered her onto the couch. As she lay back against the cushions, he pulled off his clothes.

  She watched him—as if she was watching one of those damn dancers at the club. Her green eyes sparkled with amusement while she licked her lips. “I wish I had some dollars,” she murmured.

  “You don’t need an excuse to touch me.” He reached for her hand and wrapped it around his cock. Then questioned his sanity as he groaned. Nothing felt as amazing as her soft hand sliding up and down his shaft, gently stroking him. Then she wrapped her fingers tighter and pumped him.

  He pulled back—afraid that he might come that quickly. And while his tense body begged for the release, he wanted to please her, too.

  She wasn’t wearing a skirt today but black, stretchy yoga pants that clung to every sweet curve of her hips and ass and legs. He almost regretted pulling them off…until he saw that she wore only a thin scrap of lace beneath them. She lifted her sweatshirt, pulling it up and over her head. The black lace bra matched her panties and highlighted the milky whiteness of her skin.

  She was so damn beautiful. His breath caught in his lungs, making them and his heart ache. The sensation was worse even than when his oxygen was running low; this was as if there was no air at all. He fought the panic, the feeling that he was falling.

  For her…

  She must have tired of waiting for him to touch her…because she touched herself. First she pushed down the straps of her bra. As they dangled down her arms, she reached behind herself and unhooked it. The lace fell away from her body, leaving her breasts bare. But not for long. She cupped them in her palms. The mounds were so full that they spilled over her small hands. She played with her nipples, rolling them between her forefinger and her thumb. Back and forth, back and forth. They grew longer and redder as her passion built. Then she moved one hand away from her breasts, sliding it down her body until her fingers slipped beneath her panties. Through the lace, he watched her fingers stroke her clit.

  She bit her bottom lip and arched as she pleased herself. His control snapped. And he tore away that lace and surged inside her. She was ready for him. She locked her legs around his back and rose up, meeting his every thrust. She rubbed her breasts against his chest and clutched at his back, her nails scraping deliciously over his skin.

  He had never known as passionate a lover as his little redhead. She drove him out of his mind. So he kept driving into her body—deeper and harder—until she screamed. But it wasn’t with pain—it was with ecstasy. Her orgasm flowed over his cock, hot and endless.

  “Wyatt!” she gasped between pants for breath. “Wyatt…”

  She said his name with awe—as if he was as special to her as she had become to him. Her hands gripped his butt, holding it tightly as he kept pumping into her body. And she came again, her green eyes wide with shock. “What do you do to me? Why is it always so amazing?”

  He wished he knew. But he was afraid to delve too deeply because the answer might scare him. He couldn’t think at all now. The pressure inside him had built to the breaking point. He was losing his mind. Then his body tensed, and his cock pulsed. He came so hard that it racked his body; he shuddered and shouted.

  Her name…

  And he realized that he wasn’t in danger of just losing his mind. He was in danger of losing his heart, too.

  He’d braced his arms against the couch to hold his weight off her; now they shook with reaction. He eased out of her and off her and
stood up.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, as she reached for him. “The bedroom?”

  He wanted to. So badly.

  He wanted to carry her to her bed and make love to her all over again. But that feeling in his chest hadn’t eased. If anything, it was harder to breathe. Panic gripped him.

  He was falling for her. He couldn’t deny it anymore. He couldn’t ignore it. He could only run from it.

  He cleared the passion and the fear from his throat and replied, “The firehouse.”

  Disappointment dimmed the brightness of her green eyes. “Really?”

  His hands still shaking, he reached for his clothes and turned away from her to put them on. He couldn’t look at her—lying there naked, her creamy skin flushed from their lovemaking. He couldn’t look at her and not want to be with her again.

  Still. Forever…

  But he, better than most, knew there was no such thing as forever.

  “I have to go,” he reiterated. “Braden’s been having that strange feeling…”

  “You told me about that,” she said. “That he thinks a fire’s coming. But he’s had that feeling for weeks, and nothing has happened but that little car fire.”

  Wyatt nodded. But then he pressed a fist against his heart. “But I have it now…”

  “You think a fire’s coming, too?”

  The fire had already come—stomping into the firehouse in her red heels. And he’d already been burned. Now he just had to make sure that it didn’t consume him completely.

  16

  FIONA HAD SEEN Wyatt restless—like the night that his friend had received the wedding invitation to his ex-wife’s nuptials. She had seen him vulnerable—when he’d told her about the tragic deaths of his parents. But she had never seen him the way he’d been as he’d hurried out of her house: scared.

  What had scared him?

  Was there actually some monster fire starting out there that he and his captain were mythically able to sense?

  Or was he scared that he’d been vulnerable with her? That he might be falling for her, too?

  She had fallen for him—so deeply. She had been falling even before he’d shared that most vulnerable part of himself with her—his pain.