Fuel for Fire

by Julie Ann Walker

  She could feel the raging beat of his heart against her breast, the gentleness of his hands as he canted her head to gain better access to her mouth. Tears burned behind her eyes. Tears of regret, tears of heartbreak. Oh, she wanted so much to give in, to let him take her and make her his own.

  And really, what was stopping her?

  He never had to know. If she kept the Big Bad Secret, she just might be able to keep him too and—

  She squashed the thought before she could finish it. “Dagan.” She turned her head to break the kiss. The last kiss. “I…have something to tell you.”

  He nuzzled her cheek, the Beard wonderfully scratchy and warm. “What is it?” He dropped his hands to her hips, his long fingers flexing against her flesh, testing its resilience. He must have liked what he found because she felt him throb against her.

  Her eyes screwed shut. Her toes curled. For a moment, she forgot what she needed to say. Forgot her own name.

  Was it possible to die from want?

  He licked her earlobe into his mouth and groaned. “You taste as sweet as you smell. I’ve wanted you, wanted this for so long, but I never thought you…” His voice hitched. She felt that hitch in her soul. “After Afghanistan, I never dreamed that you might want me too.”

  Afghanistan.

  The word was a sledgehammer strike to her overheated brain, cooling her ardor and allowing her to focus on what she had to tell him. Allowing her to remember why she had no business being in his strong, warm, wonderful arms.

  “I did s-something.” Her voice was shaky. “Something…unforgivable.”

  He pulled back to look at her just as the first tear slipped past her defenses and slid, salty and wet, down her cheek. A look of gentle sympathy softened his harsh warrior’s face.

  With a tenderness that stole her breath, a tenderness that she would later reflect on with a bone-deep ache, he removed her glasses and set them on the counter. She blinked until he came into focus, breath sawing out of her when he thumbed the tear from her cheek and stared into her eyes. “Everyone, and I do mean everyone, has something in their past they’re not proud of, something they think is unforgivable.”

  He was killing her with kindness! “But—”

  He stopped her words with a kiss, his lips warm and gentle. “Shh. I don’t care. Whatever you’ve done, whatever you think you have to tell me, it can wait. Because I ache, Chels.”

  He grabbed her hand and guided it to the source of his pain, then groaned and tilted his forehead against hers. His breath was hot when he said, “I’ve dreamed about getting you naked for so long, dreamed about making love to you in so many ways. Make my fantasies come true. Let me make your fantasies come true. And afterward, if you still feel the need to confess, I promise I’ll listen.”

  He lifted her hand, kissing the end of each finger.

  What could she do? The man of her dreams, the man she had loved for so many years that she’d lost count, the man she had betrayed was asking one thing of her. And even though it was going to be her undoing to make love to him, to revel in the glory of his arms just this once and then never again, she couldn’t deny him. She wouldn’t deny him. Her mistake all those years ago had been to put herself—and her mother’s needs—first.

  Now it was his turn. She would give him what he wanted. Everything he wanted with a smile on her face and a song of love in her heart.

  And then afterward?

  Well, afterward she would finally, irrevocably destroy herself.

  Chapter 23

  “Yes, Dagan.” Chelsea cupped his face in her cool, delicate hands and brought her mouth to his. “Yes.”

  If he’d had a voice, he would have cried out. But the instant he heard that first yes, the ability to speak eluded him. This woman…this beautiful, vibrant woman…was proof that God existed and was smiling down on him for no good reason.

  There was a storm in his heart, a hurricane of happiness and love and desire and need. Whatever Chelsea wanted to tell him, whatever wrong she had committed, stood no chance against all of that. And he realized it didn’t matter that his future was a giant question mark. Because whatever he did, wherever he was, whoever he became once BKI was no longer in operation, one thing was for certain: he would be by Chelsea’s side.

  “My sweet girl,” he murmured between kisses.

  Praise be! His voice had returned. Just in time too. There were a hundred naughty things he wanted to whisper in her ear.

  Her tears added a salty zing to the sweetness of her kiss. And he couldn’t quite believe that Chelsea Duvall, Queen of the Snarky Comebacks, Reigning World Champion of Counterterrorism and All-Around Ace at keeping herself in check—don’t forget the love of my life—had cried in front of him. Had allowed herself to be vulnerable.

  More than anything, that was what had whipped the whirlwind inside his heart into a frenzy. Because while he loved that she trusted him enough to be completely, emotionally exposed, he knew he would spend the rest of his days making sure she never had reason to shed another tear. He vowed then and there that he would make it his life’s work to bring her nothing but happiness.

  And he knew just where to start.

  Palming her exquisite ass with one hand, he used the other to cup her head and hold her still for his assault. And it was an assault. He pillaged. He plundered. He waged a war of teeth and tongues and deep, wet sucks, kissing her with all the pent-up passion inside him. Years of pent-up passion. He wanted to set that earthy, unapologetic life force of hers on fire and then watch it burn.

  She growled her approval, her hunger, and fisted his damp hair in her hands, meeting him kiss for kiss, suck for suck, sweet teasing bite for sweet teasing bite. She rubbed her breasts against his chest, unabashedly seeking the friction of his sweater against her nipples.

  “I want to see you, Chels. I want to look at you,” he whispered against her devilishly talented mouth.

  The woman knew how to kiss, that was for sure. When she let herself go and stopped holding back? Holy shit, did she know how to kiss!

  Another time, when he wasn’t so eager to do everything, to see everything, to taste everything, he vowed to spend hours just making love to her mouth. But for now, he needed more.

  “Seems I’m not in the mood to deny you tonight,” she panted.

  When he met her lusty gaze, there were still tracks of tears glinting on her cheeks. He kissed them away even as he pulled her sweatshirt over her head and tossed it over his shoulder. It landed in a heap on the kitchen tiles.

  Her hair was still damp. It had a frizzy curl he found adorable. She usually spent thirty minutes in the morning using thick styling cream and some sort of wand-looking iron thingy to straighten her hair. But he preferred her like this. Au naturel. Because she was perfect just as she was.

  And speaking of perfect, he was delighted to discover that the bra she was wearing was in her favorite hue. A purple so deep he might have called it eggplant. It set off her bronze skin and emphasized the stark white of the bandage circling her arm. She was so smooth, so silky-looking, especially the tops of her magnificent breasts where they bulged above the cups.

  A faint sheen of perspiration dewed her mile-long cleavage. The knowledge that he had caused that heat, that he had been the one to stoke her fire made his cock thrum.

  Breath held, he did what he had been waiting a lifetime to do. He raised a hand and gently, with just the tips of his fingers, brushed the silky skin atop one bulging mound. Goose bumps followed in the wake of his caress.

  “You’re gorgeous, Chels. I’ve dreamed about having you, seeing you just like this.”

  “Have you?” She raised a coquettish brow. “And after seeing me like this, what did you dream about next?”

  He wouldn’t have thought anything could drag his eyes away from the visual feast that was her boobs, but that did. He stared into her hypnotic cop
per gaze. Her lids flew at half-mast, but there was no mistaking the avid gleam behind them.

  She wanted him to tell her. She wanted the words. Chelsea Duvall, vixen in purple, liked dirty talk.

  Well, babe, you came to the right man.

  “I dreamed of pulling the straps of your bra off your shoulders and kissing the sweet skin beneath.” He watched her eyelids sink lower. “Bathing it and soothing it with my tongue.”

  “Mmm,” she hummed. Then, when he did exactly what he had described, she purred—actually purred! Holy hell!

  “I dreamed of unhooking your bra and feeling your breasts spill into my hands,” he murmured against her smooth, delicious shoulder. “Will they be warm, Chels? Will your nipples be hard?”

  “Find out for yourself.” Her naturally husky voice had roughened with passion.

  “Dirty girl. You’ve dreamed of this too, haven’t you?”

  “You have no idea.”

  That simple admission made him feel like he’d won the lottery. To know that she had wanted him like he had wanted her, that she had fantasized about him like he had fantasized about her, was the ultimate ego stroke. Had she lain in bed and touched herself like he had?

  The visual that bloomed in his head had him wasting no time. He reached behind her back to unhook the clasp of her bra. Or…at least he thought he had unhooked it. But then there was another clasp. And another.

  Growling in frustration, he looked over her shoulder at the recalcitrant piece of lingerie. “Just how many hooks and loops does this thing have?”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Four. Keep going. You’re almost there.”

  Another snap of his fingers proved her correct. Hallelujah!

  The halves of her bra sprang apart and he pulled back, hesitating. Like a kid opening his last birthday present, he wanted to draw out the moment, to savor it. Then he couldn’t stand it and slid the straps down her arms, slipped the cups away, and…looked.

  At this point, he fell to his knees. Or at least he felt like he should. Because Chelsea was flawless. From the soft slope of her shoulders to the lithe length of her arms. From the large, round globes of her breasts with their puckered brown nipples to the tininess of her rib cage.

  Her bra dangled forgotten from his fingers and then quietly fell to the floor as he stood and stared, his heart thundering.

  “Well?” There was timidity in her gaze. He couldn’t miss the sound of her throat working over a dry swallow. “What’s the verdict?”

  “Sweet fuck-all, you have the best tits I’ve ever seen.” He grimaced. That had come out more crass-sounding than he had intended. But, really, he was a dirt-and-sweat-and-calluses kind of guy when you got right down to it. And with most of his blood circulating down south, starving his brain cells of oxygen? Ten-four. He reverted to form.

  Didn’t seem to bother Chelsea. Her plump lips quirked. “No, silly. I meant are they as warm as you dreamed? Are my nipples hard?”

  He lowered his chin and looked at her through the fan of his lashes. “Let’s find out.”

  Cupping her breasts, he weighed them, tested their firmness. She hissed and let her head fall back when he used the rough pads of his thumbs on their tips.

  Fascinating, he thought, watching her dark areolas contract and crinkle. They pushed the centers up into round, hard points that begged for the attention of a mouth. His mouth.

  “Better than I ever imagined,” he murmured, leaning forward to wrap his lips around the place where her pulse hammered in her throat. He felt it jump at the first pass of his tongue.

  “Yesss,” she hissed, moving her hips slightly, seeking more friction where she was hot and wet and aching. He planned to give her plenty of friction. And soon.

  But first…

  “I dreamed of sucking your tasty nipples into my mouth and bathing them with my tongue until you were completely at my mercy. Until you were wild for me,” he whispered in her ear, catching the tender lobe and giving it a delicate bite.

  “Oh please,” she begged. “Yes, please.”

  Southern girls… Even when they were being naughty, they were still polite. How adorable.

  He plumped her heavy breasts high. The moment his mouth was on her, he tongued the hard pebble of her nipple. She gasped his name, not his nickname but his name, and cupped her hands behind his head to hold him in place.

  As if I’d go anywhere?

  Alternating licks with sucks, treating first her left breast, then her right breast, he was rewarded when she made a low mewling sound and dug the balls of her bare feet into the hollows behind his knees. She needed the traction to increase the bump and grind of her hips. The friction was off the charts. Better than it had been before. So much better, in fact, that if she kept it up, he was going to go off like a damned bottle rocket. Bang! Zoom! To the moon! The end.

  “I dreamed of unbuttoning your jeans and pulling them from your pretty legs,” he whispered around one taut nipple, or rather…growled. His voice had gone completely guttural. “Then I dreamed of taking off your panties, spreading your thighs, and tasting you.”

  Now the sounds issuing from the back of her throat were thick and raspy. Her nipple popped free of his mouth with a wet-sounding plop when he looked up to find her kiss-swollen mouth slack.

  He wasn’t the only one about to go off.

  Damnit!

  “Oh, no you don’t.” When he stepped back, both to stop her from rubbing herself to completion against him and to give himself room to work on the snap and zipper of her jeans, she howled her dismay and frustration.

  “Uh-uh,” he scolded. “When you come, it’s going to be with a piece of me inside you. That piece can be my fingers or my tongue or my cock. I’m willing to negotiate. But you will wait for me.”

  Her eyes sparked. Her gorgeous boobs bobbed prettily as she panted. “Good to know your pushy, autocratic attitude extends to the bedroom.”

  Autocratic? She thought that was autocratic? Well, babycakes, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

  He wasn’t gentle when he pulled her jeans from her legs and tossed them over his shoulder to join her discarded sweatshirt. She squeaked and blinked at him. But he could see the intrigue twinkling in her eyes.

  So, in addition to dirty talk, she prefers it a little rough. Good thing, since that was exactly how he liked to ride.

  Gripping the waistband of her panties, he sent them the way of the rest of her clothes. Once again, he stepped back and…looked.

  She attempted to close her legs, but he stopped her with a hand on either knee.

  “No, babe. Don’t hide that spectacular view from me.” And it was spectacular. Swollen lips. A little triangle of trimmed black hair covering her plump mound. “You’re so pretty and red and juicy.”

  “Dagan…” There was self-consciousness in her voice.

  He couldn’t understand why. Like the rest of Chelsea, that part of her was perfect. And this time he really did fall to his knees. Partly because his legs were jelly. And partly because the move put his face right where he wanted it to be.

  Without hesitation, he draped her legs over his shoulders. The musky-sweet scent of her filled his nose and detonated inside his brain like an H-bomb. His mouth watered. He was a starving man looking at an all-you-can-eat buffet. And you could bet your ass he planned to savor each taste, each lick, every bite.

  “Dagan.” Her hand landed in his hair, tangling there. “You don’t have to.”

  “And that’s where you’re wrong. I have to. I’ll die if I don’t.”

  He rubbed a thumb up her soaking seam, then brought the pad to his mouth, licking it clean. His eyes fluttered closed. His nostrils flared wide.

  Her taste. Jesus H. It was salty and sweet, whetting his appetite for the enviable task ahead.

  Bending, he pressed his lips to her. Chelsea hissed, and again
st his tongue, he felt her throb like a beating heart.

  “Oh my,” she moaned, her passion-darkened eyes watching him.

  Smiling up at her, he set about his business in earnest. For long moments he loved her, treating her to the talents of his lips and tongue. Every moan she made, every whimper ripped from her throat taught him more about her.

  She liked it when he sucked on her. But she loved it when he flicked the nerve-rich bundle at the top of her sex with his tongue. Fast and hard, then slow and steady. Then fast and hard again.

  “Dagan!” The hand in his hair fisted tighter. Tight enough to make the strands pinch and protest.

  His Southern girl was forgetting her nice manners. And he loved it.

  When her thighs clamped around his ears, he redoubled his efforts. Bringing up his thumb, he place it over her clitoris, giving it a good, rough rub that made her pant and howl. Once he was satisfied she was good to go there, he thrust his tongue deep. His reward was the clenching of her inner muscles.

  She’s close.

  The knowledge made his balls buzz. Idiots were just begging for release. But he resolved to teach them a lesson in patience. Right now was all about her. Her pleasure. Her release.

  Moving his lips back to her clit, he sucked and flicked at the same time he pressed his thumb inside her.

  Once more, her inner muscles contracted. Good God, she was a tight little thing. And for another thirty seconds, while he licked and flicked and sucked, he tested her limits. Tested his own too.

  Then her whole body began to tremble like she was riding out an earthquake. He considered pulling back and letting her come down before bringing her back to the edge again—he didn’t want this to stop; he wanted it to go on forever—but who was he kidding? The desire to see her come, to feel it and taste it, was stronger than anything else.

  So he brought her home.

  She stiffened when she reached the pinnacle, muscles locked, head thrown back, a loud scream that might have been his name lodged in her throat. Then she turned boneless on the way down, collapsing back on her elbows. Her listless legs slipped from his shoulders even as her sweet cleft continued to throb against his tongue.