Chains of Fire

by Christina Dodd

  The sound of his heartfelt groan was sweet surrender. “All right. You win.”

  Reluctantly, she released him.

  As soon as she did, he yanked her to her feet and marched her to the packed tent sack she’d used as a seat. Turning her to face away from him, he urged her to her knees on the concrete. He knelt behind her, his knees outside her knees. He held her in place. Pulled down her zipper. Bent against her, his front against her back, enveloping her in his warmth.

  She leaned against him, reveling in the sizzle between them, in his arms embracing her.

  His callused hands skated across her belly to her hips. He pushed her pants down, but only to the tops of her thighs.

  Not far enough.

  She almost objected.

  Then his hands glided between her legs and he used his fingers to open her lips and subtly, gently stroke her.

  She pressed herself into his touch, already so close to orgasm she was shuddering with need.

  “No, you don’t.” His voice came from behind and above her. “Not without me.” She heard the crinkle of foil and turned in astonishment.

  He was opening a condom, putting it on.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Almost every locker had at least one.”

  “Right.” Of course they did. Because they were ski lockers.

  But why was he carrying it in his pocket?

  He shoved her pants down to her knees.

  The cold struck her, giving her goose bumps.

  He bent her again, opened her from behind.

  She suffered a moment of acute awareness. She was too exposed, too vulnerable.

  Then he found her with his fingers, then with his erection. . . .

  Discuss the condom later. . . .

  His penis opened the first resistant inches with a firm, inexorable momentum. Once he had breached her defenses, he advanced into her, a slow, steady progress as her body unlocked itself for him, for his heat, for the unrelenting tightness caused by his knees clamped around her knees.

  By the time he reached the limit, she was gasping aloud. She tried to move. He wrapped his arm around her waist and held her still.

  “Please. Samuel. Please.” She was praying to him as if he were a deity. “I can’t stand it. You’ve got to hurry. Now.”

  His voice was smooth, unimpressed. “Tell me you’re sorry.”

  She lifted her head. “What?”

  “Tell me you’re sorry you ran out on me and left me to face the consequences.”

  She tried to straighten up.

  He held her absolutely still, and slowly, so slowly, pulled out almost . . . all . . . the way. “Tell me.”

  His chest rumbled against her back, and she could imagine how his eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of holding her helpless.

  “You’re a sleaze.” She tried to shove herself out of his grasp.

  No way.

  “Not a doubt about that.” Slowly, just as slowly, he pressed back inside.

  She squeezed herself tightly, trying to hold him back, but that increased the friction, and inside she quivered with an eagerness so compelling the world constricted to this place, this moment, their union.

  “I feel how close you are,” he whispered as if every word were dirty. “I can send you over the edge. One firm thrust is all it would take. Once you started coming . . . Isabelle, are you listening?”

  She leaned her forehead on her clasped hands, stared at the blue nylon sack beneath them. “No.”

  He stopped talking. Stopped moving.

  Her fingers tightened on one another as she fought the compulsion to yield.

  He must have had respect for her self-control, because he leaned in so close his voice murmured in her ear, and he incited her. “Once you started coming, you wouldn’t stop. Every time I went deep inside, my balls would be crushed against your clit, and—”

  “All right!” She grabbed the nylon with both hands so tightly her knuckles turned white. To hell with pride. “I’m sorry I left you alone when we were teenagers to face the inquisition.”

  “Nice.” He shifted smoothly, his hips clenching, his erection lifting, until he was, as he promised, crushed against her exposed clit.

  So close . . .

  On a gasp, she said, “I’ve been ashamed ever since I abandoned you. I was afraid. . . . What we had between us was so intense and I wasn’t ready. . . . I was a coward. I am sorry. Oh, please, Samuel, I really do mean it.” She did. It had been her ugly secret for so many years, and it felt strangely liberating to admit it aloud to him.

  “I believe you.” He was moving now, still unhurried, still a torment. “You said everything I’ve waited years to hear.” With his arm around her, he forced her to remain still, but his motion was constant . . . and gradually increasing.

  With his free hand, he caressed her rear, smoothed the skin, found the crack at the base of her spine, and ran his thumb up and down.

  She fought him, whimpering, frantic to be more than a recipient, to move with him and seize the climax that eluded her.

  Reaching beneath her, he pushed up her sweater and found her breast. Firmly he squeezed.

  Jolted by the contact, she bucked beneath him.

  At last he released her, straightened up, and thrust. Hard.

  She pushed back. Hard.

  He groaned.

  Good.

  They thrust again.

  For one eternal second, they hovered on the edge of anticipation. Then, in unison, they moved together, clashing in a battle both would win.

  The first orgasm swept her. She tightened her body, arched like a cat, moaned and wept.

  There was nothing romantic about this. It was swift, dirty, sweaty . . . exhilarating. It was sex without frills, rampaging toward the ultimate satisfaction, and each climax racked her like a fever, erasing thought, building heat. She was going to implode with lust, with constantly building need.

  Then his orgasm began. He rocked her against him, bringing them together hard and fast, and each time he did, she came again. It never stopped, this battering of the senses, this bliss that was too much—and yet never enough.

  He lifted her, remorselessly forced her against him. Inside her, she felt the jump of his penis as he came—and she came, too, clamping down on him, milking him, until the ride was over.

  Then, by mutual consent, they wilted down onto the tent bag.

  His large, splayed hand protected her naked belly from the cool nylon. His other arm he slid under her head. He rested on top of her, his legs still tight against hers, his penis deep inside; everything about his posture spelled mine. Samuel had always been possessive.

  Today, his attitude felt like protection.

  Chapter 24

  Before Isabelle was ready, Samuel lifted himself off of her.

  She moaned as his body left hers, then moaned again as the cold air she now knew so well struck her once more, surprising her with its chill.

  A thought, coherent and full-formed, jolted her—I am not going to be sorry. I am not going to be guilty. I am glad we did that, and no matter what happens now, no one can take that away from me.

  Her earliest memory was being told by someone—a nanny, a teacher—that she was the luckiest little girl in the world because Patricia Mason had adopted her, and that that adoption saved her from a dire childhood or possibly death. She remembered crying because she wasn’t really her mother’s baby, and remembered, too, how angry Patricia had been when she found out.

  But the damage was done. Isabelle had grown up steeped in responsibility and guilt . . . but for the first time in her life, she refused to feel guilty about Samuel.

  She lusted after him, and that lust had just given her the one thing she craved—forgetfulness.

  For a few passionate moments, she had been unaware of the cold, the dark, the fear, the desperation. Only he had existed, he and the pleasure he gave her.

  As he helped her up, he looked into her face. His eyes widened. “Did I
hurt you?”

  “What?” She wiped the tears off her cheeks. “Oh. This. No. It just felt . . . It’s been a long time. It was good.”

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  Okay? Really? No, Yes, it was fabulous, the moment I’ve been waiting for all my life? Or even a swagger and, Hey, I’m good? Just . . . Okay?

  That didn’t sound like the confident, aggressive man she had always known. Wasn’t he going to follow this lovemaking with a pitch for another romp in his bed?

  But no. He didn’t say anything. Instead he tucked her into her pants, into her coat. Zipped her up. Behaved like a man who wanted to get her covered as soon as possible.

  She didn’t know what to think.

  But she wanted him to realize she wasn’t blaming him or wallowing in guilt or anything, so she said, “That whole thing felt really good.”

  “It did. Felt great!” he agreed too enthusiastically. Almost . . . awkwardly.

  Well. That was probably better. Because no matter how glad she was that they had had sex, they couldn’t do it again. It wasn’t right for them to attack each other like ravenous beasts. . . .

  Or rather, it wasn’t right for her to attack him. Because she had to be honest with herself. That was what had happened.

  She tried to think what to say, how to phrase her thoughts. “We have to talk.”

  At the same time, he said, “Look, I’m sorry, but having sex with you was stupid.”

  She felt as if she’d been slapped.

  That was exactly what she was going to say, although she wouldn’t have put it so bluntly—and she never expected to hear it from him.

  “I know what we’re both thinking, so let me say this.” He lifted his eyebrows, asking for permission.

  Still stunned, she nodded.

  “We both . . . well, I can’t speak for you, but I know I’m anxious about being trapped for so long with no help in sight and no viable plan to escape.”

  She gestured for him to continue. Really. She was going to say this. Exactly this.

  “The tension is weighing on us. On me.” He was serious, intent. “After the disappointment yesterday when the tunnel caved in—”

  “Gone with the Windchill,” she joked, trying to cover up her hurt and surprise.

  “Right.” He didn’t even admire her movie title; he merely smiled perfunctorily. “I think we can probably agree that the sex was an aberration caused by anxiety.”

  An aberration? You had a condom in your pocket.

  But what good would it do for her to be sarcastic? At least he’d been prepared. If he hadn’t been . . . She shivered. If he hadn’t been, she might be pregnant right now.

  There was a thought to keep her awake at night.

  Choosing her words carefully, she suggested, “So we used each other as an antidote to depression?”

  “It was a much-needed release of tension for us both.”

  “Right. And we don’t want to do it again because we might frostbite our parts.”

  “That’s the least of our worries, I would say.”

  “Right,” she said again, and smiled brightly. “Why don’t we just agree the sex didn’t happen? Probably if we were trapped with someone else, we’d have had stupid sex with them, too.”

  “Stupid sex. Exactly.” Picking up the saw, he started toward the ladder.

  Startled, she stared at his back, then called, “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going back to work. We need to get out of here before we get stupid again.”

  She didn’t know where the words came from, but once they were out, she was glad she’d said them. “I think it’s time to use the dynamite.”

  Chapter 25

  Once Isabelle had started, the words spilled from her. “I know there’s a chance, a good one, that when we use the dynamite, the building will collapse on us. And if that doesn’t happen, the explosion will use up our remaining oxygen and we’ll suffocate.”

  He started to speak.

  She held up her hand. This time, it was her turn to be honest. “But I’m sick of eating half-frozen dehydrated rations. I’m tired of being cold except when I’m in my sleeping bag. I don’t want to spend all my time thinking up corny movie titles to make you smile—and anyway, it’s not working anymore. I’m scared we’re going to slowly fade away, be discovered in the spring, and be a footnote in some Swiss newspaper article. My lips are chapped because all the lip balms we’ve found were someone else’s and open, and I don’t want to get a disease, but what difference does it make if we’re going to die anyway?”

  “Okay, we’ll use the dynamite.”

  “We can either die slowly, one by one, or we can take this one chance and maybe the rescuers will find us, or even better, maybe we’ll blast our way out—” Her head snapped around. “What did you say?”

  “I still plan to look in the venting.” He stood, looking up the ladder, his jaw squared as he contemplated his mission. “If we could find an outlet up by the ceiling, one that goes outside the building, that would be our best chance not to destroy the roof over our heads. There’s no point in alerting the rescuers while killing ourselves in the process.”

  She stared at him, wide-eyed.

  For so long, she’d thought of Samuel as a slick lawyer who wore expensive suits, swam with the sharks, and had the moral integrity of a tomcat. But right now, dressed in black ski pants and a red plaid flannel shirt, he looked tough and capable, the kind of man she could depend on to rescue her in any crisis.

  Come to think of it, in the past he’d always been there, even when she didn’t want him. Always she had known that if she called him, he would come.

  In so many ways, he was the best man she’d ever known.

  If only she could trust him.

  She must have contemplated him a little too long, because he asked, “What? You think I haven’t thought of everything you said?”

  “I . . . I think you’re a good guy.”

  “I think if you’re saying that, it’s definitely time to get you out of here.” He sounded humorous, but he looked at her as if her sanity were in doubt.

  “No, really. This has been like a retreat in a convent . . . er . . . other than the sex that we didn’t just have. I’ve had a lot of time for contemplation. What happened between us—you nailed it. The first time we separated, it was my fault. The second time, it was yours.”

  He muttered something dark and crude.

  “But you’ve been my friend, always.” Quickly she added, “Which is why I’ll set the charge.”

  “The charge on the dynamite?” His voice rose. “Why don’t you just cut off my balls?”

  Just when she was starting to feel charitable . . . “Are you insinuating that I’m trying to emasculate you?”

  “After what the two of us just did there?” He gestured toward the tent sack. “No. But you know how you have to coddle my ego.”

  She snorted in unladylike amusement. “You’ve got an ironclad ego. Do you really think anyone out there”—she waved vaguely toward the ceiling—“is ever going to know who made it go boom?”

  “I’ll know.”

  She gathered the shreds of her patience around her. “You aren’t familiar with dynamite.”

  “I agree. So you tell me what you learned about it in boot camp. You know me well enough to realize I’m not going to hide while you put yourself in danger, so you might as well give me a crash course on how to blow stuff up, or we’ll be stuck down here forever.”

  Isabelle prided herself on being calm. Collected. Reasonable.

  In the past (aboveground), she had admired herself, actually admired herself for moving beyond the anger and the pain her time with Samuel had caused.

  Now, five days alone with him and she had transformed into a screeching, ranting, grudge-carrying bitch who hated the man so much she dropped her pants at the first opportunity.

  She sat on the stuffed tent sack, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her fists, staring at some unspecified poin
t. . . .

  She hadn’t really dropped her pants at the first opportunity. She’d managed to hold off for five days.

  But it hadn’t been easy and it hadn’t been fun, and if she had any integrity she would admit that living in a giant deep freeze had been the only reason she’d held off so long.

  Above her, the tin heating vent snapped and crackled like breakfast cereal.

  She shot to her feet. “How’s it going?” she shouted.

  “Fine.” His voice sounded distant and abstracted. “Now if only I could remember whether the red wire connects to the green cable or—”

  She stood frozen in horror.

  As if he read her reaction from there, he said, “Chill, Isabelle! I know how to use a timer.”

  Which meant he had been joking, which wasn’t funny. Unless she’d completely lost her sense of humor . . . and that was certainly possible. She wrung her hands and stared at the ceiling. Definitely, certainly possible.

  Samuel had explored the vent that exited through the ceiling and ended in the snow, then called it their first piece of real luck.

  The plan was for him to place the dynamite into the snow above the roof, set the charge on a timer, and get out of the heating run. He had insisted that ninety seconds was long enough for him to reach the ground and for the two of them to go to cover; any longer and he said they’d be hyperventilating by the time the blast occurred.

  He had a point, but she was hyperventilating now. If he died . . . She didn’t think she could survive if he died. Because he was a part of her. An integral part of her. A really, really important part of her.

  “Okay!” he shouted. “Ninety seconds! Go to cover!”

  Above her, she heard the tin crackling as he slithered along. He cursed once, shouted, “I mean it, Isabelle, go on!”

  She wrung her gloved hands, desperate to see him appear.

  His feet popped into view. His legs.

  She put her hands on the ladder to steady it.

  He slid out of the vent, glanced down, and his dark eyes kindled with anger. “Isabelle . . .” But he didn’t take the time to shout at her. Instead he wrapped his legs around the sides of the ladder and slid down in one motion.