Breath on Embers (2 page)

Her panties snared around one ankle when he used his broad shoulders to open her and spread her wide for his mouth. His tongue delved into her juicy folds, slowly circling her clit as his strong fingers found her nipples. She writhed and gasped, got a handful of his thick hair and yanked as tension fisted tight, drawing her in on herself, then he catapulted her into a breathless, sobbing orgasm, and blessed oblivion.

That wasn’t what she came here to do, but oh God, it felt good, filling the void inside with a dark heat she couldn’t resist, or deny.

Ronan straddled her torso, jostling her back into the moment. “Still feeling helpful?” he asked. When she nodded, he dropped a condom in her palm.

She gripped his shaft in one hand for a couple of slow, hard strokes. When his breath hissed between his teeth, she tore open the wrapper, paused to give a sweet kiss to the tip of his cock, then less-subtle licks in time to her stroking hand.

“Jesus, Thea. Do it.”

She wanted it as much as he did but that didn’t stop her from alternating between scraping her nails very gently along the shaft and cupping his balls as she eased the condom down. When it was on, he captured her wrists and pinned them to the bed above her head.

“You’re a tease,” he growled as he spread her legs with his knees. “A dirty tease.”

“Dirty, yes, but I don’t see how you can call me—” she started, but then his thick cock slid inside her, stroking over nerve endings screaming with unfulfilled stimulation. The rest of her sentence disappeared into a helpless little whimper. Her legs drew up against his hips when he began to move, but sweat eased the friction between his hair-roughened skin and the grippy patent leather.

“Still feel like arguing?” he asked as if he didn’t already know the answer.

It was deliciously primitive, the sight of his hard body poised over hers, his arms rigid as he pinned her wrists by her head and took possession of her body with a heavy, purposeful thrust. His dark, possessive gaze roamed from her hair to her mouth, pausing to watch the soft flesh of her breasts jiggle with each deep thrust, drifted over the disheveled red velvet rucked up to expose her mound, then lingered where their bodies joined.

A low groan reverberated in his chest. Sweat trailed down his torso, plunked against her breasts. Need crested inside her, made her struggle in his grip. In response he went to his elbows, stretching her arms overhead; the change in angle sent his cock gliding over the sensitive bundle of nerves inside her sheath. Darkness closed around her until her gasping release, ten times more powerful than the last, flung her into the void. With a harsh grunt Ronan ground against her as his own orgasm wracked his body.

Why?
The question surfaced from the blackness.
Why was it more powerful with him inside her?

It’s intimate. The connection between blood and bone binds you together. Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. And the two shall become one. Remember?

Ronan gently disengaged their bodies, then collapsed beside her. “I love Christmas,” he said to the ceiling.

The unexpected remark, a spontaneous expression of sentiment about the holidays, was so uncharacteristic of Ronan that she froze.

Unaware of her response, he gave a pleased chuckle, then rolled off the bed and headed for the bathroom. By the time he returned she’d struggled upright, the simple task made nearly impossible by the languid heat loosening her muscles. She flattened the bodice against her ribs and reached around to fumble with the zipper.

“Let me get that.” With those gentle words he sat beside her and zipped up the dress. When she stood, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her back to the bed, a task made easier by her weakened knees. He brushed her tumbled hair over her shoulder, then kissed the bared skin. “I’m glad you came over tonight.”

Her heart knocked hard against her ribs, but she forced herself to meet his eyes. He hadn’t seen her in a couple of weeks; between her after-hours work at the data center and his rotating schedule at the firehouse, they hadn’t been able to get together. Hook up. With Christmas bearing down like a speeding truck, she’d just turn the music up louder, make the sex steamier, until she made it to New Year’s Eve.

“I’m glad you found me helpful,” she said, but the words didn’t come out as lightly as she wanted.

“Speaking of helpful, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“What?” she asked, and tried to stand again. This time her legs held her, but Ronan also didn’t stop her. Instead he looked up at her.

“I know you’re covering shifts for Brent and Lisa so they can spend time with their families over the holidays, but you should get one day off. How about making it Christmas Eve? I usually decorate my tree then. Want to help me this year? Since you’re feeling all helpful about Christmas,” he finished.

Her heart turned over in her chest at his crooked, hopeful grin, but as the seconds ticked by his smile faltered, then disappeared. “Ronan,” she said gently. “Let’s not do this. Let’s not make the holidays into something they aren’t for us.”

He stood and folded his arms across his bare chest. “Is it too soon?” he asked brusquely.

She looked into his now-shuttered eyes. “It’s been two years. It’s not too soon,” she said, and brushed by him to find her coat.

He caught up with her in the hallway. “What’s wrong? Jesus, Thea,” he said and put his hand on her arm to prevent her from shrugging into her patent-leather shell. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” she stated calmly.

“The fuck you’re not,” he said. “I saw it when I opened the door, but you unbuttoned the coat and my brain shut down. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

Ronan the Rescuer loomed over her, big and tough and willing to throw himself at whatever fire appeared, literal or metaphorical, but this wasn’t hot flames. This was the cold fire of hell no one could rescue her from, because nothing was wrong, except her husband was dead. Had been for two years today. Her therapist prattled on about the stages of grieving, the importance of moving through them. If Thea heard
coming to terms with your loss
one more time she would go stark raving mad. She didn’t deny Jesse’s death. She made no bargains, felt no pain or guilt. She felt nothing at all. He was two years dead, the victim of an Ohio snowstorm and an arrogant moron in a Tahoe who thought four-wheel drive meant he could speed on ice.

They’d loved Christmas, blended traditions from his big Catholic family and hers, made great gingerbread and horrible fruitcake, hung lights, sent cards, shopped for gifts together, sponsored a down-on-their-luck family every year. Switched from their ongoing exploration of alternative and underground music to an all-Christmas-all-the-time playlist. A professor of anthropology, Jesse believed in the power of metaphor, so they’d lit candles everywhere. Created light, and love, in the darkness of the year. But two years ago fat red and green Christmas candles gave way to slim cream tapers at a Catholic funeral mass.

Thea hadn’t lit a candle since.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said, and stepped away from him to pull on her coat. “I’m sorry I’ve given you the impression that this means more than it does,” she said as she swiftly buttoned the coat and snugged the belt around her waist.

“Given me the impression?”
He wasn’t mocking her. Disbelief and a refusal to accept what he heard rang in his voice. “You’re the most complicated woman I’ve ever met. You’d never give anything so weak as an
impression
. One look from you hits me like an express train blasting through a local station, and you’re not even trying.”

Darkness had weight, but the concept was ridiculous, given that she felt as unsubstantial as air. Desperate to get away, she twisted the deadbolt and hauled open the door. “Thank you for the invitation, but I think it’s best if we end—”

“Thea.”

She stopped. Stopped saying the words she couldn’t take back, stopped walking away. The firm command in his voice stopped her in her tracks, the elevators framed in the doorway.

“I just had you under me. You think I don’t know what this means?”

The bluntly sexual words sent shivers racing up her spine. She turned to face him, standing shirtless in the hallway, jeans zipped but not buttoned. “You think sex tells the truth?” she asked gently.

Air huffed mockingly from his nostrils. “You think our bodies tell lies?”

Never challenge an alpha male. Even she knew that, and the bulk of her experience was with beta males—Jesse the bookish scholar, the guys who worked in IT with her. Ronan was a different breed of man all together, good for filling the void inside, not supposed to be interested in anything more.

“I don’t know,” she said simply. “But sex is all this can be, and that’s the truth.”

The lie hung in the air as she closed the door. She had her headphones on by the time she pushed the button for the elevator.

Chapte
r Two

December 10th

That’s what he got for thinking with his dick.

Off duty after a forty-eight-hour shift, Ronan stood in line at the Starbucks at Eighty-Fifth and Lex, getting a coffee for the walk home. In front of him stood a blonde in running shoes, tights and a black fur coat too warm for the weather. A white Chihuahua peeked out of her purse as she delayed her phone conversation long enough to order a skinny hot chocolate, no whip, heated to exactly one hundred and sixty-eight degrees, heavy drizzle.

Beside him, his friend and the ladder’s EMS Lieutenant Tim Cannon, stifled a snort.

“You’ve been on a Frappucino kick,” Ronan said under his breath. “You’re in no position to judge.”

“Not the drink, the dog.” Tim shook his head.

The blonde took her conversation and her dog to the end of the counter. Ronan stepped up and ordered a venti coffee with room. Tim added a strawberries and cream Frappucino to the order, then tossed down a ten.

“I’ve got it,” Ronan said.

“You paid last time,” Tim said, and dumped the change in the tip jar.

“Buying my coffee won’t stop me from ridiculing your drink,” Ronan said as they joined the blonde. The dog eyed him and let out a low growl.

“I’m telling you, the little fuckers bite,” Tim said, then turned so his back was to the counter. “As for the drink, I’ve been hooking up with this foodie. Last time she had a bunch of strawberries and homemade whipped cream in her fridge. Ever since then I’ve been craving strawberries.”

For a brief moment the possibilities flashed through Ronan’s mind. Strawberries and cream would taste good on Thea’s pale abdomen, especially against reddened nipples and the sweet pink of her cunt. He shook his head. “Your sex life is right out of soft-core porn.”

“Speaking of which...I think she’d like you.”

“Like me or fuck me?”

“Is there a difference?” Tim’s face grew solemn. “Seriously, she’s dropped hints about doing a threesome.”

“Dropped hints when you’re eating strawberries and whipped cream off her tits, or when she’s in her right mind?”

“Both. I’m not talking her into anything, and the list of guys I’ll do that with has one name on it. Yours.”

“Wow. I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. You’re the only guy I trust to keep his mouth shut about it afterward. You and Thea aren’t exclusive, right?”

Good question. “Not now,” he said absently as the HD movie projector in his mind replayed Thea in thigh-high boots and a skimpy red and white outfit. In the shocking, heated moments after he’d opened the door he’d seen an ocean of darkness surging in her gray eyes. But his brain shut down and his dick took over, and then she’d turned down his offer, an offer he’d never made before. For the O’Rourke clan, the holidays were special, for family and almost-family. The unwritten rule was you didn’t bring someone home unless they wore your ring, or you were on the verge of buying one. He was nowhere near asking Thea to Long Island for Christmas dinner, but decorating on Christmas Eve was a big fucking deal to him.

Don’t make this more than it is.

That burned, because he of all people should have known better than to assume sex involved emotions. He’d been where she was, and he knew what a person might do to deal with a stormy sea of grief. She might, to pick an example not at random, have all kinds of wild and crazy sex. She’d talk and flirt and banter, go to work and out to dinner, or walk in the park, or see a movie. And under it all, she might feel numb inside.

Except...she didn’t feel numb to him. Bodies don’t lie. Her body spoke of a soul-deep pain. Every time he saw her, she used something to drown out the world, until his patient assault on her senses was rewarded with her full, undivided attention.

Thea’s full attention felt like standing on the platform when an express train came screaming by, the noise trapped in the tunnel, reverberating against century-old tile and iron pillars.
Ka-thunk-a-thunk-ka-thunk-a-thunk-ka-thunk-a-thunk
vibrating against his heart, spiking adrenalin, until she blinked and shut it down.

By making it sexual. In hindsight, opening her coat at that exact moment hadn’t been coincidence, which meant her unexpected appearance as Santa’s sexy helper wasn’t coincidence, either. For some people, himself included, the holidays weren’t all presents and joy and light in the darkness. They weren’t even mildly annoying in-laws and five pounds gained. They just fucking sucked.

Tim picked up the venti pink and white frothy drink and tapped the straw on the counter to loosen the paper cover. “Trouble with Thea?” he asked lightly.

“You could say that,” Ronan said, and crossed the narrow store to the condiments counter to pour cream into his coffee.

Tim waited while he stirred. “I remember watching her walk up the block. Knew she’d be one hell of a ride, but one hell of a ride usually means trouble.”

The wooden stir stick still in hand, Ronan flashed back to the warm day in March. Noise from the St. Patrick’s Day parade didn’t extend much past Lexington Avenue, but the bars on Second were full of Irish cops, firefighters and EMTs, all spilling out of opened windows onto the patios. The losers in the duty roster were back at the firehouse, watching the parade on TV and deep cleaning the kitchen. Ronan was halfway into his second Guinness of the afternoon when a tall, slender figure dressed in a long, slim gray skirt, tight white T, and a fitted denim jacket strode up the avenue. Red shoes flashed under the ankle-length skirt, and the wind tousled elbow length blond hair as she moved.

Tim saw her first.

“Goddamn,” he said, using his six-foot-five height advantage to look over everyone else in the bar. “Look at her. Ten bucks says she’s mine.”

“Jesus, Tim,” Ronan said, but Tim’s cousin the cop drowned him out.

“You’re on, `cause there’s no fucking way.”

Checking for a break in traffic, the blonde crossed the street against the light and came up the sidewalk. The skirt clung to her hips and thighs. As she approached she tossed a sidelong glance at the uniforms clustered around patio tables, collars loosened, jackets unbuttoned, a quick glance, but turned her gaze determinedly forward.

Tim leaned over the railing as she drew even with their table and called out, “Hey, darlin’. Where’s the fire?”

She cocked a brow at Tim as she tugged earbuds from one ear, then the other, and Ronan could hear nu metal blasting over Second Avenue’s traffic. “Excuse me?” she said.

Tim repeated himself while she considered him, dark gray eyes lingering on the FDNY badge. “I’m sorry I asked, because that’s the lamest line I’ve ever heard.”

Low chuckles from the guys clustered around the table. Unfazed, Tim smiled. “Got you to stop, didn’t it?”

“Not for long,” she said.

“Come on, darlin’, it’s St. Patrick’s Day. Everybody’s Irish. Have a beer. We won’t bite.”

That got the slightest lift of the corners of her lips. She shook her head ever so slightly but slowly wrapped her earbud cord around her iPod, as if she was about to join them, and for a moment Ronan thought Tim had actually scored this gorgeous blonde who made his heart pound just standing five feet away from him.

“With a name like Moretti, you think I’m Irish?”

“Well, Ms. Moretti, I’ll need to make a closer inspection.”

A couple of low whistles punctuated the chuckles this time, and Ronan said his name again, low and firm. Tim’s reputation as a player was known city-wide and he’d been drinking an hour longer than Ronan, but the woman’s dark eyes never wavered as she scanned the all-male crowd. When those haunted eyes met his, he thought he’d need paddles to get his heart going again. Electric heat shot over his nerves at the same time her pupils dilated and her breath hitched, like maybe she’d been shocked, too.

He felt alive. For the first time in two years, life coursed through him.

Then she looked away. Her gaze flicked over his friend, cool enough to make his cocky grin falter. “There’s only one explanation for lines that bad. You’re his wingman,” she said with a nod at Ronan, “trying to make him look good.”

That wasn’t the traditional definition of a wingman, but the smack to Tim’s ego deflected the attention from herself to Ronan. Mocking laughs rose from the pack as everyone turned to see what he’d do.

Without a second thought Ronan chucked Tim under the crosstown bus. “I don’t need a wingman,” he said. “How about a beer in apology for his behavior?”

The blonde’s shocking, bottomless gaze took him in, top to toe. “No, thanks,” she said, then tilted her head in the direction of the street. “How about you walk me home?”

With that the cool customer stunned a crowd of cops and firefighters into silence. No catcalls, no whistles, no mocking laughs. Every man there understood the offer under the words, and oh hell, yes, he’d go for a walk. He hoped she lived close. He couldn’t wait to see color flood that creamy throat as he fucked her.

Ronan set his beer on the table, shouldered his way past Tim to the rail, and stepped over it onto the sidewalk. She projected taller than she actually was; she looked up at him through thick lashes fringing shuttered gray eyes. Without sparing a glance for the guys still in the bar, he shoved his hands in his pockets and offered her his elbow. She tucked her hand through his arm and smiled at Tim.

“Enjoy your afternoon, darlin’,” she said.

They were at the corner of Eighty-Fifth and Second before the laughter and catcalls faded from hearing. “Damn, I like your style,” he said. “Where to?”

“I’ve always wanted to see inside a fire station,” she said.

Doing this there would break a dozen different rules, but for the first time in his life, he didn’t give a damn. So they strolled along Eighty-Fifth Street, stepped inside. He checked in with the duty officer, gave him a bullshit story about his friend getting something spilled on her at the parade, then took her hand and led her up the stairs to the living quarters. Once inside the bathroom he shut the door, backed her into it, and covered her mouth with his. There was a long moment when she was utterly still against him, then her purse hit the floor and her mouth opened to admit his tongue while her hands worked at his belt buckle. She dealt with skirt and panties, he got the condom out of his wallet and smoothed it on, then hoisted her into the door. She flinched and trembled when he pressed inside so he paused while her slick, gripping sheath adjusted around him, tightening his balls with each delicate ripple.

“Oh, fuck,” he growled into her hair.

“Now,” she replied. “Right now.”

The whole thing took five minutes, tops, and came to a shuddering conclusion with her mouth pressed into his shoulder to stifle her cries. His knees weren’t quite steady as he stepped away to deal with the condom.

“What’s your name?” he asked as he zipped up.

She gave a little laugh and let her skirt drop back to her ankles. “Thea,” she said. “The funny thing is, I am actually Irish. Moretti’s my married name.”

His heart stopped dead in his chest at the thought that someone so alive both belonged to and cheated on another man. “You’re married?” He grabbed her left hand, looked for a ring, felt for the dent, and found neither. What a piece of work. “Jesus Christ! You’re fucking married?”

Thea pulled back her hand and backed up as far as she could, into the door. “I’m a widow.”

Relief swamped him. “Oh. Okay. I’m sorry,” he said, apologizing both for her loss and his sharp reaction but mostly for his reaction because he didn’t like the wide-eyed look on her face. “It may be hard to believe, since fifteen minutes ago we were standing outside a bar on Second Avenue and ten seconds ago I didn’t even know your name, but I do have morals.”

That ghost of a smile flitted across her lips but didn’t surface from under the eddying shadows in her eyes. “I appreciate both your morals and their flexibility.”

She snagged some paper towels, wet them down, and swiped at her skirt until a dark spot spread on her thigh. Suspicion bloomed in his awareness as he watched her contribute to their cover story. “How long?”

She didn’t pretend to not know what he meant. “Oh, a while,” she said casually. “Over a year.”

In the time it took him to blink, a dozen reasons for a recently widowed woman to choose a random hookup from a bunch of uniforms flashed through his mind. And she had chosen him, because if she wanted to be left alone, all she’d had to do was walk away from Cannon and his big mouth. “That’s not very long at all,” he said.

She looked at him for a long moment, the sex flush receding from her cheekbones and slim neck, then tossed the paper towels in the trash can. “I’d like to leave now,” she said.

Without changing expression he reached past her and unlocked the bathroom door, then opened it. He followed her down the stairs, past the probies cleaning the trucks, to the door. “Thanks for helping me get the stain out.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, knowing eyes were spinning like pinwheels behind his back, then again opened the door for her. He held it open with his body as she swept through, but caught her wrist when she turned for Lex, where she’d disappear into the city. “I want to see you again.”

“Why?” she said.

Good question. He considered several responses before he settled on, “I still like your style, Thea.”

She pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and wrote a phone number on his hand. “Call me.”

* * *

“Any year now,” Tim said. Ronan snapped the lid back on his cup and headed out to the dark street. “What do you mean
not now?
We’re not exclusive now, or I’m not interested in a threesome now?”

“Not interested,” Ronan said shortly.

“I knew you’d go for her,” Tim said as he zipped his jacket.

“Yeah? You psychic now?”

“It was the look in her eyes. You like the wounded ones, because you, my friend, have a classic rescuer’s complex.”

He did. He knew that, and he knew why. He also knew when to quit, but he wasn’t quitting on Thea. Not yet, because the look in her eyes that day, the one Tim didn’t see, was sheer terror. The bold-as-brass exchange with him and Tim had fronted a panic he could no more resist than the electric charge arcing between them. But Thea, whose dove-gray eyes told a truth about grief most of humanity ignored or avoided, resisted rescue.