Embers (Blaze Series Book 3) (8 page)

I wait a full day before  calling. Any
longer and he’d know I’d gotten his letter and wasn’t responding. I sit on the
edge of my bed and slide my cell phone around on the blanket. I want to hear
his voice, but I dread it too.

He answers on the second ring and I can hear
Calley causing a ruckus in the background.

“Hey, you,” he says, and the joy in his
voice makes my heart race.

“Hey. You busy? I can call you back,” I
offer.

“Are you kidding? Now’s fine. Calley’s cutting
up because we just came in from the yard. How are you?” He sighs and I imagine
him sinking into the recliner, a beer on the end table. I can picture myself
there, with him, sharing a beer. I know how that would feel.  

We chat about work, family, and my book. I’m
thinking we might get through the conversation without mentioning it, but he
asks, “Did you get my letter?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And?” He sounds hopeful, vulnerable.

“It was beautiful, Sam.” And it was.
Heartbreakingly so.

“I know it was heavy. But I’ve been thinking
about you. Missing you. And I . . . I don’t want you slipping away, Katy. Not
this time. I thought maybe I could come for a visit. I have some time saved. If
that’s okay.”

“Yeah. That sounds awesome. Do you have any
idea when? I’m just super swamped with the book and work, and then making the
move to Amy’s company . . .”

“Well, not right away. When it works best
for you, of course.” He’s trying to cover up the hurt tone in his voice, but I
still can’t help but feel like shit.

“Okay. Or maybe I could swing another trip home.
We’ll figure it out.” I try to sound light, like it’s not a big deal. But Sam
knows me too well.

“Is everything all right, Katy? Was it my
letter? Do you—”

“I care about you, Sam.” The words just
tumble out.

His breath catches and then he asks, “Is it
him? Gabriel. Are you two back together?”

“No,” I answer quickly, and even to my own
ears I sound guilty.

“But you’ve seen him?”

I didn’t want him to ask because I cannot
lie to Sam. He deserves better. “Yes, he was here for a few days, but we’re not
together again. We just needed closure. And he’s gone back home.”

“Did this closure involve you sleeping with
him?” His voice is tight, and I’m sure he already knows the answer.

“Sam, please—”

“You know, that’s not exactly fair, Katy.
You wanted to go back there and focus on your career, on your writing. I didn’t
know I was competing with Gabriel Call, too. Some of us work for a living and
can’t jet set around the country for you on a whim.”

Sam doesn’t raise his voice when he’s upset.
It’s the exact opposite and the result is you’re left feeling like he is more
disappointed than he is angry. This makes me feel worse.

“That’s not fair, Sam. I didn’t ask him to
come here. He just showed up, and it wasn’t
for
me. He had business
here, we ran into each other, and things just . . . Sam, the way we left things
was pretty shitty. It wasn’t like when I left you.”

“Maybe you should stop leaving,” he snaps.

I wince. The silence swells between us, the
cell phone hot against my face. “Maybe we should just talk in a few days.”

I expect him to disagree, to want to hash
this out now. His reply is curt, and cuts me to the bone. “Maybe. I’ve got to
go, Kate.”

I debate calling back and apologizing, but
my hurt feelings shift to anger. I was honest with him. That has to count for
something.

Honest about sleeping with another man.
What did you expect him to do, Kate—congratulate you?

I imagine that coming from Samantha Stone
and then Nat. I have a feeling they’d be in agreement on this one: I screwed
up.

I grab my keys and a jacket. I’ll walk until
I clear my head, though I could probably walk all the way to Cold Ridge before
I sorted through these feelings of guilt and failure. I don’t make it that far,
and settle on finding clarity in the bar three blocks from the house.

I sit at the bar, which is empty other than
a middle-aged couple nursing two beers and watching a baseball game on the TV
over the liquor display.

This is only my second time here—the first
time was a few months ago when Sarah called and asked me to get a drink after a
tough day in the ER. I had one drink to her three and ended up half-dragging
her home.

The same bartender—a tall redhead named Tony
with a curly beard—who was on duty that night is here now. I doubt he
recognizes me, but he offers up a friendly smile anyway when he asks, “What’ll
it be?”

“Surprise me,” I answer.

“Okay. You in the mood for something strong?
Fruity but strong?”

“You know what? Surprise me again.”

“You got it.”

Tony returns a few minutes later with a
short glass filled with a dark brown liquid. It burns going down and within
moments my limbs feel light. I lick my lips and sip again. I nod my approval.
“Whatever this is, keep them coming.”

I don’t believe I’ll find the answers in the
bottom of this glass, but it’s worth a shot. After one drink, I consider
calling Gabriel, just to chat, but I’m not drunk enough to accept this as a
viable option. And anyway, he’ll be just heading to the airport now. After the
third drink, I begin to type a heated text to Sam. Before I can hit send, Tony slides
another glass in front of me, and nods toward the couple at the other end of
the bar.

“From Diane and Charles,” he says.

I raise my glass in thanks, and Diane—a
puffy-faced blond—raises her beer mug in return. She calls out, “I saw you pick
up that phone several times. You don’t want to do that when you’ve been
drinking, honey. Trust me.”

I decide she’s right and delete the text
draft from my phone.

After an hour or so, I’m on drink number
seven and Charles and Diane have left. More patrons have come to replace them,
and their chatter fills the air around me. I suspect Tony is no longer running my
tab. I finish the rest of the drink in one swallow and pick up my cell phone
once more.

I cycle through my contacts and realize
Gabriel Call and Sam Bowman are right next to each other. I swipe from one name
to the next, debating. I pick one and tap it with my finger. I use that same
finger to signal Tony that I’d like another drink.

Diane would disapprove, of course, but Diane
doesn’t know my life.

Gabriel’s number swims in front of my eyes.
I blink it back into focus; I hadn’t meant to drink this much. But the anger’s
still hot and bright in my stomach, and it burns away some of the fog that
clouds my head. I push my chair back from the bar and clench my teeth.

His phone goes through to voicemail. He’s
probably already on the plane.

I push my way toward the door, not caring
how I have to elbow aside to get there. As far as I’m concerned, everyone can
start making some damn way for
me
for once. I almost stumble over a
handbag that some girl has left beside her chair and I scowl at her, daring her
to say something, so I can boot it like a quarterback straight through the
saloon-style doors to the bathroom.

She quails back into her seat at the look of
my face and with a spiteful smirk, I keep on my way.

The rain is coming down outside and I lean
against the side of the building, huddling into my jacket. The cold air cuts
through me and I start to feel like kind of an asshole. I check my phone and
see a text from Gabriel: WHERE ARE YOU?

I text him the name of the bar and add WISH
YOU WERE HERE as I shiver. Isn’t alcohol supposed to make you numb? Why am I
feeling anything at this point? I’m not going back inside though.

Ten minutes later, there’s still no sign of
a taxi and my shoes are soaked through. A tall guy nods to me as he walks past.

“Waiting for someone?” he asks. “Or can I
buy you a drink to get you out of the rain?”

He’s standing too close, looking me up and
down. A grin twists the side of his mouth. He might have been good-looking if
it wasn’t for the arrogant leer on his face.

“Or we could just go back to my place,” he
says. His breath is thick with beer.

“I think she’ll be okay,” a cool voice says,
cutting through the night. Gabriel is there, a long gray coat around him, but
fitted enough to show off the hard muscles of his torso. A white shirt,
pristine and pure, opens at his neck. He puts a casual arm around me and I lean
into him, not taking my eyes off Beer Guy.

“Whatever, man,” the guy says, but his eyes
drop away from Gabriel’s. He turns and walks away, his shoulders high and
tight.

“Making friends?” Gabriel asks, drawing me
away from the street, back to his car. I shake my head, unable to believe he’s
here.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. Between
his sudden reappearance and all the drinks I’ve consumed, I’m still not sure
this isn’t a dream. He grins wolfishly.

“Changed my mind at the last minute.”

Then his face is serious. Dead serious.

“How often does a girl like you come along?
I figure you’re at least worth missing another flight.”

“You have no idea how happy I am to hear you
say that.” I grin. “I think I’m going to barf.”

“You’re that moved by the sentiment, huh?”
he says. “How much
did
you have to drink?”

“Let’s just say you probably don’t want me
to get into your car.”

“I’ll take the chance.”

But in the car, the nausea just builds. I
wrap my hand around Gabriel’s arm, wanting him closer to me, as though he alone
might somehow be able to stave off any alcohol-induced vomiting.

He glances over at me.

“You are going to have one sore head
tomorrow,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this drunk before.”

I stare at his mouth as he speaks. God, he
has beautiful lips.

“You’ve never left like this before,” I
finally manage to say.

He parks in the garage of the hotel and walks
me to the elevator. He presses the down button and then I’m on him, kissing
him, leaning into him and letting him take the whole weight of my body. He
tastes sweet, like he always does. Red heat is building underneath my skin. I
want to tear my clothes off, just to cool down. I want to rip every last stitch
off my body and have him trace his fiery kisses over my shoulders and my
breasts, down to between my legs so I can hook my leg over his shoulder and
open myself to his lips and tongue.

So I do the next best thing. When the
elevator doors open and we step inside, I’m down on my knees before they’ve
even closed again. My breath is hot on the crotch of his pants and I pull his
zipper down. My back arches.

I moan in relief when his cock springs free
and I can take it in my mouth. I reach in and cup his balls, loving him with my
mouth, so deep the tip of him pushes too deep and I gag. But as soon as I’ve
got my breath back I’m sucking at him again, wanting to fill myself on him,
wanting him to fill my body.

We come to his floor and he drags me to his
room, through the empty corridors, me stroking desperately at him all the way.
Then it’s my turn to lead and I pull him after me into the darkened bedroom.
With strength I didn’t know I had I throw him onto the bed and in the darkness
rip my clothes off just the way I wanted to. I stand there naked in the
shadows, feeling his eyes roving over my body.

“Now,” I say, and I can hear the lust in my
voice. “Fuck me.”

There’s a hot wave pushing up through my
body. I stretch, staring at him, feeling his eyes on my body as I arch my back.
His gaze sweeps over me, drinking me in. My breasts, my stomach, then down to
the space between my thighs.

“Come here,” he says. He doesn’t understand,
not yet. I’m in charge this time. I’m the one who’ll say how it goes.

I don’t say a word. I cross the room to him
and straddle his chest. His mouth finds me and I groan as his tongue probes
inside me. I lean back, grab the bed, taking the weight of my body into my
shoulders. It feels like a good, deep stretch. Gabriel’s head pushes forward
and I feel his tongue sweeping into my deepest, most delicate folds. I breathe
out a long sigh as he tastes me. It’s too much and it’s not enough, all at the
same time.

I grab him and haul him up, kissing him
fiercely, tasting myself on his mouth. He rips at his clothes, tearing them
off. But I won’t let him go—I grab his head in my hands. His body pushes
against mine, raging with need, even as he strips his suit and shirt away and
flings them somewhere into the darkness of the room.

I drag him down with me as I slide off the
bed. My body slams into the floor and the breath bursts from my lungs as his
body lands on mine. For a moment his face creases with concern but before he
can say a word I grab at him again and pull his mouth to mine.

Then he’s inside me, one quick thrust that
has me screaming. He keeps going, hard and fast. I can feel the burning of the
rug on my back, my ass, my thighs. I don’t care. I want the pain, I want the
roughness. Because all of it’s swallowed in the feeling of his hot, thick cock,
pushing inside me, over and over and over again.

I wrap my legs around his back and he
growls, a dark sound of pure want. He tangles his hands in my hair and pulls,
hard. I gasp with the silvery sting that runs through me and I lock my teeth
into the muscles of his neck, almost hard enough to draw blood. I suck madly at
his skin even as he plunges into me, harder than ever before. We’re not making
love, we’re not having sex. He’s fucking me, plain and simple, and I love it.
I’m wild with it, with the way he’s taking my body over.

He rolls me onto my hands and knees. He
slips out of me as he does so and I push my ass against him, desperate for him
to be inside me again. He obliges and I let out a shuddering moan. My tits sway
with the force of his thrusts.

Suddenly I’m close to coming and I abandon
what little control is left. I just want him to take me, over and over and over
again. He’s moving raggedly now, all the strength of his hips pouring into his
movements. He swells inside me and I bite my lip; it’s right on the verge of
pain, he’s so big. But it’s the kind of pain I want to feel for the rest of my
life.

We tip over the edge together and I scream
again, feeling the liquid heat of him shooting inside me even as I lose myself
in the fire that bursts through my core. When I finally collapse on the floor
my legs are shaking and my breath comes like a hurricane.

He shivers as he draws out of me and
immediately my body feels hollow, like it’s missing something vital. I want him
inside me forever.

He stands on shaky legs and I haul myself up
to the bed.

“Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “That was
. . . intense.”

“Yeah,” I breathe, flopping onto the
mattress. “The best kind of intense I’ve ever felt in my life.”

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move a
muscle, but I can feel him grinning in the darkness. He walks across the
bedroom, as always, casual and arrogant in his nakedness. He shrugs on a robe
and pauses by the door.

“I’m just going to grab us a couple of
drinks,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

I lie on the bed, feeling the pleasant
throbbing tingle between my thighs. I casually run a hand down and cup myself,
my body still buzzing from its high.

I can hear him moving around in the kitchen
and a wicked idea crosses my mind—to go and surprise him, down on my knees.

I stand, naked. I’m feeling much more
clear-headed now, much more relaxed. But I still manage to stub my toe and I
hiss in pain at the flare of agony in my foot. I turn the light on and see
Gabriel’s bags still neatly by the corner; he must have come straight back here
from cancelling his flight.

And on the bedside table there’s a
manuscript. My breath catches as I see the title—it’s the new book he’s been
working on. I steal a look at the door. Maybe just a quick peek . . .

I read the first page. Then the second. My
heart’s plummeting out the bottom of my stomach like an elevator with cut
cables.

 “
If I thought that something else was
another man, I’d almost be offended,” I said. The girl flushed red, her eyes
searching for an escape from his mistake.

“I’d have to take it out on you,” I said
softly. She gulped, and the blood rushed to her cheeks. I could feel my cock
stiffening. I looked at her body, young and ripe and willing. I knew I was
going to fuck her before midnight. I knew I was going to make her mine, take
her every way a woman could be taken, and leave her desperate for more.

I start flipping through the pages. It’s all
here. The night we met, the way he found me in the restaurant, even—

My gut turns as I read the sex scenes.
Jesus, he’s got one hell of a memory.

His latest readership statistics flash into
my head. Eight million copies for a first release, at least. Eight million
people, reading about me, about my life, about the way I twist and move under
his hands.

By the time I’ve got my clothes on he’s
walking in, holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He starts to say
something, a smile on his face. Then he sees me holding the manuscript and it
drops away. His eyes go guarded, watchful.

Guilty.

“Wait,” he says, and that’s when I hurl the
pages at him. A snowstorm of words erupts around him, hundreds of crisp white
pages exploding off his bare chest, his face, his arms.

“You’re an asshole,” I say, the bitterness
so thick in my voice it almost chokes me. “Now I know how you write such real
books. And Jesus, I hope all the other women whose stories you stole abandoned
you too.”

And then I’m out the door, ignoring him
calling my name, the tears burning hot and fierce as they run down my face.