Fan the Flames (23 page)

“Is that your version of a frozen dinner?” he asked, nodding toward the container.

“Yeah. Since it's just me, I make big batches of everything—stew, bread, soups, casseroles, whatever—and then I freeze them in smaller portions. That way, I don't have to eat goulash for two weeks straight.”

“That's homemade bread?” Ian eyed the loaf covetously.

“Yep.” She put the stew in the oven. “Neither of my parents could bake, so I figured out pretty young that I was the only hope for having anything like that. With the high altitude, it took me forever to figure out how to make good bread, but I was determined. I love fresh bread.”

“Me too.”

Rory could've guessed that by the way he hadn't taken his eyes off of it. Instead of cutting the loaf in half, as she'd planned, she wrapped the entire thing in foil and put it in the oven next to the stew. Dusting off her hands, she said, “Done cooking.”

Grinning, Ian kicked the chair across from his so it slid away from the table. “Take a load off. That was some pretty intense work.”

With a shrug, she sat. Now that she didn't have anything else to focus on except Ian, that strange, buzzing tension had returned. “After a busy day in the shop, it's nice not to have to worry about actually making something.” Her legs twitched, and she couldn't stop herself from jumping to her feet. “I have some venison sticks from Carson Beatty. Ever since I gave him a good deal on a Beanfield Sniper rifle, he brings me a big bag of it every year. I don't have the heart to tell him I'm not a huge fan of venison. Want some to tide you over?”

“That's okay. I can wait until the stew's ready.”

Pausing in the middle of the kitchen, she shifted from foot to foot, unable to bring herself to return to her chair.

“Ror.” His voice was gentle, but the way he stood and stalked toward her made alarm rise in her chest. As he approached, she couldn't stop herself from backing away from him. He advanced, his eyes fixed on hers, and she retreated until her lower back bumped against the counter.

Ian closed the last small bit of space between them in two strides. His hands cradled both sides of her face, tilting up her head so she couldn't have looked away even if he hadn't been holding her gaze captive. Leaning down, he rested his forehead against hers.

“You were pretty much all I thought about last night.” He huffed out a breath, and he was so close she felt the warm brush of air. “Hell, you're pretty much all I think about even when I'm not in jail. I'm like a nervous kid around you, and you're all composed and remote, so I never figured I'd really get a shot with you. When North told me everything you'd done, how you were fighting for me, even going to see Julius and being threatened by Billy—which made me insane with worry, but we'll discuss that later—I was…floored. Floored and so fu—flipping happy. After more than a decade, that was the first time you didn't seem like some unobtainable dream.”

“Oh.” As he waited, his forehead on hers, his gaze holding steady, she scrambled for words—any words, although the right words would be preferable. “I… I'm sorry. I don't know how to do this.”

“Do what?”

Think, for one, with him that close. “Any of this. I've never dated, never really had close friends. I'm socially backward.”

His chuckle brushed her skin, making her close her eyes. In the darkness, she felt him even more, the press of his forehead, his palms and fingers. “No, you're not. You have friends—half of Simpson, in fact. You just don't realize the impression you make.”

Her eyes opened again so she could give him a skeptical look.

“It's true. And the whole not-dating-before thing…well, that's a plus for me.”

“What do you mean?”

His mouth thinned to a straight line before he admitted, “This way, I don't have to kill all of your exes.”

Rory frowned. “I know I'm inexperienced, but that doesn't seem like an emotionally healthy statement.”

“Fu—forget that. I never claimed to be emotionally healthy.” He leaned in so close that their mouths were just a hair away from touching. “For whatever it's worth, though, I am crazy about you.”

It was surreal. Ian Walsh was almost kissing her in her kitchen, telling her that he was crazy about her. This was not the normal life of Rory Sorenson.

As she stared at him, this beautiful man so close to her, she made a decision. She wanted to keep him. If it could only be for a short time before he realized he was a poster-boy-hot fireman who could have any woman in Field County, and she was just…her…that was okay. She'd enjoy it while it lasted and deal with the fallout when it ended. Rory had been trained her entire childhood to deal with apocalyptic situations. She could survive a breakup. For now, though, she rose on her tiptoes and closed that infinitesimal space between their lips.

For a second, they both froze. It felt incredible, his mouth on hers…but she wasn't sure what to do next. Ian quickly snapped out of his paralysis, and then she didn't have to worry about her next move, since he took over completely.

His lips pressed against hers, pulled away, and then returned, dropping gentle, chaste kisses on her upper lip and then her lower, followed by a touch to each corner of her mouth. They were sweet and innocent…until he started adding a little wickedness, a nip of his teeth or the dart of his tongue. That made it even better, and Rory shivered.

His teeth closed on her lower lip, and a shock of heat rippled through her. She gasped, her lips parting, and his tongue entered her mouth, playing with hers before retreating. It was incredible, how wonderful this kiss made her feel. With a low sound of longing, she pressed closer, shyly letting her tongue seek out his.

The spark of her touch lit a fuse in him, and the whole tone of the kiss changed. Instead of light and teasing, it turned urgent. One of his hands slid around to the back of her head, pulling her more tightly against him, while his other slid over her shoulder and down her arm before finding its way to her hip.

When he groaned, low and desperate, she shivered with a surge of power.
She
—plain, odd Rory Sorenson—had caused that sound. The thought made her brave, and she let herself explore. Her hands settled tentatively on his biceps, marveling at the size and strength and sheer
aliveness
of the muscles moving under his skin. When she'd thought about kissing Ian, she hadn't expected it to be so intense. Rory felt like she'd been swept up in a tornado, emotions and need swirling around them.

She began to imitate his movements—a kiss or a nip or a touch of the tongue—figuring that whatever felt good to her would feel just as incredible to him. When her teeth scraped lightly over a tendon in his neck, he visibly shivered. Rory realized that turning him on was upping her own excitement, to the point that her knees had turned to jelly, and she had to lean on Ian for support.

He didn't seem to mind. Without pausing in his exploration of the spot just under her right ear, he backed up to a chair and sat, pulling her onto his lap in the same fluid motion. When Rory realized she was straddling him—straddling Ian Walsh in her underground-bunker kitchen—she pulled back, the complete implausibility of the situation shocking her out of her lust-filled daze.

Before she could wrap her mind around the thought that, yes, she was
indeed
straddling Ian Walsh in her underground-bunker kitchen, he'd pulled her back into another hard kiss. Coming to grips with reality quickly lost its importance, and she melted against him once again.

Her hands stroked his sides. She loved the way it made him groan and then go still, as if awaiting the next sweep of her fingers. One pass went lower than before, and her hands slipped under the bottom hem of his shirt on their next upward stroke. When her fingers came into contact with the bare skin of his torso, they both froze.

“Ror,” he groaned before diving into an inferno of a kiss. Her fingers flexed as his mouth took over hers. The arm wrapped around her hips pulled her tight to him. His other hand slipped under her shirt, and his palm pressed against her lower back.

As soon as his hand flattened against her spine, she forgot all her newly learned skills. Every nerve, every brain cell, was focused on that skin-on-skin contact. With a whimper of need, she pulled her hands free just to knot them where his shirt covered his back. Yanking him closer, she met his kiss with a newly found ferocity.

He actually growled as he intensified the kiss even more, sliding both hands up her back and then down over her butt. She was so caught up in the heat of their kiss that she didn't realize his hands were cupping her ass until he squeezed, his fingers digging into her flesh. Pleasure rippled through her, building into a pulsing mass in her lower belly. With a gasp, she jerked back hard enough to nearly send herself sprawling on the floor.

Ian caught her and pulled her back to the safety of his lap, looking almost feral with need. Closing his eyes, he dropped his forehead to her shoulder and took several deep breaths. “Sorry,” he finally rasped, sliding his hands away. “I didn't mean to get carried away. You just feel really good.”

“It's okay.” If she'd known how amazing making out with Ian Walsh would be, she'd have pounced on him years ago. As her breathing slowed, however, self-conscious thoughts wiggled their way into her brain. “Uh, what's the timeline on this?”

That made him raise his head so he could look at her. “Timeline?”

“As far as…um.” Gesturing between them, she felt the dreaded blush creep into her face. “When we do what.”

For a moment, he just stared at her, and then the corners of his mouth started twitching. “A timeline for when we do what. You know, to really plan this out right, we'll need to borrow Callum's whiteboard.”

Her flush deepened, and she dropped her eyes.

“I'm just teasing.” Wrapping his arms around her, Ian gave her a tight hug. “Sorry. You're just so fu—flipping cute. There's no timeline. If you feel comfortable with something, we do it. If you don't, we hold hands and watch a movie.” He glanced around the televisionless space. “Or talk or something. What's important is that we're together. Finally.”

“So we are? Together? Officially?” She seriously needed to stop making statements into questions.

“Yes.” His firm tone did not allow for any doubt.

“Okay,” she said, cautious happiness taking hold, but then a thought occurred to her. “What if it…uh, takes a while? To build up to…that?”

“That's fine.” When she kept looking at him skeptically, he grinned at her. “It's
fine
. I'm not saying I wouldn't love to go fast, but just kissing you is more than I'd ever thought I'd get to do, so I'm happy to go at your pace.” His smile degenerated into a smirk. “Besides, I think you need to be able to say the word ‘sex' before you actually have sex.”

Pulling back, she glared at him. “I'm fully capable of shooting you, you know.”

“Oh, I know.” Despite his words, he didn't look too concerned. He did look happy, though, which pleased her. “Now that your kitchen duties are complete, what did you want to do?”

Although he had his neutral, give-away-nothing expression in place, she knew he was hoping she'd suggest they make out some more. It was a tempting idea, but there was one thing they both needed more than even this. “Sleep.”

“I can definitely do that. The Field County jail is not really a restful place.” Glancing toward the oven, he asked, “Is there time for a nap before the food's ready?”

She nodded, getting up and heading toward the hallway with Ian following close behind her. Now that the adrenaline and endorphins and whatever else his kiss had kicked into high gear had settled, exhaustion pressed down on her, reminding her that she hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours—twenty-four
stressful
hours. After she opened her bedroom door, she paused, eyeing Ian over her shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“Heading for bed.”

Glancing in her room and then back at him, she felt her heartbeat kick up a notch. “My bed?”

“Yes.” When she didn't move, he gave her a beguiling smile. He even batted his stupidly long eyelashes at her. “Please? We can put a row of very pink pillows between us. Or, you know, a row of pink stuffed bunnies. They'll be like fuzzy pink soldiers on a mission of chastity.”

Once again, she wished she wasn't so clueless when it came to male-female interactions. They'd been officially together for less than five minutes. Was sleeping together—actually sleeping—right now too soon? But then her eyes met his, and her heart gave a near-painful thump. Frustrated by her own waffling, Rory marched into her bedroom. “Fine. Whatever. I'm too tired to worry about it.”

Grabbing pajamas—which were just long underwear so she could quickly throw jeans or BDUs on over the top in a nighttime emergency—she headed for the bathroom.

“You could change in here,” he said, sounding like he was about to laugh. “I'll turn my back.”

Sending him a glare over her shoulder, she didn't even slow her steps. “Yeah, I saw how well that worked when you walked in on me in the closet.”

“It worked pretty well for me.”

She walked through the doorway, but then stuck her head back into the bedroom. “Watching me change is far away on the timeline, buddy.” She managed to hold her stern frown until she was in the bathroom, when a giddy grin took over. If this bubbly, excited feeling was standard when having a boyfriend—or starting to date, or whatever she and Ian were doing—she understood why everyone else started pairing up much younger than she had. This—whatever it was—was fun. In fact, it was even more fun than when she shot a Desert Eagle .50AE, and that was saying something.

* * *

When she reentered the bedroom, she glanced at the bed and stopped. There were two reasons for this. The first was that Ian had indeed created a tiny wall down the center of the bed, a pink-and-white blockade made up of decorative pillows and Mr. Hoppity, her plush bunny. The second was that Ian was sitting on one side of the barricade, covers pulled up to his waist and his chest completely bare.

He was…whoa. Her throat went dry, and she had to lock her jaw so it didn't fall open. His tattoos scrolled across his chest, over his shoulders, and down his arms, emphasizing the contours of his muscles. He was like a living, breathing anatomy lesson. No fat obscured the lines of his biceps, his deltoids, those incredible pectorals…

Rory finally realized that she was staring, and he was grinning, most likely because it was obvious she was barely able to keep from drooling. A little flicker of panic started in her stomach. What was she doing with Ian? She was like a preschooler trying to do calculus.

“I can move the bunny if you want to cuddle,” Ian offered, his eyes teasing but also lit with a banked fire.

A part of her, a part she hadn't even known existed until she saw Ian's bare chest in the flesh, wanted to take him up on his offer. The rest of her was a mess of want and uncertainty and shyness, mixed with a good-sized dollop of terror. It was that last bit that made her say, “Don't touch Mr. Hoppity.”

“Mr. Hoppity?” he echoed, but her glare must have warned him that she was on the edge, and any sort of mockery would push her right off the cliff.

Another thought occurred to her, and she looked from Ian to the empty side of the bed. “I'd rather be closer to the door.”

“Me too.” He didn't budge. Instead, his arms crossed over his chest, making his biceps bulge in a distracting way. “And I was here first.”

“Fine.” Now that the initial shock of his half-naked beauty was waning, her bone-deep exhaustion returned. At least her bed was in the middle of the room, so she wouldn't be trapped between Ian and the wall. Circling to the vacant side of the bed, she crawled beneath the covers. As she lay on her back, Rory firmly closed her eyes. Bright illumination made her eyelids glow orange-red. “Could you get the light? The switch is on your side.” As soon as the words left her mouth, the strangeness of them struck her. Ian had a side in her bed. It was hard to wrap her brain around that fact.

After an affirmative grunt, the glow behind her eyelids went dark. “Thank you,” she said.

“You're welcome.” A pause. “Can I hold your hand?”

“No. Respect the bunny wall.”

His laugh was soft and so appealing that she almost reached over the pillows to take his hand anyway. Rory caught herself just in time.

“Good night, Ror.”

“Good night, Ian.”

“I'm glad I get to kiss you now.”

Rory was glad the darkness hid her blush. Turning onto her side, she could just make out his dark shape looming above the wall of pillows in the dim glow of the hall's security lights. When his shadow shifted, she thought it was a trick of her vision until his lips brushed the side of her face, touching her jaw right in front of her earlobe. Her shiver had nothing to do with being cold.

“Good night, Rory.”

“Didn't we already do this?” Although she'd intended her words to be sharp, they came out softly, her voice almost husky.

His quiet laugh was his only reply.

* * *

The timer brought her out of a deep, syrupy oblivion much too soon. Habit brought her into a sitting position, while her brain was still begging for more sleep.

“What is it?” Ian sat up when she did.

“Food.” The word was muffled in a yawn. Beating away the urge to sink back into the cozy nest, into that space still warmed by her body heat, she swung her legs out of bed and stood.

“Not hungry anymore,” Ian muttered, settling back under the covers. “Too tired. Eat later.”

“Still need to turn off the oven, or everything'll burn.” She shuffled toward the door, but a hand on her arm made her stop.

“I'll get it. Go back to bed.” As he passed her, disappearing into the hallway, Rory blinked. She'd been on her own for three years. Before that, her chores and responsibilities were just that—hers. No one had ever stepped in to help her just because she was tired. The gesture was so small, yet it shocked her.