Flash of Fire (11 page)

Robin was like that.

It wasn't just the wondrous slopes of her back and shoulders that he discovered as he trailed his hands over her. It wasn't the unexpected softness of her hair or the roughness of her kiss. It was the freshness of her.

He wanted to roll her so that her back was to the helo and he could press himself more deeply against her, but her feet were planted wide and it didn't seem worth the extra effort.

His hand was half down her pants, on the inside, before he caught what it was up to and reeled it back in.

Instead, he concentrated on appreciating her waist until she finally chose to break the kiss.

She lowered her head and he kissed her forehead.

“Damn it, Hamilton!”

“You seem to be cursing me a lot today, Robin of the Hood.”

“You seem to bring out the worst in me.”

“If that kiss was the worst, I can't wait to try the best.”

That earned him a soft laugh. On most women that would have been a giggle. On Robin it was a friendly laugh, the kind that invited you to join in, so he did.

She placed her palms on his shoulders and pushed back until she was standing upright once more.

He let his hands slip from her waist and then didn't know what to do with them. They'd felt so good placed on that nice dip between ribs and hip.

She blinked like an owl in the twilight and looked around. “I'm, uh, not sure which tent is mine.”

Mickey was, opened his mouth, and then thought better of it. If she could fib about motorcycles, he could fib about tents.

“Got me.”

“Which one is yours?”

He pointed. Afraid that if he said, “the one on the end,” she'd be smart enough to figure out that they were pegged in the same order that the aircraft were parked. Betsy was good about doing that, knowing how exhausted a helo pilot could be after a day on the fire.
Keepin' it simple for you brain-dead dolts
, she'd say time and again.

“I don't really want to walk in on Mark.”

“Or Carly and Steve.”

“Or Carly and Steve,” she acknowledged.

He was about to run the list—“Or…”—when she continued.

“But definitely not Mark. I'm still a little freaked by the whole Night Stalker thing.”

“Well, I know where
my
tent is.” He tried to make it sound like her problem and not like the invitation he wanted it to be.

She looked back and forth along the tents once more.

He considered relenting, but he was rather enjoying teasing her.

“Okay.”

Now it was his turn to blink at the woman slowly disappearing in the fading light. “Okay what?”

“Hamilton.” She sighed in exasperation. “You can't be
that
tired.”

“Oh.” Well, maybe he could. But he'd get over that right now. He placed a hand in the small of her back, again resisting the urge to slip it down lower, and guided her toward the closest tent.

He let her crawl in first. By the time he had zipped up the mosquito screen and pulled off his boots, she was sprawled out across his sleeping bag. Dead out.

He undid her boots and then tried to decide just how much of a gentleman was he. Normally he was pretty good about things like that.

Whether it was exhaustion, the brief teaser of her incredible shapes and tastes, or that she'd lain right down the center of the double-wide air mattress, he didn't know, but he decided that this once, he also didn't care about being
too
decent.

He wrapped himself up close behind her, spooning her against his chest.

She hummed a little in her sleep as he wrapped an arm around her waist. She slid her hand over his and then pulled it up toward her chin, as if he was a sheet and she was tucking herself in.

But she didn't quite complete the gesture before falling back asleep with her hand lightly pinning his in place.

Mickey lay there with her back against his chest, his nose tucked into the soft wood-smoke-and-mountain-air wonder of her hair, and his hand full of a truly exceptional breast with nothing but a thin cotton T-shirt separating them.

Well, if Vern was smart because he'd kept Denise tucked tightly under his arm, then Mickey was feeling pretty smart too.

Wide-awake and turned on as hell but very, very smart.

* * *

Robin woke slightly when the other two helos took off down the line—just far enough to determine that she wasn't supposed to be on this flight. This was the second crew: Mark and Vern, Jeannie and Cal, all headed aloft.

She snuggled back down, warm and cozy in the morning twilight.

Warm, cozy, and pinned against a man's hard body by a hand clutching her breast.

Mickey.

At least that much she was sure of. She'd crawled in with Mickey with the intention of… But that's where it all went astray. Robin remembered entering the tent and seeing that beautiful expanse of somewhere to sleep.

And she'd woken up to find Mickey taking advantage of her.

She was about to shoot an elbow back into his ribs when she realized that she couldn't, as her fingers were interlaced with Mickey's. And he appeared to still be asleep.

Well, even if her conscious mind wasn't welcoming him, her unconscious one certainly had. And she was still clothed. Beneath her own fingertips, where they curled through Mickey's, she could feel her T-shirt. Becoming aware of her legs, she felt that they were still in the heavy cotton underwear and Nomex pants. Even socks, though no boots.

The man had the thoughtfulness to take off her boots but had left her in her day-old, sweaty gear rather than… No, he wasn't taking advantage of her—at least not too much.

Mickey shifted ever so slightly. His face was in the back of her hair. As he woke, the first thing he did wasn't go for his handful of her breast. The first thing he did was nuzzle more deeply into her hair.

That was her undoing.

It was a kind, thoughtful, gentle motion that was not something Robin Harrow was used to. Men—when she chose to take one into her bed—wanted her hard. She was dangerous enough herself to make sure it never got too rough, but she wasn't the sort of woman who made men think gentle thoughts.

Mickey moved the hand on her breast, not to fondle but to draw her in more tightly against him.

That simple move of effortless strength left her breathless.

Then he shifted the arm she hadn't been aware she was lying on. His bicep rippled beneath her ear as he wrapped his forearm across the front of her shoulders and pinned her back against him.

Decision point, girl. You stop him now, or you don't stop him at all. Otherwise you're just a goddamn tease.
Something she'd never had patience for.

You either wanted it or you didn't and it wasn't fair to the guy to pretend otherwise. She'd never even done it with the truck stop hopefuls. If they chose to think they had a chance, she didn't stop them, but she never led them on.

“Robin?” Mickey's voice was a ripple of chest down her back, a whisper by her ear.

Even wrapped inside his strong arms, he was asking if she was sure.

As long as it was sex, she was. She definitely wanted more of this man. If it was more than sex, well, there was a laugh. If he was thinking about more than sex, he'd be just as wrong as the truck stop long haulers.

In answer, she pressed her hand against the back of his, easing it more strongly against her breast.

He responded with a kiss on the back of her neck and a slow swirl of his palm that had her shifting to press harder against him. When she tried to retrieve her fingers, he kept them trapped between his. That's when she realized quite how unusually strong he was.

She wanted to ask why, but he slipped their joined hands upward until he could rest a single finger against her lips. When she quieted once more, he began an exploration that was pure, exquisite torture.

He traced his fingertips, their fingertips, over her lips. She opened her mouth enough to nip one of his. Then he traced a thin, cool line down, over chin and along her neck. Still, her hand moved with his as he rode over shoulder, breast, and belly.

But it wasn't her own body that she was so aware of beneath their shared touch. It was the feeling of her hand locked in his. Of their fingers on a journey together, laced as one on some voyage of discovery. She could feel every slow flexing of his fingers, both against her skin and against her palm resting on the back of his hand.

His destination was wholly predictable.
Such a guy
. But then he turned aside to trace the line of her hip. With her fingers still trapped—she could have shaken him off if she wanted to, but he made her not want to—she could feel every line of her body that he followed. Hip, around to investigate the firmness of her behind. That behind had earned her a lot of tips, it was a good one, but she'd never felt like a man had ever so appreciated it before.

Down her leg and back up the inside.

If she were a narcissist, she couldn't have done a better job of self-love. It was as if Mickey's simple gestures were teaching her things she didn't know about her own form.

He returned so often to the rise of her hip that she began to think of that particular curve, from narrow waist to rising round, was especially spectacular. He was making her goofy in the head and she didn't have the energy to stop it. Instead, she let herself simply enjoy the movements of his hand as he teased her body to burn.

When at long last he slipped their hands beneath her T-shirt, it was such a shock that a gasp was forced out of her lungs. The impact of the lightest brush of his flesh directly on hers left her shaky, feeling trapped.

“I—” she managed to gasp out. “I don't—”

Mickey froze with his palm flat against her stomach. She could feel the tension in his fingers pressed against her skin.

“I'm not a tease. It's not that I want you to stop.”

He eased off a little.

She became aware that both of them were breathing hard. She wasn't the only one feeling affected here.

What?

“I—” was all she managed on her next effort.

No man had ever made her feel so much.

“Can't we just—”
Do it!
she wanted to cry out. She didn't want to have to think; she just wanted to fly. “Just take me up, Mickey. All the way into the sky.”

When he hesitated, she pulled on his hand. Pulled it from beneath her shirt, placed it over her pants' crotch, and clamped her legs together, pinning his hand there and slipping hers free.

A faint cry sounded in the tent as she pressed against his hand.

And the sound came from her.

She never cried out during sex.

Bring it on! Get it done! Let the release roll through and have a good time. Thank him for a good time.
Standard operating procedure.

But not with Mickey Hamilton.

Hell no.

His merest touch left her breathless.

Even with her awkward demands and still fully clothed, he began to manipulate her body with all the art he flew a helicopter.

Emily had been right; he was a masterful pilot.

What Robin had no way of knowing was that he was also a masterful lover. He followed her instructions implicitly.

He took her up.

That powerful hand made not one ungentle move as he slowly drove her mad.

At first she opened to him, spreading her legs to allow him to do more.

She curled one arm over her head to dig that hand into his hair. The other, Robin reached back and latched on to his pants pocket. He was spooned hard against her butt, and she didn't want him going anywhere. She held on at first to keep him close and to ascertain that he didn't stop what he was doing to her body. Then she held on because there was nothing else she could do as her body finally bucked harder than the worst turbulence she'd ever flown through.

She pitched and yawed against his confining hold on her shoulders and the front of her pants, and felt like she was flying freer than she ever had in her life. She drove back against his hardness, and he pinned her there, writhing himself. Despite the intervening layers of cloth, it felt as if he was driving right into her.

At some point, her mind simply blanked as the waves washed through her—hard, hot pulses that made her want to moan. But she didn't have the breath. To cry out. She'd forgotten how.

When she finally came back to herself, she'd gone fetal. Curled into a tight ball inside the curve of Mickey's body. Her hands and her legs pinning his arms about her so that they'd never let go, never unwind.

She was going to wear this man's hands on her body like a strap-on for the rest of her life. A woman's best sex ever should definitely not occur while fully clothed.

“Where the hell…” No, she didn't want to learn where he learned how to do that.

“Made it up as I went.” His voice was still hard and breathy.

“I like your imagination.”

He grunted something she didn't quite follow. Then she became aware that though his hand was still pinned between her legs, he was still pressing her back against him. Against…

“Do you have any protection in this tent?”

She could feel his nod against her neck. Awkward moment,
Yes, I carry around protection, just in case.

“Well, this is one of those just-in-case moments, Hamilton. Don't try to explain it prettily; no need to with me. Get it.”

Their slow unwinding from each other was almost painful. Her body didn't want to move, didn't want to let go.

She began peeling down: T-shirt, bra, Nomex pants still smelling of wood smoke, socks, long cotton underwear—the standard beneath Nomex. About as sexy as a doornail.

* * *

Mickey couldn't stop staring at her. Robin undressed as if she were a bird preening but with none of the ego. Each bit that was shed simply made the whole more delectable. Those shapes he'd been studying through her clothes were amazing in the tent's shadowy twilight. He wished he had bright lights to see how incredible she was, or a row of candles to show how soft.