Need You for Mine (Heroes of St. Helena) (19 page)

“Funny, the only thing I remember is what you taste like. Which makes
this
suddenly seem simple.” His voice was low and gravelly and made her tremble in the best kind of way. So did the way his hands slid down her back to her silk-clad bottom, pulling her flush against him, until he couldn’t even breathe without her feeling the rise and fall of his chest.

Oh my God
, he was going to kiss her, right there on the patio on their first date and it was going to be amazing. The kind of caught up in the moment, waiting for the rush to take over, like you’re free-falling from thirty thousand feet without a chute kind of kiss.

He smelled incredible, and she knew he’d taste even better. Like hot, sexy, turned-on man and—
be still my heart
. She had to close her eyes to be sure, but she did and it was. Adam smelled like freshly baked peanut butter cookies and sex. Her mouth watered at the thought.

She felt him shift closer, and that tingle of hers grew to a full-body hum. Then she opened her eyes and saw the kitchen window behind him, and that was when the last important realization set in.

Or maybe it was a reminder. Of what this was and exactly what this wasn’t.

“Adam,” she said, trying hard to keep the hurt from her voice. “If this is for show, then we don’t have to do this. I don’t think anyone is watching.”

“Nothing about this is staged.” He pressed her against the table with his body, and there was the hard proof that this was real. “As for watching, you just go on and keep your eyes open, and let me know when it gets complicated.”

Sweet baby Jesus, it was already complicated. At least the rhythm her chest had taken up sounded like a college marching band, because his mouth lowered that final breath and slowly, ever so slowly, captured hers in a way that was all gentle steel. The kind that scrambled a girl’s thoughts and soothed her fears until she forgot that this wasn’t real. That he wasn’t collectible.

So instead of taking a step back, like a smart girl would have done, Harper kept her eyes wide open and melted—into him and that promise she tasted on his lips. Because in that moment, with him holding her as if he were vowing to never let go, he felt like hers.

And,
God
, how she wanted to be his.

A
dam felt the moment Harper gave in. To the chemistry and to him.

Even though he had no right to, he let her fall. Warm and wildly sexy Harper who couldn’t enter into anything without giving over her entire heart and soul. And he watched her hand it over and didn’t say a damn thing.

He couldn’t. It felt too good.

From the second she had walked back into the station, her little blue dress had been doing a serious number on his head. The way it shifted and danced across her body did truly amazing things from his vantage point. But it was her smile that did him in. Full, real, so damn bright it was infectious.

He’d flirted with her because of that dress, but he’d kissed her because of that smile. Now he didn’t want to let go. Not when her body was shrink-wrapped around his and her hands were playing a dangerous game of hide-and-seek. And especially not when she was making those breathy little sounds that drove him crazy.

Hell, everything about her drove him crazy. From her cute freckles to the polka dots painted on her toes, Harper did something to him that he’d long ago dismissed as fiction. She was sweetness and fire, and he was addicted.

His internal alarm told him as much, warning him to proceed with caution. To step back and assess. But he’d done that and it had landed him right back here. In her arms. And if facing down some of the most dangerous wildfires had taught him anything, it was that sometimes you had to walk into the flames to gain some control.

Only karma disagreed, flipping him the bird by blasting her own warning, just in case he had any idea of continuing
this
. . . here.

“Shit,” he said, resting his forehead against hers.

Harper pulled back, her lips wet and warm from his, her eyes lit with hunger and confusion as the red light above the patio strobed in sync with the ear-piercing bell.

“Time to go.” And there they were, the last three words he’d ever said to Trent, seconds before the flames engulfed them both. The same three words that defined the rest of his life—and Trent’s death.

Three words Harper would get real familiar with if she let this continue.

Promotion or not, Adam’s career would forever send him into some of the most heated shit storms, personal and professional, without a moment’s warning.

Harper wanted stable, and his life was as unpredictable as a wildfire.

Only instead of peacing out, like any normal woman would do—like Harper
should
do—she gifted him one of those smiles and said, “Be safe.”

Four hours, a nasty commercial fire, and a dump truck of adrenaline later, Adam grabbed the to-go picnic he’d fashioned for his and Harper’s abandoned dinner off his passenger seat and strode up the back steps toward her apartment. He didn’t need to check which door was hers. If the potted lemon tree and hanging flower garden, complete with rainbow-painted tin-can pinwheels and garden gnomes, weren’t a dead giveaway, then the view he had through her front window cemented the fact.

Billowing fabrics, a patchwork of bold colors, mismatched furniture that somehow worked together. She’d transformed a sterile apartment into a magical place that was warm and welcoming.

Something that was difficult to do when renting a tiny downtown apartment. By design, apartments were temporary and generic, yet Harper had managed to put herself into every inch of the space, and she’d taken the time to turn it into a home.

“Shit.” Adam nearly tossed the dinner in the garbage, turned back around, and headed toward his car.

Not a single thing in the place was staged or for show. Just like there was nothing about the tenant that was staged or for show. Harper Owens with her sunny smile and melt-your-soul eyes was one hundred percent the real deal. She wasn’t a temporary kind of girl, and Adam would never be a forever kind of guy. And yet, there he was, dinner stuck under his arm, a bag of homemade cookies dangling from his hand, ringing the doorbell—wanting her to be asleep and needing her to answer the door.

The door opened, and Adam felt as if everything he’d done up until this moment had been playing it safe. An odd feeling for a guy who jumped out of planes and ran into fires headfirst for a living. But there it was.

And there she was, appearing behind the screen door like a fucking dream, and Adam felt as if he were taking the biggest jump of his life. Gone was the slinky dress and red heels from earlier. He wondered if they were in a pile with the blue lace she’d been sporting, because Harper didn’t look like the kind to use hangers unless she was expecting company. And he was pretty sure she wasn’t wearing a bra.

Her face was fresh and clean, her hair loose from the complicated updo she’d worn earlier and still wet from the shower she’d taken. And those curls,
holy hell
, they were wet too, hanging all the way down to the curve of her back—wild and out of control. Just like he liked them. She was dressed in a pair of pajama bottoms with lace trim and a little drawstring. Tied in a bow, which sat right beneath her bellybutton, and was the only thing keeping them on her hips. They were pink, silky, and—
thank you, Jesus
—too short to hide those legs of hers.

Her top made it a matching set. A scrap of silk held together by two thin straps that draped over her almost-naked shoulders. Also pink. Also edged with lace that followed the deep vee of her neckline until it met in the middle with another cute bow that was designed to make men think about untying it. Which, point to Harper, was all he could think about. Untying that bow. With his teeth.

Then she smiled, warm and open and just for him, and everything inside him stilled—simplified. It was as though with one smile, she could make all the crazy and all the struggle disappear, and turn him from thrill-seeking daredevil to someone who didn’t have to face down death just to feel.

“You were safe,” she said, opening the screen door and stepping onto the porch.

He noticed she didn’t ask why he was there or ream him about it being so late. She was just happy he was safe. He also noticed she was wearing glasses. Teal, boxy frames. Not sexy by design. But on her?

Sexy art teacher came to mind.

“And you’re ready for bed,” he said, holding up the bag. “I just wanted to bring you that dinner I promised.”

“I stopped by Emerson’s food truck on the way home.”

Of course she had. It was midnight on a weeknight, she had work early in the morning, and there he was on her doorstep.

“But I always have room for dessert,” she said.

There was something about the way she said it, the way she was holding his gaze and turning pink in the cheeks that had him saying, “I brought cookies, if that’s what you’re after.”

“Cookies?” Her smile faltered and she worried her lower lip—clearly unsure of what he was really offering. “What else is on the menu?”

Adam leaned in and, making himself clear as fucking day, whispered, “Anything you want.”

“Anything?” Harper blinked, as if she hadn’t really expected that to be an option. Neither had he until he said it.

Indecision played across her face and—whoa, wasn’t that interesting? The ball was completely in her court and that was completely terrifying and exciting, because Adam knew her answer would be equally as unexpected. Everything about her was unexpected.

If he were a smart man, this was where he’d hand over the cookies, wish her a good night, and get the hell out of there before she invited him in. Because he could tell she was processing her options. Knew she was going through each and every scenario. Each and every time he’d played with her, only to walk away. But he wasn’t a smart man because he wasn’t walking away this time.

Not tonight.

Not unless she asked him to leave, which with every second passing he started to wonder if that was the direction she was going. Which would totally suck. So he found himself saying, “Anything.”

She looked at him for what felt like an eternity, and he told himself to be patient. Told himself to give
her time and that no matter what she chose he’d be happy.
And okay, happy was pushing it, because although sharing cookies and time with Harper would be fun, he was really hoping she took a risk on him and went for the fun-fucking-tastic option.

He knew the minute she’d made her decision. Her lips curled up into a sinful smile that was all temptation and trouble, and unexpected didn’t even begin to explain the situation.

Her arms slid around his neck, her soft curves lining up just perfectly, and her mouth,
yeah
, that mouth of hers rested right on his. Not kissing, not teasing, but applying enough pressure to blow his fucking mind.

“I choose you,” she said. Then, as if that wasn’t the biggest green light in the history of the fucking planet, her eyes fluttered closed and she kissed him. Right there on the front porch next to the gnome colony and beneath the flickering night-light, like they were teenagers and this was their first date. Which had Adam thinking about their second date, and the one after that—and, finally, the one where he screwed it up.

Then he stopped thinking because the only thing thinking was giving him was a headache, and kissing Harper was the biggest rush he’d ever felt. And he felt a lot—her hands in his hair, her tongue in his mouth taking the kiss deeper, their connection stronger. So strong he found himself wanting more, so he walked her backward into her apartment, kicking the door closed behind them, and wondered how he’d become such a lucky SOB.

Her hands were on the move, roaming down his chest, her fingers stopping to fiddle with that bow. Not the one on the bottoms—if he didn’t open his mouth they’d get to that—but the one holding that top together, because—

Ho-ly.

Shit.

This was happening.

And why the hell not? They both wanted this, had for a while now. And she had made her choice.

Only she chose him, which surely meant something. But with her tugging on that bow he couldn’t wrap his mind around what. Okay, his mind knew—it was his dick that was in denial. He didn’t really think she fully understood what that choice meant, because if she had, she would have said, “I choose sex,” or maybe, “I choose to get my cookies naked, up against the wall, while you make me scream out your name.”

All adequate responses for a woman who knew the deal. But she’d chosen him, a guy who no sane woman would choose. And sure, Harper was a crazy cutie, but this was disaster in the making. She pretended like she knew the deal, was cool with the deal, but it was clear she didn’t and she wasn’t, otherwise she wouldn’t have given that bow another little tug, this time with enough pressure to loosen the ribbon.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked.
About me?

She looked up at him, so sincerely as though weighing his question with the utmost importance, as though searching past his words to the heart—his heart—and seeing him for everything he was. More importantly, everything he wasn’t.

“More than sure.”

“I don’t do relationships,” he reminded her.

“And yet you’re already in one,” she said. “It would be a shame not to at least explore the benefits.”

“I do love exploring,” he said. “Where do you think we should start?”

“How about we start with this and see where it leads?”

Without warning, Harper reached up and gave a final tug of the bow. He could hear the slide of the fabric as the bow became toe ribbons. And the ribbons became insignificant as inch by incredible inch the fabric fell to the sides, exposing more and more of that silky strip of skin beneath. Until finally,
finally
, she let go and the top fell to the floor in one swoop, leaving her in nothing but those fuzzy slippers and silk bottoms, and confirming that (a) this was going to happen, right here, right now, and (b) she wasn’t wearing a bra under that silk, which led him to (c) that if he thought Harper in a lacy bra was smoking, he was about to go up in some serious flames, because Harper in nothing was about the hottest thing he’d ever seen, which finally brought him to (d) that unless she was sporting the tiniest of G-strings under those shorts, then—