Sparking the Fire (6 page)

Now she stood in the academy's outdoor plaza in ninety-degree heat gazing up at two ladders propped side by side against a wall. Molly steadied her nerves. She wouldn't say she had a fear of heights, but neither was she a daredevil who enjoyed looking at the world from a hundred feet up.

“You don't have to do this,” Wyatt said, closer to her than she'd thought. “No one else is.”

The cast and crew were inside, availing themselves of the AC, ice-cold beverages, and the chance to rest after being put through their paces. Molly wouldn't force the actors to scale a ladder, and it was old hat for the technical and stunt crew.

She gave a stubborn shake of her head. “I want to experience everything.”

“Okay, but we're going to strap you in.” Above a window near the top rung of the ladder, a rope had been threaded through a pulley and was attached to a harness. He held it for her to step into and secured it around her shoulders and waist. Again, the intimate proximity made her breath wobble. “I'll be on this other ladder, moving up at your pace. Take your time, it's not a race. No one needs saving today.”

“How long do you usually take to get up there?”

“Competitive, huh?”

Hells yeah, but neither was she stupid.

“One rung at a time,” Wyatt instructed, grave as ever. “Feel it with your boot and keep your eyes up to grab the next rung. When you get to the top, I'll be there to help you through the window, so wait for me.” Nice of him to imply she might make it up there before him. “If at any time you feel uncomfortable, tell me, and you can come back down again slowly. Candidate Hale will be taking up the slack on the rope and holding the ladder below you.”

No doubt, taking a damn good look at her ass. She met the knowing smirk of Candidate Hale, one of the academy trainees. No time to be concerned with that. Today, she wasn't Molly Cade whose butt had been voted “Best Booty” by
Maxim
three years running; she was a CFD firefighter with lifesaving on her mind.

Squaring her shoulders, she grabbed a rung at neck level and placed a boot on the bottom bar. Once certain she had a secure footing, she lifted herself—and the fifty pounds of gear attached to her body—off the ground.

One small step . . .

Ten feet up, she slid a glance to the other ladder. Wyatt was poised one-handed (of course) at her level, all laid-back strength and easy grace.

“'Kay?” he asked.

“Just fine.”

She took another step, and another, careful to secure her hand before her boot found purchase. All good, no problems . . . until her foot slithered on the rung. A split second of panic popped in her chest and extra beads of sweat joined the damp sheen already painting her face. It was damn hot in this gear.

“Molly, you good?”

It was a variant of the same question she heard every day from her agent, publicist, interviewers on the red carpet, and her conditioned response never wavered.
Yes, I'm fine! Absolutely fabulous. Never better.
She was an old pro at spouting the party line, betraying no cracks in her public facade. Because as soon as that fissure appeared, it would widen in the blink of a Hollywood eye. All it would take was a sighting of her in sweats and no makeup at the Farmshop in Brentwood or a whisper from a chatty studio PA about her diva reaction to a cold cup of coffee.
She's not fine,
they would say.
Bitch is losing it.

“You good, Molly?” Wyatt repeated.

Tell him you're okay.
Tell him you've got this.
The words of affirmation refused to climb her throat. After the photos appeared online, those private pictures taken by her husband,
for
her husband, she had withdrawn into a shell. Just the mere thought of the violation had her hyperventilating—not full-blown anxiety attacks, according to her five-hundred-dollar-an-hour therapist—but enough to make her think carefully about whom to trust.

And included in that was whether or not to trust herself.

She stared at her hand. Strong and purposeful, it could curl around a ladder rung and a man's thrilling bicep perfectly. She didn't dare look at her feet, but she knew they could pound the living daylights out of a running path and a kickboxing bag. She trusted these pieces of her body, but the thundering piece of machinery in her chest had let her down. It was so fragile, always leading her astray.

Never again.

“Molly, climb down.”

“I'm—I'm fine.”
Absolutely fabulous. Never better.

Speaking the words unfroze her legs, and quickly, she scrambled up while her heart pounded.
Shut it, you lump.
Adrenaline barged through her veins and she fed off it, every fleet step a willful
fuck-you
to the people who said she was finished, her career was in the toilet, that she'd never recover. Not quite knowing how it happened, she made it to the top, practically floating.

This was the point where she was supposed to wait for a guiding hand to pull her through, but she was faced with an open window.
No one needs saving today,
Wyatt had said.

She begged to differ.

“Molly, do not—”

She did. She swung her booted foot and hardware-encumbered body over the window ledge and sat there for a second's respite. Then she pulled herself inside. Triumph soared in her chest. Yes!

The brick-walled room was empty. That state of affairs did not last long. The large, intimidating body of her firefighter mentor soon filled the space around her. And he was pissed.

At least, she assumed that was the reason behind the slight flutter of molecules around his mouth. This was Wyatt Fox's version of fury, and like every other look on him, it was thong-meltingly hot.

“What the
fuck
was that?”

 CHAPTER THREE

W
yatt's muscles seethed with a rage he rarely allowed to manifest. Anger was a useless emotion. It tended to get in the way of common sense, good judgment, and doing his job. He'd always been happy to leave the blowups to Luke and Alex, but right now, he was not feeling like himself.

He was feeling like a Dempsey.

“I told you to wait.”

Those violet eyes held his gaze, steadier than his heartbeat, steadier than his breathing, amazing considering that two minutes ago her hands shook on that ladder. It had taken every fiber of his being not to reach out and close his hand over the white knuckles of her fist. Soothe her through her panic.

“I had a moment, but I pushed through it.”

Appreciation of her honesty warred with fury at the rush of protectiveness that placed his heart and lungs in a clamp. He was not enjoying this in the slightest. All his life, he was careful about expending emotion, choosing to channel it into other pursuits. The marines, the CFD, a not-so-friendly hockey game between fire and police. But this last year had seen moments of deviance from the path of Zen, most recently with landing a punch on Eli Cooper's jaw because the prick had made his sister cry. But even that couldn't compete with the current flood of passion that had him in its grip.

This tiny woman in bunker gear that weighed half as much as her stood before him, chin up in bravado, hands on hips in defiance. Her face bore the shiny effects of her exertion. Her chest heaved with the effort of her climb. And in her eyes, challenge shone to anyone willing to take her on.

Moving in, he roughly unsnapped her harness and pulled it off her shoulders, but left the bottom half in place.

“Disobeying orders gets subordinates killed.”

“I'm not your subordinate.”

She had
not
just said that.

He didn't respond, just let the words live and breathe between them. Because once she had been exactly that as he dominated her curvy body. Removing her helmet, he pushed a strand of hair that had matted to her forehead out of the way. For no reason other than to touch her and affirm to himself that she was okay.

Christ, she was a beautiful woman.

A dangerously beautiful woman.

“I had the harness,” she said, the first whisper of uncertainty in her voice, likely fueled by his refusal to give her any clue as to what was coming next. Silence was as much a weapon as a fist.

Never breaking eye contact, he unhooked the snaps on her bunker jacket, undressing her with the same care with which he'd clothed her a couple of hours ago. She wore a plain white T-shirt, the lacy fabric of her bra embossing the thin cotton layer from underneath. Something within him sparked.

Kindled.

Ignited.

Hunger unlike any he'd ever known—at least not since the last time he'd been inside her—hardened every inch of his body.

As if his gaze were a touch, her nipples popped against the fabric of her tee. He bit back a groan and let the jacket fall to the floor, the clank of equipment loud in the weighty silence enshrouding them. His cock felt thick and achy.

Her tongue slid across the suckable flesh of her lower lip. “I knew I wasn't in danger. The harness . . .” She gestured to the straps crossing over the crease where her stellar thighs met her shapely hips. “And you were there, too.”

He pulled on the harness rope through the window, slowly, almost teasing, until it was completely in the room. It was still attached to the hook at the small of her back.

“If I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed.” Choking the nylon rope short, he twisted it so it pulled hard against her body. The jerking motion pivoted her away from him like a dancing marionette. It also drew her gasp.

“Am I gonna need to keep you on a leash?” Unable to stop himself, he yanked the rope so she was within inches of his aching body. It might have been the inherent dominance in the move or the pressure of the harness against her ass, even through the thick layer of the turnout pants—whatever, it sucked a throaty moan from her that traveled a straight line from A to B, where B stood for his aching balls.

“You're already watching my ass like a hawk,” she said over her shoulder, a marked tremble in her tone. “Additional restraints seem unnecessary.”

Those beautiful eyes of hers remained hidden from view, but the graceful curve of her neck had him itching to take a bite. A primal urge to bomb her every cell with sensation rocked him. He wanted to run his bearded jaw over all that silky softness. Watch the gooseflesh pleasure-prickle her skin. Hear her throaty moans, the memory of which he'd used as spank bank material for a year after their affair. She'd always been so sensitive and their role-playing games had primed them hard, the slightest touch enough to shoot them both off into a stratosphere of pleasure. A light tug of the harness might give him what he needed.

Not idly, he wondered if she could come like this.

“We have a problem here, Molly.”

“Oh?” she asked, all innocence, as if she had no freakin' clue what he was talking about. As if his using the harness as a sex toy was just SOP.
Yeah, babe, this is how we roll at CFD. We strap in, climb ladders, and get frisky with nylon ropes.
She wanted to play coy? He could do that—and make her suffer at the same time.

“You've hired me to do a job,” he said, moving his mouth to her ear. There was no mistaking her shiver of anticipation as his beard drew the fines hairs of her neck to a stand. Needing to retain a grip on reality, he refused to breathe her in. Her pleasure, his pain. “To use my experience and expertise to keep you safe.”

“I knew what I was doing,” she said, a touch of diva swagger not quite overcoming that quaver in her voice.

“Next time I give an order”—
tug
—“I expect”—
tug
—“full compliance.” Another jerk of the harness and she was flush against his body. That amazing, award-winning ass practically cuddled against the dick that could probably have snagged its own prize for Hardest Cock of the Century.

Wyatt had now entered the land of Mollywood.

Whip quick, she turned with her hands raised to keep their bodies separated, but they landed on his chest, sizzling his skin with want. Cheeks flamed, her eyes blew wide, and she moistened her lips. Christ Jesus. He felt his body bend, his head incline, his will waver.

“Wyatt,” she breathed, her mouth so close to his that he wouldn't have had to move an inch to taste her. He could have swiped his tongue across the seam, indulged his craving right then. After so long, it was the one unshakeable thought combusting every brain cell.

Losing his mind, that's what she was doing to him. She was the only one capable of turning him into this beast, the Abominable Un-Wyatt. Keeping her safe? What about keeping himself safe? He couldn't get involved with her, not when so much was on the line. He had Roni to think of, and the freak show that followed Molly Cade around was not going to help that cluster at all.

He broke away, his hand still clutching the rope like a talisman. But then he made a cardinal error . . . he dropped his gaze to the swell of her beautiful tits, their perky nipples like beacons ready to dash him to the rocks.