Cold River - Carla Neggers [108]
“Devin’s as fascinated as ever by your work as a firefighter,” she said. “He mentions it whenever we talk, even tonight. Your friend Nick’s been telling him what he needs to do to become a smoke jumper.”
“It takes a lot of work,” Sean said. “He’s in good shape from humping up and down Vermont mountains. He can do it. He’ll have to get experience before he can try out. He’ll know.”
“What if he fails?”
“He’ll have learned a lot about himself as well as have developed some solid skills along the way. We all fail, Hannah. We all make mistakes.”
She glanced back at him, her cheeks rosy from the steam of the hot water and the exertion of her manic cleaning. “Do you think I baby my brothers?”
Sean shrugged, standing up with his sponge. “You’re protective of them. It’s understandable.”
“Why, because they’re orphans? Because I’m—”
“Hannah. Hell.” He grinned at her. “Stop already.”
She smiled. “I’m sorry. It’s a sore spot with me, obviously. I guess there’s a fine line between providing helpful encouragement and support and being overprotective. I just want to be there for them.”
“Has anyone ever been there for you?”
“Yes, but that’s not the point.”
“You’re so serious,” he said. “When’s the last time you really laughed?”
She tossed her wet rag at him. He caught it and laughed, and next thing, he had her over his shoulder and was carrying her into the center hall and up the curving stairs to her apartment. The bucket, the wet sponge, the wet rag—they all could wait right where they were.
He carried her all the way back to her bedroom without so much as a peep from her.
“Thank God your brothers are in California,” he said, laying her on the bed, coming up off her. “Hannah, kick me out if you have to, but at least let me kiss you first.”
She was already draping her arms over his shoulders, pulling his mouth to hers. “Those men last spring.” She spoke between light kisses, obviously determined to get the words out. “What they said about me wasn’t true.”
“Nothing they said matters.”
“No, Sean. It does matter. What they said wasn’t true.”
“I know,” he whispered, her hands cold on his as she caught his fingertips into hers. An urgency he’d never experienced surged through him. He had to have her. Now. “Hannah, if you want me to go…” But he freed his hands from hers and skimmed his palms over her, through her clothes, her soft shirt, her jeans, and he heard her moan, felt her sink deeper into the layers of blankets. He said, finally, “I’ll go.”
“Don’t go.”
It was a whisper between kisses, and when she slipped her hands under his shirt, they weren’t cold anymore. He smiled. “Now that I know you won’t freeze, I feel free to tear off your clothes.”
“I was hoping that’s what you were thinking.” Her hands drifted lower, easing between his jeans and the hot, bare skin of his hips. “You’re very warm yourself.”
“About to get warmer,” he muttered, lifting her shirt, trying to be patient, even gentle.
But he was aching, the feel of her smooth skin, the sight of her breasts in her filmy slip of a bra almost more than he could handle. He took a moment to get his jeans off, and when he came back to her, he’d lost all patience for tiny clasps and delicate fabrics. “I’ll buy you a new one,” he said, snapping the bra, whisking it off her.
Her nipples were pink and pebbly, and he heard her gasp, knew she was self-conscious. He responded by taking one nipple between his lips, tonguing it as he eased her pants down her hips. She moaned, parting her thighs as he slid his fingers between her legs, found the heat and wetness of her. As much as he wanted to drive into her now, without waiting, without thinking—just give in to the pounding ache—he wanted even more to satisfy her. To feel her urgency, to feel her in release.
He scraped her nipple with his teeth as he eased his fingers into her, thrusting as she went very still. She seemed almost to stop breathing. He didn’t relent. He trailed his tongue down her abdomen, over her hips, then followed where his fingers had been.