Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(28)

“Do not bully me,” he snapped. “Here I am, trying to do the decent thing for once in my life, and you’re giving me a hard time about it.”

She took a step toward him. “Stop trying so hard,” she said. “I didn’t ask you to be decent. I asked you to turn out the light.”

One last, flailing stab at caution. “It’s like, with cooking,” he blurted. “If you put too much salt in the stew, you can’t take it out.”

She considered that. “That’s true,” she said. “But you can put more food into the pot.”

A massive flush started from around the center of the earth, encompassing his body as it rose up. The reaction appalled him. He wasn’t like this with girls. He kept things light. He showed girls a great time, spent money on them, made them laugh, made them dream, made them come. Until the moment arrived when they were no longer content with matters as they stood. At which point, it ended flat. Full stop.

So what was he doing, being terrified to put out for this girl for fear she wouldn’t respect him in the morning. Afraid of giving her the milk for free. Afraid, in his gut, of giving her that much power over him.

Mamma and Rudy flashed through his mind, cramping his guts into knots. The man Mamma picked to father her son ran out on her before he was born. The last boyfriend she’d hooked up with had been a viot mafioso thug who had murdered her with his fists and his knife.

When it came to relationships, Bruno was genetically challenged.

Rudy hadn’t been fit to scrape dog shit off Mamma’s shoes. Bruno had known that, even at eleven. Rudy had been handsome, in a gold-chains-and-chest-hair sort of way, but that was all he had going for him. But Mamma had been beautiful, strong, smart.

Just not smart enough.

He didn’t get it. Not then, not now. And in his rare moments of self-analysis, he’d figured that was probably the reason that he kept his love affairs so light. A guy just couldn’t make mistakes that big if he kept things light enough. Featherlight. Light as air. Because what person could ever really guess at the depths of his own idiocy? Mamma hadn’t had a clue about hers. And as for Bruno himself, well, hell. He certainly didn’t have any great claim to self-knowledge. He just bumbled along as best he could. Hoping not to f*ck up too badly along the way.

He went to the light switch by the door and flicked it off. When he turned, she glowed in the golden light from the space heater, and the shadow over her shoulders on the wall seemed a looming, black-cloaked figure. An ancient, mythical harbinger of doom and destruction.

He blinked. It turned into a pattern of blocked light again.

Jesus, what the hell was that about?

He was rattled, jittery, scared half to death. But he could no more say no to this girl than he could stop breathing.





7


He’d turned off the light just in time, right before the big, fat tears flashed down over her cheeks. Damn. Her makeup job was not tear-friendly, with all that coal black eyeliner and mascara. She’d gone with the unpredictable late-night vixen look, but it was a short step from that to a dripping raccoon mask. Vixens didn’t cry.

She sniffed the tears back and gathered her courage. She was shivering, nipples poking out. The room was dim, just the glow of the halogen heater wavering and squiggling in her watery vision. Her legs wobbled as she sashayed toward him. She stopped to kick off the heels. She regretted the lost height, which she needed with this guy, but it wasn’t worth taking a tumble.

The glow of the heater would be flattering for her skim-milk pallor, so she tossed her hair back and yanked the stretchy black lace shirt off over her head. Shoulders back. Boobs out, up. Ribcage tilted. Suck in the belly. Good posture did wonders for breast perkiness.

His eyes glittered. Suddenly the room seemed almost hot.

Lily kept her eyes open wide, hoping the tears would evaporate from her eyeballs. She wouldn’t choke up now. She’d started this, and she would see it through. She struggled with the zipper on the denim skirt, got a grip, yanked it down. The skirt flumped ungracefully to the floor, denim studs clattering, leaving her clad in the black lace thong and the thigh highs with the rubberized thingies that were supposed to theoretically hold them up without garters but never quite managed the job. She hoped the rips and runs enhanced the ragged vixen effect. It wasn’t just a look. Couldn’t afford new ones.

He took a step closer. Her lungs locked. No air going in or out.

“I should take a shower,” he said. “I smell like frying grease.”

“No, you don’t,” she said. “You smell like coffee. And disap.”

“Dish soap?” He looked rueful. “Wow. Seductive.”

“It is,” she assured him. And it was.

He was close enough to touch but taking his time about it, just vibrating at her, his very body heat a tender touch. He laid his hands on her shoulders. She gasped. His hands were so warm. How could they be so warm in this cold? A penetrating, tingling warmth, full of sparkles. It flowed into her body, stealing through her like a river of honey.

She’d just started to relax when he sank to his knees. She seized up again in a sudden panic. His hot breath tickled her navel. His hands clasped her hips.

“What the hell are you doing?” Her voice was shrill.

He hooked his pinkies into her thong and tugged it. “This.”