Light up the Night (Firehouse Three #2)(26)

Slowly at first, he slid out, then in, shallow and deep, pumping his hips into her. The hardness of her nipples grazed his chest, her fingers gripping his back as her sweet thighs clamped around his hips. Harder and faster he moved, her inner muscles gripping him and beckoning him harder and faster into her.

He wanted more, she wanted more, and he would happily give it to them both. He wanted to lose his damn mind and pour every bit of himself into her, but he couldn’t, not yet, not before she came first.

He reached between them and found her clit, that swollen little nub of wet heat that was nestled in her slit. She bucked against him, her cry in her throat, and gently he caressed her in time with the strokes of his cock. Once, twice, three times, her keening cries increasing in intensity with every flick of his fingers. Wilder and wilder she cried, bucked, moved, clawing at his back and moaning his name as he pumped into her.

“Come, Everly, feel me f*cking you deep and hard. I want you to scream. I want you to feel my fingers on your sweet, hot little clit, and I want you to come. You feel my hard cock? Feel how much I want you? This is how much, Everly.” He drove home, pressing down with his fingers at the same moment.

She shattered, her body spasming and gripping him, shuddering and screaming as her orgasm wracked her. And he lost himself then, shaking as his come poured from him like a hot, convulsing flood.

There, in her bedroom, he collapsed beside her, gathering her close to his chest.

Hell. Who could have expected that?



The stupid phone wasn’t working. That was the only explanation.

Belinda flipped the damn thing screen-down again, reaching for and nearly missing the half-empty cosmopolitan. It was her fifth. Sixth? Eighth? Who the hell knew? Who the hell cared?

He hadn’t called her back. The rat bastard.

Not knowing where else to go, she’d ended up in the hotel bar, waiting for his callback. But now it was late, and she was drunk, and she had no f*cking clue what to do.

With a groan, she pillowed her head on her arms.

This was such bullshit. She’d hauled her ass all the way out here, and he wouldn’t even sit down and have a conversation with her?

The last couple weeks of their relationship played in a highlight reel in her head. Drake had been so excited about that stupid promotion. He’d known he was a shoo-in. Belinda wasn’t stupid. She could see the writing on the wall. If he’d snagged that job? He’d be stuck in that f*cking firehouse for years, if not forever.

How would he have learned the ins and outs of his family’s investment company while he was running around playing woo-woo fire truck?

She’d gone straight to Daddy and fixed that problem. He didn’t know she had anything to do with his losing the chance at the job, she was sure of that. Daddy was much too careful for that. But when he’d come home that night?

“Dammit,” she said, draining the rest of her cosmo and signaling to the bartender for another.

The argument had been one of their worst. They’d had some doozies in the past, when he wasn’t toeing the line. He was the man, and as such, he was supposed to keep her on a pedestal where she belonged. A little course correction was necessary from time-to-time, like when he bitched about her lack of help around the apartment, or when she’d put her brand new Macbook on his credit card without telling him first.

But this one had put all the others in the shade.

He’d called Belinda selfish. Her. Selfish. Puh-lease. He had it all wrong! She was looking out for his best interests.

“But how can I tell him if he won’t f*cking talk to me?” She picked up the phone and stared at the black screen again.

“Hey there, beautiful.”

Belinda shot a glare at the masculine voice next to her, only to blink in surprise. “Fuck o—well, hello yourself.”

He was tall, lanky, and dressed in a designer suit. His teeth flashed white as he sank onto the barstool next to her.

Hm. This might work. Maybe if she sent Drake some pictures of her with this tall drink of water, he’d get jealous.

It was better than her only other plan—which was drink herself stupid.





9.

Everly shifted in bed, not opening her eyes. Damn. Why was she so sore? Her body was burning in all kinds of weird places.

With a grunt, she rolled over, and hit something hard. And hot. That smelled an awful lot like sexy man.

Oh, shit.

Her eyes flew open and she bolted upright, clutching the sheet to her naked chest.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

Beside her, breathing evenly, his dark eyelashes dusting his cheeks, was Drake f*cking Hammerfell. In her bed. Naked. Because she’d slept with him last night.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered as she climbed out of the bed, hoping like hell he wouldn’t wake up. Fortunately, luck was on her side and she was able to slip from the room unnoticed. It was still early, only about six-thirty, but she was used to being up with the sun. Maybe Drake would sleep in for a while and give her a chance to process things.

In the hallway, two sets of doggy eyes stared at her as she dashed to the bathroom for her robe. Jacques, the poodle, gave her a downright dirty glare as she belted it.

“I know, I kicked you out of the bedroom. I’m sorry. Want to go outside?”

They both perked up at that, and Everly escorted them out the back door. She dropped a coffee pod in the machine, and a few minutes later, took her cup full of caffeinated courage onto the deck to watch her mutts sniff around the shady backyard.