Light Her Fire (Private Pleasures 2)

He signaled the waitress for the check. “I don’t have to get up early. Why don’t we go for a drive?”

A drive? That didn’t make any sense. “Where did you want to go?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted as he signed off on the check. “Take me to your favorite spot.” He looked and hit her with a slow, challenging smile. “Surprise me.”

Chapter Seven

The drive idea was smooth. Much smoother than the minefield of a conversation he’d somehow led them into back at the diner. What had happened between her and Roger was none of his damn business. He already knew the rumor he’d heard about their breakup was complete and utter bullshit—he’d figured that out Tuesday night, around the time he’d had her perched on the exam table, trying to use his tongue as a personal toy. She enjoyed sex, wasn’t shy about giving or taking pleasure, and was game for anything.

That’s all he needed to know. That’s all he wanted to know, his head insisted, but his gut knew better. He wanted some sort of confirmation she wasn’t still hung up on her ex. He wanted to be sure when he kissed her, or touched her, or made her scream, it wouldn’t be Roger’s name on her lips. So he’d pressed the issue. But instead of getting the real reason for the break, he’d only succeeded in irritating them both.

A relaxing drive to a scenic spot on a clear, warm, moonlit night sounded like a good way to press reset. He turned on the radio and something halfway between pop and country flowed through the truck’s speakers. She seemed to unwind a little with each passing mile. He followed her directions and steered the truck up the gently curving road that ran parallel to the Ohio River. Breaks in the trees offered periodic views of the moon’s reflection on the water below. Nice. The prospect of doing a little necking in the front of his truck sent his blood pumping southward.

She turned and caught him staring, and slowly smiled. A smile filled with infinite possibilities. It had been a while since he’d made out in a vehicle, but they could probably get to third base—all the way home if he could convince her to climb on his lap, and he was careful not to bounce her head against the top of the truck.

The route got a little steeper and windier. Vegetation thickened. Lots grew wider, with houses planted farther apart. He concentrated on the road. “Are we headed to Bluelick’s version of Lookout Point?”

“Not exactly, though in high school a bunch of us used to come up here after football games or dances, sneak beer, and mess around.” After the words left her mouth, her eyes darted his way, and he realized Roger had certainly been one of the “friends.” He had no desire to sour the mood and push her for a list of names.

“I knew you were a bad girl.”

“Ha. I was the one who had to be home by midnight—and never missed a curfew—if that tells you how wild we got. But I’ve always loved the view from here. This road comes to a cul-de-sac up ahead. Bear right before you reach the end. You’ll see a driveway. Take it.”

He spotted the driveway and made the turn. Curious, he proceeded slowly down the short drive. Gravel crunched under his wheels, adding another rhythm to the mix. A small cottage came into sight, or more appropriately, a neglected structure that had once been a cottage. Dingy white paint peeled away from bricks and wood. Boards blocked the windows and doors. He imagined raccoons and other types of nasty rodents living in the rafters and suppressed a shiver. Beyond the cottage was an overgrown backyard. Beyond that, a view of town, just pinpoints of light at this time of night, studding the hillside and twinkling along the banks of the river.

“This is my favorite spot.” She sighed and settled back against the seat, but instead of looking up at the stars, or across the river, she stared at the cottage.

“I’m with you on the view, but I would not have guessed you had a thing for condemned houses.”

“The cottage always breaks my heart a little. Ginny’s grandpa built it for her grandma a long time ago, but he died unexpectedly, before construction was complete. She couldn’t bear to sell, but she didn’t have the money to do much more than pay the taxes. She passed a few years ago and Ginny inherited, but decided to sell because she didn’t have the time or resources to fix the place. The Buchanans snapped it up, and talked with Tyler about doing a fix and flip, but then the housing bubble burst and they figured there weren’t a lot of buyers in this market. So the poor little house continues to rot on its foundation. Such a shame, because Grandpa Boca built the place with love and care. Now it sits here, empty and unused—a monument of unfulfilled potential.”

“Not to mention a fire hazard.”

“Hey.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “Don’t be so quick to condemn my dream house. I haven’t given up on it yet. I still hope the right person comes along, appreciates its charms, and takes it on.”

A quaver in her voice left him with the uncomfortable feeling she was talking about more than the cottage, and effectively killed any notions he’d entertained of necking or baseball, or anything resembling a continuation of Tuesday’s adventures. It was too crowded in the truck. Some asshole named Roger was sitting between them, fucking with his night.

…

Who needed a boss with unpredictable office hours to mess up a promising evening? Not her. She could cock-block a perfectly good fire chief all on her own.

Josh kept his thoughts to himself on the drive back to her house, which left her brain free to indulge in the mental equivalent of chasing its tail. Why had she said those things about the cottage? Nobody knew her fondness for the house. Not Ginny, not Roger. Nobody. Clearly, she should have kept it that way. Getting misty-eyed and sentimental over a pile of bricks didn’t set a sexy mood.

When he pulled his truck up to the curb in front of her house, she turned to him, hopeful the dim interior hid any traces of the crazy going on in her head. “Thanks for dinner, and the drive. I had…fun.”

He gave her a look she couldn’t decipher, but all he said was, “I’ll walk you up.”

“Uh, no. That’s okay. You don’t…have…to.” The words hung in empty air, because he’d already stepped out of the truck. She stared down at her knotted fingers and forced them apart. A second later the passenger door swung open and his hand entered her line of vision. She took it and let him help her out, then led the way up her front walk. At the door, she stopped, took a quick, stabilizing breath, pasted a smile on her face, and looked up at him. “I’ll add a thanks for walking me to the doo—”

His mouth covered hers, effectively cutting her off. Astonishment froze her for a moment, but the kiss thawed her just as fast. It was exactly like their last one, only…more. Her eyelids drifted down, her hands drifted up and found the broad, reassuringly solid shelf of his shoulders—a good thing, because the rest of her tipped completely off-balance. The fact that she only had one leg under her and the other wrapped around his waist might have had something to do with the precarious feeling, but she couldn’t make herself release him because the position aligned the bone-dissolving weight of his erection with the part of her most desperate to feel it.

When his tongue swept past her lips and into her mouth, she clung to him and moaned, “Hurry.”

“No hurry,” he replied between kisses, and backed her up against the porch railing.

She kissed him back hard and fast, not bothering to hide the urgency building inside her. Apparently he picked up on it, because his mouth left hers to trail down her throat while his hands sneaked under her skirt. She threw her head back and let her whirling thoughts fly, uncensored, out her mouth. “Please, hurry. It’s been so long. Even before Roger and I broke up—”

His mouth and hands left her so abruptly she nearly fell over. Her eyelids popped open and their gazes collided.