No Damaged Goods

Right. On. Top. Of. Me.

We’re both breathing hard, panting, and he’s collapsed with his head buried against my shoulder and neck, his arms braced to either side, keeping me pinned down.

Good.

So deliriously good, that thick, weighty, granite-hard frame of his molded to mine, heating me up until I can’t even feel the winter night.

It’s just Blake’s rasping, heavy breaths, hot against my throat, suggestive and loud, and the sight of the stars dancing overhead. I stare up past the thick bulk of his shoulder.

I didn’t mean to grab him the way I did, my fingers curled against his biceps.

But now that he’s there, I don’t want to let him go.

My face hurts from grinning, but I’m not smiling now.

Not when I turn my head toward him, my entire body pulsing with the feel of him, and my cheek brushes his.

Blake goes oddly quiet, still, his heavy breaths silencing, slowing.

He pushes himself up on his arms.

God, I can’t stand feeling even the slightest bit of that delicious weight lifting, but…

When he looks down at me, snow in his messy hair and dusted all over his coat, eyes razor-blue and hot, leverage bringing his hips tight against mine, I’m so done.

Utterly breathless.

I just feel sparks all over, thrumming in my blood, lighting up bright and burning over and over and over again in little rushes.

Licking my lips, my mouth aches for the taste of him, the feel of him, the need for him.

It wouldn’t be hard.

I could spread my legs so easy, let his narrow hips sink down between my thighs, shudder with his molten friction. If he’d just let me.

If that animal look in his eyes, something smoldering-dark, is an answer to the call of desire rushing through me. Raw heat strums between my legs. Focused. Brutal.

No lie, I could writhe on him and get off in under a minute just by rubbing my body against his.

I want to.

This roughed up tree trunk of a man makes me shameless.

But before I can move, before I can do anything, he parts his lips to speak—

Only for both of us to go stiff. A deafening roar sounds from up the hill.

Over his shoulder, I catch a pillar of flame shooting toward the sky.

Mega-crud.

“Shit.” Blake jerks up, looking over his shoulder sharply, staring at that orange and gold plume for half a second before he thrusts himself off me and surges up the hill on powerful strides that churn through the snow, leaving me behind.

I lie there for a dazed moment, staring at the sky.

All the stars are laughing at me tonight.

Damn it all.

So close.

So close, but so far.

I drag myself to my feet with a wince.

Now that Blake’s not on top of me, I feel the bruises from bouncing and tumbling around, not to mention the chill crawling over my skin.

Shivering, I dust myself off, then climb the hill in his wake, trudging up after him in the path he so helpfully cleared through the snow.

It’s not hard to figure out where he went, judging by the thick coiling smoke rising over the field.

Everyone out working stares in that direction.

I follow the painfully obvious clues until I catch up with his broad back.

He’s standing head and shoulders above a group of teenagers—including Andrea and the tall, gangly boy dressed in black that I think I recognize as Clark, Andrea’s crush.

He’s a shaggy thing, all throwback emo style and piercings. Just the kind of kid I’d have been crazy for at her age, and it’s not hard to see she’s protective of him.

Considering she’s positioned herself between her father and Clark, glaring up at him while Blake’s eyes drill right back.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” Blake growls.

Andrea starts, “It’s just part of the—”

Clark shakes his head, brushing his hand against her arm.

“It’s okay, Ana,” he says, then looks at Blake with a frankness beyond his years. “I was testing out a new launcher, and one of the fireworks cartridges had loose gunpowder. Wasn’t packed properly. No one got hurt. We made sure to test it in a clear space, all the grass pulled, snow piled up to put out any sparks.” He sighs. “I know what I’m doing, Mr. Silverton. Accidents happen.”

“Accidents have nearly burned this damn town down too many times,” Blake growls back.

My heartbeat goes to ten.

He’s firm, clearly angry, but Clark’s calm ownership of what he did seems to have knocked some of the protective rage out of him, leaving pure cold authority.

It’s another thing I like about Blake. Even when his temper snaps, he gets it under control fast without turning into a stomping dick. “Your uncle’s the licensed fireworks tech. He should be doing controlled tests. Not you, Clark.”

“Shit came up with Uncle Rog today. He gave me permission,” Clark answers evenly, but there’s an edge there, defensive. “And if he’d done the test, it still would’ve flared. It was a packing issue, not me. I’m trained in this. Everything’s fine.”