Ignited (Most Wanted 3)

"People are strange," Angie said philosophically, and since I couldn't argue with that, I didn't even try.

I was still thinking about that statement when Cole pulled the Range Rover into the valet slot at the Firehouse. He came around and opened the door for me, and I stood there for a moment, just looking up at the nondescript building that hid what I imagined were dozens of fantasies and adventures. The possibilities both intrigued me and made me nervous, and I looked to Cole for support.

He took my hand automatically, but I felt distance, not the support I craved. My stomach twisted unpleasantly, and I couldn't help but wonder if this was about me. If he was afraid that I couldn't handle whatever went on in there.

"Mr. August," a pretty young blonde wearing next to nothing said as we entered. "Welcome back." She smiled at me, then returned her attention to him. "Your usual room?"

"Yes," he said, and I had to bite back a frown because of the stiffness in his voice. A stiffness that seemed to increase once we were checked in and he pressed his hand against my back to lead me through a doorway and into a darkened corridor.

We'd taken two steps--and my eyes still hadn't adjusted to the dark--when he pulled me to a stop. "No."

That was all he said. And then he turned around, took my hand, and tugged me back toward the exit.

"Cole!" I said, once we were back outside, having blown past the baffled-looking hostess. "What the hell? What's wrong? Is it me? Is it Michelle?"

"This isn't the place for you."

"Dammit, Cole, I thought we were past that. I can handle it. I want to handle it."

"I know you do." The words were low and harsh and laced with anger. "But I don't want you to."

I took a step back. "Okay, back up. What did I do? Why are you mad at me?"

Even as I watched, his expression seemed to crumble. "Fuck," he said, then kicked the tire of the Range Rover that the valet had just returned from the lot. "Dammit, Kat, I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at me. Don't you get it? I don't want you here. And not because there's anything wrong with the Firehouse, or anything wrong with you."

He moved in front of me, then wiped away a tear that I hadn't realized I'd shed. "It's because of what you are to me," he said, his voice so gentle it almost made the tears flow freely. "It's because I came here because I needed something I couldn't get anywhere else. I needed a safety net. But I don't need that anymore. If I truly have you the way you say I do--the way I hope and believe that I do--then I don't need this place anymore. Do you understand?"

I nodded, a little bit humbled, a little bit amazed.

"Is that okay?"

Okay? With every word and every touch he was telling me how much I meant to him. How could it be anything but okay?

And yet--

He'd been examining my face, and now he frowned.

"Oh, baby, I'm sorry. If you want to go in, that's okay. I understand."

"No--no," I repeated quickly. "It's not so much that I want to go in--Sloane's told me a little bit about it, and to be honest, I'm not sure I'm keen on the public part."

"But?"

I shrugged, then looked away. "I guess I want the experience." I gathered my courage and met his eyes, finding them warm and understanding. "I want what I could get in there with you."

A muscle in his cheek tightened, and he nodded. "Okay. We'll go in."

I shook my head and grabbed his arm. "No, you don't understand. I just want you to take me there. I don't care if it's in the Firehouse or your bedroom or my house or in the back of your Range Rover. Does that make sense? I want it all, Cole. Everything you are and everything you have to offer. I'll admit I'm curious, but it's not a big deal. And if you don't want to take me here, that's fine." I reached up and fingered the necklace he'd given me. "I'll wear this anywhere you want me to. I just want you to take me all the way."

"I've been thinking about that," he said, with an odd gleam in his eye. "I was waiting for the right time to bring it up."

I cocked my head. "What are you talking about?"

"Instead of the Firehouse, I want to take you to our playroom."

I raised my brows. "You mean, like with sex toys and stuff?"

His laugh was pure delight. "God, Kat, you're wonderful. Yes, with sex toys and stuff."

I cocked my head and crossed my arms over my chest. "I hate to mention this, but I don't think we have such a room. And if we do have one, I'm a little ticked off that you never bothered to mention it to me before."

"That's because it doesn't exist yet. But it occurs to me that you suddenly have a free bedroom. And I can think of one very interesting use that we can put it to."

I had to admit that he'd made an excellent point.

Over the next few days, we divided our time between Home Depot and Forbidden Fruit, the local sex toy store that Cole introduced me to and that I spent many fascinating moments perusing.

What I found the most interesting, though, was that Home Depot became our primary destination. I might be fascinated with the edible body paint--which I intended to let Cole put to good use, what with his innate artistic skill--but it was wood and pipe and brackets and bolts that he was focused on.

It was a little disconcerting how much hardware was going into that room. And, honestly, I had a feeling he was trying to outdo whatever setup they had at the Firehouse.

He was putting together a St. Andrew's cross--which was, frankly, the very first thing I wanted to try. But he also had something that looked like a tumbling horse and a piece of pipe with soft ankle restraints on each end that he told me was a spreader bar.

There was a wall with various hooks and latches to allow for different positions. An ornate chandelier that Cole told me would--once it was properly mounted--act as the top cross bar for a sex swing that he had ordered.

Considering how much I'd loved swings back when I was five, the very idea of combining a swing and sex made me more than a little giddy.

In addition to all those things, Cole had at least a dozen more gizmos and contraptions in the works, none of which he'd tell me about.

"Trust me," he said. And since I did, I left him alone to do the hardware thing while I worked on stocking the more intimate items into pretty baskets and picking out the colors for the room--which wasn't too difficult since I decided I wanted a deep rich purple, and if Cole wanted to veto it, he would just have to repaint the room himself.

I'd just finished rolling paint onto one of the walls when I turned to find Cole watching me. "You are not going to tell me I'm doing this wrong," I said. "Because all I'm doing is turning a wall purple. And even someone like me whose skill is limited to stick figures can handle that."

"Take off your clothes and stand by the wall."

I frowned. "Excuse me?"

"I have an idea."

I narrowed my eyes, but he stood firm, his brows lifted in silent demand.

"Yes, sir," I said archly, and then very slowly and deliberately stripped out of my shorts and tank top.

"Arms spread," Cole said. "Like you're doing jumping jacks. And here," he added, handing me some of the goggles he wore when he used the circular saw. "Just in case."

"What the hell?"

But Cole said nothing. And because I knew the score, I did what he said. I put on the goggles, I held my arms out--and then I laughed in delighted surprise when he flicked a wet paintbrush at me, splattering me and the wall, but in such a way that the splatter left the silhouette of a woman in a pose of what looked like exultation.

"Another," Cole said, as I laughed and moved into a slightly different pose. And on and on until the wall was covered with dancing, brilliant silhouettes . . . and I was covered in paint.

"Now that is lovely," he said, moving closer and tracing his finger over the splatters on my skin in a human game of connect the dots. "I do like to paint you," he said, his voice full of heat and promise.

"Right now it's my turn to paint you," I said. "Off with the clothes."

But I didn't s

platter him. Instead I pressed against him, hot and hard, and transferred the paint from my body to his. He laughed, then pulled me down to the floor that was, thankfully, covered in drop cloths.

We slid over each other, moving and stroking and playing in the paint--and laughing like little kids--until the mood shifted, taking on more heat. More fire.

"What are we doing?" I asked, because I could no longer hold back the question. "What are we to each other?"

"Everything," he said, then pulled me in for a kiss.

And as his mouth captured mine--as I moaned from the sweetness of it all--I knew that he was right.

"What do you think?" Cole asked, taking his hands off my eyes so that I could see the finished St. Andrew's cross. It was mounted on a deep wooden box that was attached to a mirrored wall, which allowed for access around the cross itself, not to mention allowing whoever was standing to see the face of whoever was on the cross in the mirror.

As for the cross itself, the wood was polished to a shine, and the leather padding looked bright and comfortable.