Читать книгу Men On Fire - Susan Lyons - Страница 15

We walked down the quiet street toward my car, decorously hand in hand, but the sexual tension between us was like the electrical energy in the air during a thunderstorm: building, ready to explode. Quinn opened the driver’s door for me; then as I started to swing in, he yanked me roughly into his arms. “Crap, I can’t stand it any longer.”

We kissed with all the pent-up fervor of an afternoon of watching, touching, teasing. Our hands roamed greedily, tongues thrust with more passion than finesse, and both of us panted for breath. His erection rubbed demandingly against my belly, and my pussy tingled with moist heat.

“Damn it, Jade, I have to—”

“Way to go, man!” “Get a room!” The taunts came from a couple teenaged boys on bikes.

I jumped away from Quinn, cheeks burning, and slid into the car. “How embarrassing.”

Quinn climbed in beside me. “They’ll have wet dreams tonight.”

“Eeyew!”

He chuckled. “Girls don’t get it.”

“Thank God. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have a penis. Especially at their age, when it’s so uncontrollable.”

He grabbed my hand and placed it on his distended fly. “Mine’s not so controllable when I’m around you.” Then the humor left his face. “I want you, Jade.”

“I want you too. Let’s go to my place.”

“How about mine this time?” His eyes glinted as if he had a secret.

Curiosity made me agree. I headed back to Fairview Slopes where I’d picked him up, a condo-intensive area that lined the south shore of False Creek. It was late afternoon, not far past the longest day of the year, and the sun was high in the sky as my little convertible buzzed along. Lots of people were out, most in shorts. Even in summer, Vancouver’s weather was erratic, so when the sun blessed us, we made the most of the gift.

“Thanks for this afternoon, Quinn. You were wonderful.”

“Blue-collar guy didn’t totally embarrass you?”

Though his tone was teasing, not accusatory, I felt guilty. “I’m sorry. I was wrong about that. Wrong about a lot of things.”

“Got that right. But it’s okay. I don’t hold a grudge.”

“So, was this afternoon worse than the opera or salsa lessons with a foot-stomper?”

“Nope. Meeting Timothy was good. The other folks were mostly nice. Interesting. The only bad part was being with you.”

“What?” I glared at him.

“Wanting you, and not being able to have you. Drove me crazy.” He squeezed my thigh.

The heat in his voice gave me sexy shivers. “Me too.”

He pointed ahead. “Turn left at the next light.” We took a left, a right, another left, heading into the False Creek area and closer to the ocean. Did he own or rent? Would his place be tidy or a mess? Comfortable or a black leather “bachelor pad,” to use one of Mom’s old-fashioned expressions? I imagined all the possibilities.

Or at least, I thought I had. What I hadn’t imagined was walking toward the locked gate of a marina. I remembered Quinn saying he liked to sail. “You have a boat?” When he’d invited me to his place, he’d meant his sailboat, not his home. Foolishly, I felt a little hurt.

Holding my hand, he guided me down a steep nonskid ramp and along wooden fingers of dock. We passed sailboats and power boats of all description, some hardly more than ten feet long, others large enough to live on comfortably.

He paused beside one of the latter, an immaculate sailboat with gleaming white paint, glossy wood trim, and navy sail covers. Then I saw the name on the side: Padraig O’Malley. “Quinn! This is yours?” He’d named the boat after his brother.

“Used to belong to my gramps, the surgeon. I lived with him after the fire. He had a house in Kerrisdale and this boat. Patrick and I had done a lot of sailing with him, and Gramps and I decided to change the boat’s name so, you know…”

So in a sense Patrick would still be with them. I nodded.

“When Gramps hit seventy-five, he sold me the boat. He’s in his eighties now and we still go out sailing together regularly.”

I thought about the 15-year-old boy who’d lost his parents and brother going to live with his grandfather. An old man and a young man. It must’ve been a challenge for both of them. How wonderful that they were still close.

This was so strange. We’d come here because we were both lust driven, aching for sex. Yet, the drive, the walk along the docks, the thoughts of his family had changed my perspective. It wasn’t that I wanted him any less—God, maybe more—but it wasn’t so much that “take me” need as something…Less immediate? More complex?

“Come aboard.” With a flourish, Quinn offered me an arm and I stepped up to the deck.

He unlocked the wooden door to the cabin and I saw narrow ladderlike steps. When I started down, he said, “Go backward. Let me guess. You don’t spend much time on boats.”

“Only the BC ferries to Victoria or Nanaimo. I’ve never known anyone who had a boat.”

At the bottom of the ladder, I turned and gazed in wonder at the little kitchen, dinette, comfortable couch, TV and sound system. “Oh my gosh, this is amazing.” It was an adult dollhouse, though big tough Quinn probably wouldn’t appreciate me saying so. The place was neat and clean, but with a lived-in look: a thriller open and facedown on the table, a CD case by the player, a jar of peanuts on the kitchen counter.

“Thanks. I like sailing, so I figure, why not have a comfortable boat and live on her. And being on the ocean’s good for getting the scent of fire out of my nostrils.”

My gosh, he lived here. He really had taken me to his home. “That makes sense.” I wondered, too, if having his family’s home burn down had made him wary of owning another. “But don’t you get claustrophobic?” Though the boat must be forty feet long, that was nowhere near as spacious as an apartment, and Quinn was a big man.

“Nah. When I’m inside, it’s cozy. Or I’ll be out sailing, or working on something on deck. On a boat, especially a wooden one, there’s always work to do. Or I go biking, windsurfing, hiking.” He opened the small fridge. “You’ve been a teetotaler all afternoon. Want a glass of wine? Beer?”

“White wine if you have it.” Half an hour ago, all I’d had on my mind was sex. Now, he’d given me so much more to intrigue me. I knew, from the still-present simmer of sexual awareness between us, that we’d end up in bed, but right now, getting to know him and his home was a kind of seductive foreplay. “Can I explore?”

“Help yourself.”

I accepted his invitation, aware of the boat moving gently, a reminder that below us, around us, was water, not dry land. It wasn’t unpleasant, just different. I discovered a cute little bathroom with a shower, and a V-shaped front cabin that was mostly bed. A bed big enough for the two of us, though there wasn’t much head room. “Is this where you sleep?”

“No, I’m in the aft cabin.”

“Aft?”

“Back. The master cabin. Though I use the V-berth when Gramps is on the boat. If things work out with Timothy, he’ll get the V-berth when we go out.”

“You’d take that boy sailing? Quinn, it’s too dangerous.”

“I’ll make sure he wears a life vest, learns the rules. Jade, I grew up on this boat.”

“Be sure you check with his mom first.”

“’Course I will. I’ll take her out, too, so she sees what’s involved.”

A twinge of jealousy made me hope Timothy’s mom was plain and boring, and wouldn’t be staying overnight on the Padraig O’Malley.

I walked from the front cabin to the aft one, fewer than ten steps, and opened the door. The room consisted mostly of a queen-size bed, along with built-in wooden cupboards and drawers. The ceiling was low but higher than Quinn’s head.

The whole boat was adorable yet somehow very masculine. I grinned at him as he handed me a chunky, blue-banded wineglass that looked Mexican. “Your boat is gorgeous. And suspiciously tidy. You knew I’d come back with you.”

“Let’s say hoped.” His dimple winked. “But it’s always pretty tidy. Small space like this, you have to keep things shipshape.” He raised a can of Coke and tapped it against my glass. “Glad you’re here.”

“Me too.” I took a sip of crisp white wine. “Aren’t you drinking?”

“I’m on shift tonight at eight.”

A couple hours from now. We wouldn’t spend the evening together. Just as well. This interlude was threatening to slip the confines of box number three, the sexy box, and I really should refocus on my priorities. Later. After we had sex.

His dark eyes smoldered as he studied my face, igniting sparks of arousal. He stroked my hair, then tugged out the pins that secured it. “Great hair. I wanted to do this all afternoon.”

I shook my head so my hair tumbled over my shoulders. “It was hard to focus on business. All I wanted was to touch you. And feel you touch me.”

“Then let’s get naked. Now.”

“Naked would be very good.”

He ushered me into the back bedroom. “Not as big as yours, but it’ll serve the purpose.” Small windows let in bright drifts of sunshine that fell across the navy duvet, and one was open to a soft sea breeze. He pulled a cord and mini-blinds clattered down over the window on the dock side of the boat.

Without further ado, he unbuttoned my top, unzipped my pants, and stripped both garments off me. Today’s undies were white, a lacy thong and demi-bra. His lips curved. “Hmm, maybe I’m changing my mind about naked. Damn, Jade, you look hot.”

“While you’re deliberating…” I tugged his golf shirt free from his pants and pulled it up. He took over, and yanked it off while I went to work on his belt and zipper. Then I shoved his pants down to reveal black boxer briefs that barely confined his erection.

He looked hot, too, but for me there was no debate: naked was best.

When I’d removed all his clothing, the pent-up lust and everything else—the way he’d mingled at the picnic, the boy Timothy, his brother Patrick, his grandfather—flooded through me. I launched myself at him, toppling him onto the bed with me atop him. He grabbed my butt with one hand, pulling me against his groin. His other hand tangled in my hair, brought my head down to his; then his mouth captured mine in a long, breathless kiss.

Mindlessly, frantically, our lips and tongues meshed, our bodies ground against each other. I tasted passion, Coke, a bright copper nip of blood where a tooth had broken skin. His, mine, it didn’t matter.

One-handed, he released the back clasp of my bra and pulled the garment from between our heated chests. I moaned into his mouth as my sensitive breasts rubbed against his firm pecs, taut nipples, curls of hair, and my nipples tightened.

The last time we’d had sex, I hadn’t had an opportunity to explore his body. This time would be different. Despite the seductive press of his rigid cock against my belly, I eased away from him, breaking the kiss, and went up on my hands and knees as I straddled him. I blew warm breath across his chest, circled a nipple with my tongue, teased it between my lips, then did the same to the other one. Touching him turned me on, and I felt moisture trickle down my thighs.

“Turn around,” he said. “Let me get in on the action.”

He’d get no argument from me. I swung around on the bed and he shifted down so his legs hung off the end, giving me room to straddle him in the opposite direction. When I returned my attention to his nipple, my breasts hung down in his face.

He gathered them in his hands, then buried his face in them with a muffled, “Oh, Christ.” When he sucked my already budded nipple into his mouth, I moaned approval. This man knew exactly how to touch me. How to stoke the sparky fire of arousal.

As I worked my way down his body, he lavished attention on my breasts until he could no longer reach them. But I didn’t care, because now I was focused on his cock. It rose up his belly, full and heavy, the epitome of male virility. The heady, musky scent of his arousal filled my nostrils as I explored the crown with my tongue, lapping the resilient velvety skin.

The sight and scent of him was so erotic, my pussy pulsed with the need to feel him.

Instead, I gave my mouth that pleasure. Opening wide, I wrapped my lips around him, took him in, and bathed him in wet heat. He groaned as I alternately sucked on him and ran my tongue around his crown. Bracing myself on one arm, I slicked saliva down his shaft, circled him with my fingers, stroked gently, all the time keeping up the mouth action.

“Oh, yeah, Jade.” His hips rose, encouraging me but not forcing himself deeper than I could take him. I pumped harder, watching my hand at work. His skin was a couple shades lighter than mine; his thick pubic hair was shiny and black in the sunlight.

The sunshine, the fresh breeze through the open window, the occasional gentle rocking of the boat all intensified the sensuality and immediacy of the experience.

Then Quinn grasped my hips and pulled me down to his face. My sex was soaked with the dew of arousal and he lapped it up, tongue firm against my tender flesh, each stroke building the need that was coiling inside me, so I quivered and pressed myself against him.

He gave me what I craved, sliding a couple of fingers inside me, then a third. It was so sexy, having his cock in my mouth and hands while fingers stroked me deep inside, his tongue teased my swollen flesh, his thumb—oh, God—toyed with my clit. So many blissful sensations, I couldn’t separate them, they mixed together in one giant spiral of arousal, of cresting climax.

As my own excitement built, I pumped him harder, squeezed the head of his cock between my lips, licked up pre-come even as I panted with excitement. The feel and taste of him made something deep inside me clutch with primal recognition.

His cock jerked, his rough finger stroked my G-spot, my body clutched again and then orgasm surged through me, making my whole body shudder and quake.

Quinn let go, too, in spasms of salty come that I swallowed one after the other.

When he was done, when I was done, I eased away from him, body trembling, and collapsed on the bed. “Oh my God.”

“Yeah.” He pushed himself up the bed to lie beside me. “Christ, that was good.”

Neither of us moved or said another word for a few minutes. Then he shoved pillows behind his back, sat up, and took a long swallow of Coke. “Maybe an afternoon of frustration is worth it, if that’s the payoff.” He held my wineglass out.

I sat up, too, and sipped wine. “Anticipation’s not a bad thing.”

He tucked his arm around my shoulders and I moved into the curve of his body. Sunlight fell across our legs, the soft breeze brought the scent of ocean to mingle with the musk of sex, and I felt sublimely content. We chatted about his gramps, my family, his boat, my job, getting to know each other. Not a single write-off flag arose. As I basked in the glow of great sex and easy conversation, I felt an affection and intimacy that were new to me.

The sun slipped away and Quinn glanced at his alarm clock. “Damn, it’s later than I thought. I have to get ready for work.” He dropped a kiss on my lips, then slid out of bed.

Reality rushed back and I jerked upright. What had I been thinking? There was one very good reason Quinn was a write-off: he was a firefighter, an adrenaline junkie. I couldn’t get dreamy about a man who put his life at risk, who could cause me the kind of heartache I’d suffered when Papa almost died.

Back to my priorities, and our business. He’d left the cabin, giving me a brief but tantalizing rear view, and water ran in the little bathroom. “We should talk about which Triple-F event you can attend next,” I called out.

His head popped round the door. “Come sailing with me.”

“Sailing? What does that have to do with Triple-F?” I climbed out of bed and sorted out the tangle of discarded clothing.

He returned and opened a cupboard. “We can talk about the event when we’re sailing.” Underwear, jeans, and a gray T-shirt landed on the bed.

“I’ve never sailed. It’s dangerous.”

“Driving a car is dangerous. Unless you know what you’re doing.”

“Everyone drives. Not everyone sails. Look, I’m not into doing risky things.”

“Huh?” He paused in the act of pulling on jeans.

“You and I are different.” I pulled my shirt over my head and crossed my arms. “I’m cautious, and you’re an adrenaline junkie who like things like sailing and windsurfing, and you’re a firefighter.”

“You’re dumping on my hobbies and my job?”

“I’m not dumping. Just saying—”

“What?”

I bit my lip. “It was silly. I was going to say, I’d never get involved with a guy who did dangerous things. But of course we’re not involved, it’s just the Triple-F thing and the, uh, sex.” And despite my postsex daydreaming, that’s all I’d ever let it be.

He was pulling on his T-shirt. When his head emerged, he said, “We’re doing your work thing and we’re having sex, but we’re not involved? Look, like I said before, I’m not going down on one knee and proposing, but d’you have to categorize things so strictly? Can’t we just hang out, date, see where things go?”

“No.” I ran my hands through my mass of unruly hair and wondered where he’d tossed the pins he’d removed. “That’s what I was doing before, with guys. Now I want to get married. I need to focus and not waste time.”

“Oh, yeah. That serial first date thing.” He shook his head. “Which I totally don’t get.”

“Because you’re impulsive and you, uh, go with the flow. I don’t.”

He gave a wicked grin. “Seems to me you do in bed.”

“I, uh…”

“Do you have a serial date every day?”

“No, and I only meet them for coffee or lunch. If we had dinner, someone might see and think I was cheating on my fiancé. Coffee and lunch are more casual.”

He gave a snort of laughter. “Christ, woman, you lead a complicated life. Okay, here’s the deal. The next afternoon we both have free, you’re coming sailing with me and you can brief me about the next Triple-F function.”

“I already said, sailing’s too dangerous.”

“Life vest. Calm water.” His eyes glinted with humor and his dimple flashed. “Haven’t you heard of compromise?”

He had a point. Sometimes I got so hung up on planning, I could be inflexible. “I’ll visit you on the boat again, and we’ll discuss compromise then.”