Читать книгу The Firefighter - Susan Lyons - Страница 9

My state of bliss ends abruptly when I realize I probably stink of smoke, despite my sponge bath. I ease away an inch. Mick shows no signs of being turned off—the indicators definitely point in the opposite direction—but my feminine pride makes me say, “I need a shower.”

“No you don’t.” He pulls me back, nuzzles my neck below my ear.

“Why don’t you join me?” Hoarseness makes my voice sexy and suggestive.

“Shower together?” I feel his smile against my skin.

“You could help me get clean.” I envision his soapy hands running over my breasts, down my tummy, between my legs. Nerve endings ignite, the heat of arousal rushes through me.

He lifts his head and gives me a cocky smile. “I could help you do lots of things.”

And hopefully one of them is achieve orgasm. “Prove it to me in the shower.”

He undoes my sash and tugs the bathrobe off my shoulders. Suddenly I’m nervous about getting naked. I have small, high tits and an ass to match, with only a gentle curve of hip. If Mick’s into voluptuous…

Wait a minute, he’s already seen my body. Next to naked, in my skimpy lingerie. And he was turned on.

Mick starts to undo the buttons of my pajama top and I really wish I had some of my secret indulgence lingerie now, not this plain-Jane outfit.

I bat his hands away. “Where’s the bathroom?” Every woman looks beautiful in the shower, with water streaming down her body. Right?

“Over here.” He leads me across his living room.

I’m guessing the apartment—flat, as he calls it—came furnished. The antiques and chintz patterns don’t look like Mick. They’re attractive, but not masculine.

And he is most definitely both.

I step into the bathroom and see it’s similar to the one in Auntie Bet’s house. A ceramic tile floor with a drain in the centre. A combination tub/shower where there’s no shower rod or curtain, just a half-door at the shower end. No drain in the tub. Nana told me, if the tub overflows, the water goes down the drain in the floor. Weird, how different countries have these small, distinct variations in how they handle the basics of everyday life.

Sure, Tash, think about the plumbing rather than whether he’ll find you sexy.

Nervously I scramble out of the pajamas, step into the tub and get the shower going—not too hot because my skin’s so sensitive from the fire—then turn to face Mick.

The expression on his face, the erection under his fly, tell me he does find me sexy.

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Lonely in here.” I dip my head under the spray to give him the hopefully irresistible image of water cascading over a naked female.

When I emerge from the water he bends down to take off his boots. Then he straightens and in one quick move yanks the T-shirt over his head.

My breath catches. Wow! He’s broad-shouldered and powerful, but leaner than most of the body-builders at the club, his muscles long rather than bunchy. Tanned a rich, uniform brown, he looks like a guy who swims, surfs, spends a lot of time being active outside. The opposite of me, who’s usually in an office, and gets my exercise at a fitness club.

This is definitely not a man who’s bought into the trend to get rid of body hair, and I thoroughly approve. Dark curls spread across his pecs and a trail V’s down to his waist.

I’m happy to stand back and enjoy this striptease. And a tease it definitely is. Who ever said women didn’t get off on looking? I’m here to prove they’re wrong, in the way my nipples bud, my pussy swells and melts.

I’m too turned on, too curious to feel nervous anymore.

He unfastens the button at his waist. My gaze is on his distended fly as he lowers the zipper. He shoves his hands into the sides of his jeans, and begins to pull them down, along with his underwear.

His skin’s a shade or two lighter here, but still tanned. Then his cock springs free. He gives a sigh of relief.

My sigh is admiration. Oh, yes! Now, that’s exactly the way a cock is supposed to look.

He gives it a quick stroke from bottom to top. Like he’s greeting an old friend.

Normally I’m kind of inhibited, especially with a new guy, but that’s not how I feel with Mick. I want to touch him. All of him, but mostly that thick brown shaft with the bulging veins and dark, swollen head. I realize I’ve opened my mouth, am running my tongue around my lips. Tasting innocuous shower water, when what I want is his musky flavor in my mouth.

He has me so hot and bothered, I have to find a way of retaliating. I pick up the bar of clear green soap by the shower and get my hands nice and sudsy, then run them over my breasts in slow, sensual circles, pausing to fondle the beaded nipples.

His cock jerks and he grasps it again, holding it as he watches me.

I let my head fall back, run my tongue around my lips again, as suggestively as I know how. The arch in my back has thrust my breasts out, and I continue to soap round and round, teasing the nipples.

A part of me is saying, who is this woman? Where did I get this self-confidence?

Well, that’s easy. Mick gave it to me, in the hungry way he watches me. As if the woman he sees is utterly sexy. And so he makes me believe it.

He releases his cock and steps into the tub. “I’m glad you came to Oz.”

“Me too.” On the plane, I’d wished myself back in Vancouver. Now I’m Dorothy, in a magical world.

He moves forward, takes my head between both of his strong hands and angles it just the way he wants, then leans down and kisses me. He thrusts both our heads under the center of the shower and I close my eyes against the streaming water.

Delight. In this land, kisses come under waterfalls, in rainbow colors and showers of stars behind my closed eyelids.

But I can’t breathe. Gasping, I tear my lips from his, thrust my head out of the spray and gulp in air. Then I pull him close and this time initiate the kiss.

His body’s hotter than the water cascading over my shoulders. He brands my front from chest to thighs, his rigid cock trapped between our bellies.

My hands roam, exploring his powerful shoulders, moving down his back as it tapers to his waist, dipping into that special spot at the base of his spine. Then down to curve around his muscular ass.

So much sensation, I’m overwhelmed.

His lips soft yet demanding, his tongue flirting its way into my mouth, tasting faintly of coffee and mint. Mint, kind of like the green herbal smell from his soap that permeates the damp air. The flex of his butt muscles under my fingers, the hot water pounding my back and splashing over my shoulders to wet Mick’s chest, slicking the curly black chest hair against his body.

The pouring-rain sound of water almost covering the smaller sounds, the little gasps and moans we both make.

And in the center of it all, that bold thrust of cock.

I wriggle against it, wishing I were taller, wanting that firm pressure between my legs.

He eases his mouth from mine and then he’s bending, touching his lips to my nipple. Sucking and playing with it like he did with my lips. Water slips and slides across my skin, but his mouth centers, focuses, draws all my concentration to my breast.

No, not all my concentration. What he’s doing to my nipple creates an immediate response further down, where I’m already throbbing with need.

I’m tempted to tug on his hair, pull him up, tell him I’m ready. Yes, usually I love foreplay—need it, to be honest, to get me in the mood—but the woman in the shower isn’t the usual Tash. She’s a creature forged by fire, and she’s inflamed and hungry and wants this man inside her. Now.

Mick raises his head and I think, yes, now! but then he begins to suck my other nipple and the sensation is so exquisite I moan, “Oh, yes,” and throw back my head.

My gaze catches the shadow of a movement. Across the room there’s a mirror above the sink. And in it, my own reflection.

Wow. I look like a woman in an erotic movie. The water’s darkened my hair and it clings to my head, otter-smooth, calling attention to my dramatic bone structure.

The mirror reflects the back of Mick’s head against my breast. He tugs my nipple gently with his teeth and I gasp. Watching my own reaction in the mirror, seeing the flush on my cheeks, doubles my arousal.

His head moves and now he’s tracking kisses down the center of my body. I can guess—hope—where he’s going.

When he reaches my navel he does something I can’t even describe, kind of like puffing air into it but better. His lips hover on my skin and they and his tongue vibrate, like he’s humming or playing the harmonica.

Then, in the mirror, his head disappears from sight. Trickles of water run from my shoulders down to small, firm breasts with rosy budded nipples. My rib cage and flat stomach are shiny with water.

Mick kneels. A gentle hand urges my legs further apart. His tongue slides between them, separates the swollen folds. The woman in the mirror arches, eyes widening, mouth open as she lets out a sound that’s half moan, half whimper.

He does that throbbing vibration thing again and my body hums along with him. He licks along me, into me, then there’s a finger beside his tongue, then two, and I stretch for him.

I gaze down. All I can see is the top of his head, the back of his shoulders. Water’s splashing onto him like he’s kneeling under a waterfall. Worshipping the goddess of the waterfall.

I stare back into the mirror. The goddess is me, all flushed and wild and passionate, breasts literally heaving as I suck air in and out through my open mouth. Oh God, his tongue’s on my clit. And now his lips, and he’s doing that humming thing around it and my clit’s dancing to his tune.

I forget about the mirror and focus on what Mick’s doing with his incredible mouth and fingers. Inside me, everything tightens, draws together, my body’s rushing toward orgasm. My muscles clamp down on his fingers and he vibrates air all around my nub, tongues it gently and the waves crash through me. My knees go so weak I have to grab his shoulders or I’ll collapse.

He stays with me, gentling my body through the aftershocks. Then he rises slowly, hands on my hips to hold me steady.

“Incredible,” I murmur, reaching for his head to pull him close for a kiss. Suddenly I realize I’ve had almost no sleep for the last two days, and my body’s just enjoyed the best orgasm of my life. All I want to do is get dry and fall asleep with this man.

His kiss is too quick. Impatient. When I snuggle close, of course he’s still hard. And that quickly, with just the feel of that rigid organ, I’m wide awake.

My body’s never managed multiple orgasms, but I want to feel him climax. Except, we’re naked in this shower and something else I don’t do, is unprotected sex.

But he’s had the same thought. He pulls away from me, steps dripping from the tub and I see we’ve already soaked the bathroom floor with our splashing. He reaches into a cabinet and in a moment he’s back, ripping open the square package, sliding on a condom.

Then he lifts me. My legs wrap around him, my arms circle his neck. He grips me under the butt, holding me so that finally my pussy, swollen and still sensitive from orgasm, is in direct contact with his cock.

I ease up and down in his arms, sliding against his length.

He groans and kisses me, hot and demanding. Urgent.

The urgency’s contagious, and now I need to feel him inside me. I tear my mouth from his. “Yes, Mick. Now.”

We shift, adjust positions, then he’s moving into me, sliding the thick head of his cock between my slick, swollen lips. He’s big, but my body stretches to swallow him up.

Friction, hot wet delicious friction as he eases all the way in until the base of his cock rubs my clit. He rests there a moment, my nerve endings scream move! The he slides out, almost all the way, then thrusts back and my clit waits eagerly for that tight press when he’s fully inside.

He sets a rhythm. The pound and splash of the shower is a background counterpoint to the steady in-out thrust of his cock, the rising beat of our panting breaths.

Each movement teases my nub, and it’s craving hard, firm pressure. Mick knows it, I’m sure, and he’s deliberately drawing this out. He gives me a little pressure, and when my body’s tightened and my breathing gone so shallow I’m almost not breathing at all, he changes the angle, eases off, and the tension relaxes.

And then it dawns on me. For the first time in my life, I might have a second orgasm.

Now it’s within reach, I want it so badly. I deserve it, after all I’ve been through.

And if he doesn’t give it to me, I’m going to kill the guy!

I capture his mouth, pour everything I’ve got into the kiss. Every ounce of that sex goddess I saw in the mirror.

And it works, his movements change, stop being rhythmic and start going wild and uneven. Even so, he manages to find the exact angle to stimulate me, inside and out.

We break the kiss, both panting for air.

All my nerves are wound tight, screaming for release, and he thrusts hard and I’m almost there and then he’s sliding out and rushing back in again, grinding his pelvis into mine and yes, that’s it—and OH MY GOD!—that’s exactly it, and he yells out his release as I climax in spasms all around him.

It seems like we cling together for hours in that pulsing orgasm.

Gradually, sexual satiation fades pleasantly into tiredness. My head’s on his shoulder and I could close my eyes and go to sleep.

“Hey, Tash.” He jiggles my body. “Don’t go to sleep.”

I struggle to raise my head. “You’re mean.”

His whole body shakes with laughter. “Better not insult the guy who’s holding you up.”

Oh yeah, right. I’d almost forgotten, it’s so comfortable here in his arms. But the poor man is hoisting well over a hundred pounds.

Reluctantly I let him ease out and set me down. “Sorry, I’m just so tired.” My body illustrates the point with a jaw-wrenching yawn.

“One of those women who falls asleep right after sex?”

“I was tired at the hospital,” I protest, “but you made me forget. D’you know I was traveling for more than twenty-four hours, then only got a couple of hours sleep before the fire, and there’s the jet lag factor too, and—”

“Tash?” he breaks in. “I was teasing.”

“God,” I groan. “Sorry. My brain’s not functioning.” I yawn again.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

“Have to wash my hair.” I gaze around, bleary-eyed and fuzzy-headed, looking for shampoo.

He sighs. “Girls. Course you do.”

Girl? “I’m a woman,” I grumble.

He chuckles. “Yeah, I’d noticed. Sorry. You some kind of feminist?”

“You some kind of chauvinist?” I retaliate, knowing Aussie men are reputed to be. Damn it, he may give amazing sex, but a woman deserves respect too.

He laughs. He also takes me gently by the shoulders and tips my head back, into the shower spray, careful the water doesn’t run down my face. “Not so’s I’ve noticed.”

“Good.” I think about his work, and how it must attract alpha males. “Are there many female firefighters here?”

“Sure. Not as many, because the physical tests involve things like lugging a lot more pounds than you even weigh.”

“If they make it, are they treated as equals?”

He picks up a bottle and squeezes some of the contents into his hands. “A few of the guys give them a rough time. But the women bring a lot to the team and the other firies are learning to respect and trust them.”

“Uh, firies?” I try to replicate his Aussie twang, not sure if he said “fairies,” or what.

He turns me so my back is to him, and begins to shampoo my hair. Oh, bliss!

“We call firefighters firies here,” he says. His fingers stroke through my hair, massaging my scalp, making it hard to concentrate on anything else. “You know,” he adds. “Oz is the place where we add ‘ie’ to everything. Barbecue’s a barbie, can of beer’s a tinnie.”

“Firefighters are firies?” I giggle.

He pauses in his scalp massage. “Yeah. What’s so funny?”

“Sounds like fairy. Which in Canada’s a word for gay. And I’m guessing that’s not how most of you alpha male firies want to be thought of.”

He chuckles. “Too right. Course we do have a few gays, including a couple of the female firies, but yeah, there’s lots of testosterone at the fire station.”

Testosterone. Mick has it, in plentiful supply. But he isn’t above shampooing a woman’s hair, and making a fine job of it. His hands are like his lips. Soft but strong, gentle but deft.

I sigh with pure enjoyment.

When he eases my head back and rinses the suds out, I regret the end of the massage. “I always shampoo twice,” I tell him. It’s only the truth, after all.

“I can arrange that.” He lathers up again, and repeats the shampoo massage. I let him support most of the weight of my tired head and think blissfully that I could handle hours and hours of this. Day after day. I yawn again and close my eyes.

Somehow I manage to stay on my feet as he rinses my hair again, then soaps my body. I’m grateful he doesn’t linger too long on my erogenous zones. I don’t have the energy for more sex, no matter how wonderful it might be.

Dimly I’m aware of him saying, “You’re asleep on your feet.” And of turning off the shower and drying me with a big towel. Then he hoists me into his arms and next thing I know I’m sinking down between navy cotton sheets, rolling over, feeling his warmth spoon against my back and…I’m gone.

When I wake, it happens slowly. I’m aware of a sense of well-being, comfort. Smugness, like I’ve done something wonderful.

Gradually, awareness seeps in, like a movie being rewound in slow motion. The sleeping man beside me. Amazing sex in the shower. The motorbike ride. The hospital—oh God, Nana!