Desperately Seeking Fireman by Jennifer Bernard Read Free Book Online

surely, he tugged her toward him until nothing separated their bodies except their clothes and a humming layer of air. He kept his hand clasped with hers.
    “I want to kiss you,” he murmured. “But I see you might be wary.”
    She was staring at his chest—his husky, broad chest—hugged by the still-damp, hunter green T-shirt. Lifting her gaze, she passed the neckline of his shirt, a scattering of dark hair peeking out, the strong tendons of his neck, his firm jaw, and fastened on the mouth that had fascinated her from the beginning.
    “Should I be? Wary?”
    “That all depends on what scares you.” With his free hand, he brushed her hair away from her face. “You know what I want. What do you want?”
    That was the thing. She couldn’t have what she wanted. All her passionate love, all her hard work, all her carefulness, hadn’t kept disaster at bay. For a moment, the harsh grief threatened, like a demon clutching at her soul. But then there was this man standing before her, a man like no one she’d ever met, and he was looking at her steadily, unafraid, attentive. Wanting her.
    Rising onto her tiptoes, steadying herself with a hand on his shoulder, she lifted her face to his. Carefully, gently, she pressed her mouth against those beautifully formed lips of his. He tasted like . . . life. Like fresh orange juice and a morning breeze off the ocean. A soft, melting effect stole across her senses. He didn’t open his mouth, but simply moved his head from side to side, a tiny shift that brought delicious sensation in its wake.
    She sighed as her body relaxed against his. He was holding her now with both hands, a solid clasp that promised not to let her down. Her torso met his, the intimate contact of her breasts against his chest making her tremble. Those strong hands made circles on her back—slow, arousing circles.
    He smelled so good, a whiff of coffee mixed with spicy aftershave. She wanted to bury her head in his neck, nuzzle against the warm flesh there. But she also didn’t want to budge from where she was, that magical space in which her mouth pressed against his. It was a little bit sulky, that lower lip, a little James Dean, a little Jim Morrison. He had the mouth of a rock god, of a man who’d drawn women to him since puberty, of a man completely confident in his own manhood.
    She opened her lips, swiped her tongue against his lower lip. He gave a little growl, which scraped across her nerve endings. Then he gently caught her lower lip in his teeth, and those nerve endings pulsed into triple overdrive. Her heart raced with an unfamiliar emotion.
    Desire.
    She’d forgotten what it felt like. It felt astonishing, like a favorite song she hadn’t heard in years. Or a favorite color. Red. How could I have forgotten that I love the color red? How did I live without red? He explored her mouth with commanding assurance, as if he knew exactly how much turmoil his tongue and lips were generating. As if he wanted every part of her to vibrate with excitement, tremble with anticipation.
    As she tilted her head back, abandoning herself to his kiss—was it a kiss, or a statement of purpose?—her thoughts took on a cartwheeling, giddy quality. How could I have forgotten there’s something in this world that feels so good? I’m alive, I’m alive. So good. But has it ever felt this good before? Did I forget that I’m a woman, not a medical project?
    That thought acted more or less like a shower of ice cubes on the moment. She tore her mouth away from his, knowing it was wet and swollen, knowing how turned-on she looked. Putting a trembling hand to her lips, she felt tears spring to her eyes. Quickly, she blinked them away. Don’t notice, don’t notice , she pleaded silently.
    Fat chance. Jeb Stone didn’t miss a trick. His eyes narrowed in concern. “Was I out of line?”
    She shook her head, still beyond words. Struggling for a grip on her unruly emotions, she trailed a hand on his chest, lingering over