Burn (L.A. Untamed #2) (17 page)

Mike stands his ground, but doesn’t say anything and it’s awkward as all hell.

Joe steps forward and folds his arms over his chest. The contrast between the two men is startling. Joe’s at least 5 inches taller than Mike. “She asked you to leave. You’ve made your point, man. Now leave her in peace.”

Mike stares at Joe for a moment, then over at me. “I’ll be back, Trish. And when I am I want this circus shack off our land.”

My legs are wobbly so I go sit down in a patio chair and lean forward, with my hands over my eyes. “Happy Birthday to me,” I mutter. I know I sound pathetic, but what the hell.

With that I hear Mike let himself back out the gate. I drop my hands so I can watch his figure fade into the night.

I turn toward Joe. “You want some fucking flowers?”

He walks over, takes the flowers, and carries them around the side of the house. When he returns his hands are empty. He seems really pissed off.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

He approaches my side and rests his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Trisha. That was rough. And I feel bad because me being here only made it worse.”

“Yes, a real man grilling steaks for me must have been a little jarring for him. I can’t imagine what he thought would happen with him just showing up like that.”

Joe nods. “As for my rig—” he starts, but I cut him off.

A flurry of worry swirls in side of me. “Oh no. Don’t worry about it. Jeanine has it covered.”

“But maybe it’d just make things cleaner for your divorce if I’m not here.”

I try to imagine the empty space in my yard, and the empty space in my heart if he were gone. I blink back tears. “Please don’t leave, Joe. Please.”

I can’t tell if his expression of concern is because I’m acting clingy, or if he’s just worried about the situation. He squeezes my shoulder and leans over, kissing the top of my head. “Hey, birthday girl, I think it’s time for some wine.”

He takes the bottle and masterfully uncorks it, fills both glasses, and hands me mine.

“I’m sorry our dinner is ruined,” I say.

“It’ll be all right. I turned off the grill and with the lid closed the stuff is still warm.”

I help him pull it all together and despite my lack of appetite, I shove extra sour cream in my damn baked potato.

He arches his brow as he watches me.

“It’s my birthday,” I explain, waving my sour cream coated spoon in the air.

He nods and fights back a smile.

“Indeed it is.” He lifts his glass. “Happy Birthday, Trisha.”

“Thank you. And you know what’s cool, Joseph Murphy? Despite all this upset, and without even knowing it was my birthday, you made me feel like I really matter to you and that’s the best gift of all.”

I’m on my second glass of wine and feeling crazier than normal. Joe appears to be observing me with a watchful eye.

“You okay?” he asks.

I shrug. “Funny how you can think you have your whole life figured out and then just like that, it all goes topsy turvy.” I snap my fingers for emphasis.

“Don’t I know it,” he agrees.

“Were you and your ex going to have kids?” I ask.

“Eventually. We wanted to be in the situation where she could stay home with the baby, and we weren’t there yet.”

His admission, which makes me picture him holding a baby in his arms, makes my stomach hurt. Mike didn’t want kids and I went along with it. If I’d really pushed him, I wonder if he would’ve bended.

“You know how it is . . . L.A.’s an expensive place to live.”

“True, but I bet you’d make a good dad.”

He looks down and turns his wineglass in his hands.

I immediately regret talking about kids that he may or may not have now. It’s only going to make him feel worse about his situation. As I look over and watch him take a sip of his wine I realize that there’s so much I don’t know about him.

“So tomorrow we’re back at the station,” I say with a sigh.

He nods. “And it’s getting more and more difficult for me to keep my hands off you when we’re there.”

“Really?” I ask, secretly pleased, but worried too.

“Yeah. I even get jealous when the guys go on a run with you that I’m not scheduled for.”

“Oh believe me, you have nothing to worry about.”

“But what if it gets worse? I’ll have to change to another station.”

“No,” I whisper, feeling unhinged at just the idea of it. “So what are you saying? You don’t want to have sex with me anymore?”

He gives me a quizzical look. “That’s not what I said.”

The wine must be getting to me because suddenly I’m on a slippery slope in emo-land where logic is nothing but a five-letter word.

I swallow hard. What have I ever done that’s so horrible that this is my karma? The sexiest man I’ve ever known, the man who says I make him wild, may avoid sleeping with me. This means that soon I could be sexless again, I’m on emotional overload.

The tears start streaming down my face as I surrender to the feeling of hopelessness and despair. Welcome to my pity party and it’s a doozy. It’s my birthday and there’s no actual party . . . just the bleak stretch of an empty landscape . . . my forever emotional wasteland. I let out a quiet sob.

“It’s my birthday,” I whisper, when he reaches over to brush my tears away.

“Shhh,” he says.

“But the idea of not being with you makes me feel so alone and I just want . . . I
need
to be loved.”

“Oh baby,” he whispers as he pulls me in his arms. Next thing I know I’m being lifted out of my chair and cradled against his chest. I love how this man holds me so completely. Sighing, I settle against him.

“It’s my birthday,” I whisper. I’m pretty sure the wine has set off my emotional babble.

“I know,” he whispers back and kisses me on the top of my head. “I think I’m finally seeing the soft side of you, sweetheart.”

My eyes grow wide. I guess he’s right. I shiver at the idea of it and then reach up and kiss the patch of skin where his T-shirt ends and his neck begins. This man makes me feel so much, which only makes me want to kiss him more.

He looks down at me but instead of concern in his eyes I see something else. “Let’s get out of the cold. I’m going to warm you up.”

I nod, happy that I’m still tight in his arms.

The way he carries me across the yard makes me feel protected. He pushes my back door open with his foot.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask.

“To bed.”

“To sleep?”

He shakes his head. “No, birthday girl. I’m going to wake you up. Sleep is the last thing on my mind.”

I groan and press my thighs together.

When we get to the bedroom he gently lays me down on the bed, then pulls his T-shirt over his head.

“Is this going to be a pity fuck?” I ask.

His eyes narrow. “Now, Trisha . . . do I look like the kind of man who would do that?”

“No,” I admit.

“This is
me
taking care of
you
.”

“But–”

“Shhh. This is also me
wanting
you.” From the intense look in his eyes I’m inclined to believe him.

He reaches over and undoes my jeans, and I lift my hips so he can pull them, along with my panties, off with ease.

He unzips his fly, but right before he pushes his jeans down he pauses. “What are you doing?”

I blink at him as I continue to pull the sheet over my legs. “Covering up.”

“Why?”

I feel my cheeks heat up. “I guess I’m feeling especially vulnerable tonight and I’m embarrassed about my thighs.”

“Why?”

“They’re thick.”

He smiles. “All the better to be wrapped around me. Besides, they’re not thick, they’re shapely and strong.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“Do you really think a man is going to prefer skinny thighs? I want something good to grab onto.”

My fingers loosen on the sheet as I take in how he’s looking at me. It’s like he’s got ideas for all the sexy things he’d like to do to me, and the fun is about to begin.

“For the record, your strong thighs are sexy.”

“Oh really?”

“I’ve been admiring them for a while.”

“When?”

“When I’ve spied on you at the gym working out.”

He takes the edge of the sheet in his grasp and slowly pulls it away from my body. “Oh yeah,” he whispers as he trails his fingertips over the curve just above my knee and then slides them between my legs.

“These are exactly my kind of thighs. As a matter of fact, I’m in love with your thighs. Why don’t you spread them for me and I’ll show you how much?”

I reach a new level of hotness. For a man who’s typically pretty reserved with his words, this man is the Shakespeare of dirty talk. With a few choice phrases he can transform me into a burning fireball of need.

I spread my legs slowly as he pushes off his jeans and joins me on the bed. He starts with my lips, kissing me senseless. His intensity, and the way he grabs my thighs with his strong hands, makes me feel wild. I moan and kiss him back, as my legs ease open wider. I’m pretty sure I won’t feel complete again until he’s inside of me.

“That’s right, baby,” he says in a low voice while he works his way back down my body until his lips skim my inner thighs.

“Oh God,” I moan as he explores and teases with his mouth and fingertips. I arch into his touch, hungry for more.

“Aren’t you going to fuck me?” I ask breathlessly.

“Maybe,” he teases, his tongue circling my clit. “You know, you need to be more patient.”

“It’s my birthday,” I whisper.

“You were very bad not to warn me about that.” He shakes his head in reproach as he lifts up on his knees.

My gaze roams over the ridges and plains of his body, each muscle defined. He’s hard everywhere Mikey was soft. I’m feeling primal urges, raw lust that I could smother myself in, just to take in every inch of this magnificent man.

“So sexy,” he whispers as he runs his hands up and down my inner thighs. I’m panting by the time he rubs his cock against me in a slow tease. Seconds later he fills me and in that moment nothing–not Mikey showing up, not the rules at work, not his wife’s betrayal that haunts him—matters. This time when my tears fall it’s because sex has never felt even close to this, like the best gift in the world.

He builds slowly, then sensing my need, he begins to thrust hard, pressing me down into the mattress. He touches me all the places that make me crazy, kissing and embracing me like I’m everything.

I groan and I grind against him and hold on tight. “Don’t ever stop doing this with me.”

“I can’t stop,” he says with a groan, his gaze fixed on me because he knows I’m about to come and this man is all about following through and getting the job done. He knows how to really take care of his woman.

Oh good God
. My head falls back as my body tenses, and then my climax roars through me.

Oh yeah, oh yeah
. . .
Happy Birthday to me.

Chapter 14:
A Badass Queen

A queen will always turn pain into power. ~ R.H. Sin

A few days later, Jeanine is on her way over so we can finally celebrate my birthday. Every year she insists on me dressing up and then she takes me out somewhere fancy for dinner. But the annoying thing is she always insists I not just dress up, but wear a dress. I think it’s a control thing with her, and she knows I don’t like to be controlled and I feel ridiculous in a dress. It used to really piss me off but she wasn’t backing off, so I finally decided to treat it like I was going to a costume party dressed like a girl that actually likes to dress-up, and it became fun.

The dress I’m wearing tonight Elle helped me find at one of those girly boutiques and she paired it with black heels from Nordstroms at the Grove. I zip up my new frock and turn to look at myself in the full-length mirror. I’ve got to say, this dress looks pretty damn good on me. It accentuates my curves while showing off my strong back and it even makes the few inches of my thighs that show look good.

I smooth my hair out and put on colored lipgloss before stepping out on the front porch to wait for Jeanine. When I turn around from locking the door I see Joe in the driveway with wide eyes and his mouth slack.

“Hey!” I call out with a wave.

He doesn’t respond, just takes several steps closer with a dark look in his eyes.

“I bet you barely recognized me,” I say before turning around carefully so I don’t face-plant in the heels.

He swallows, and shakes his head. “Where are you going?”

“I’m being taken out for my birthday to Mozzo. Have you ever been there?”

He shakes his head. For some reason he’s starting to look a little pissed.

“It’s on Melrose and Highland. I thought you might know it since it’s owned by those famous chefs, Mario Batali and Nancy Silverton.”

“Is it?” he says with raised brows before he scowls.

Okay, I’m pretty sure he’s pissed.

“Do you want me to see if you can come too? I’m not sure since you know how uptight those fancy pants places are, but I could ask.”

Narrowing his eyes at me, he purses his lips. Geez, I’m trying extra hard to be nice and frankly he’s being a moody ass.

I wave my hand at him over his T-shirt and jeans. “You may need to grab a jacket. I’m not sure if there’s a dress code.”