Fire Born (Firehouse 343) (7 page)

***

Martie was nervous as she rode the elevator up to the third floor.
She probably shouldn’t have come, but after hearing his voice, his confession that he would like to see her again and wouldn’t mind some company for dinner…she knew there’d be no resisting the desire to see Chris again. He intrigued her, he was handsome, and frankly it had been far too long since she’d enjoyed the company of a man.

It’s just dinner
—nothing wrong with sharing a meal with the man
, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time when the lift stopped and the doors pinged open. Taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, she stepped out into the hallway and turned left.
In front of suite 312 she raised her hand and hesitated only a moment before resolutely knocking on the door.
A couple of nerve-wracking heartbeats later the door was opened. Martie onc
e again took a moment
to appreciate Chris’
s
tall, muscular frame, his shoulders and arms almost straining the long-sleeved t-shirt he wore
.
And she knew from having seen it earlier that day that his behind very nicely filled out the seat of his low-slung jeans.

A brief glance at the floor showed her that his feet were bare.
What did you expect, Martie, bunker boots?
she
chided
herself. Obviously the man had taken
his footwear off in an attempt to get comfortable.

Chris had smiled when he opened the door, and was now stepping aside so that she could enter. “Hi. To be honest I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

She turned to him as he was closing the door behind her. “It would be rude of me not to after I invited myself over.”

He laughed lightly. “I suppose so,” he replied, and gestured toward the couch.
“Please, make yourself comfortable. I didn’t order anything yet because I didn’t want to be presumptuous and order for you.”

Martie stepped over to the couch and lowered herself onto it gracefully. “That’s kind of you, but you could have ordered for yourself at least.”

Chris joined her, sitting on the opposite end of the couch. “It would hardly be conside
red sharing a meal if I ate mine
before you arrived.”

He paused and then looked at her. “You look very nice, by the way,” he said with a smile.

Heat rose to her cheeks and Martie looked demurely away from him. Truth was she had agonized over what to wear no matter how many times she’d told herself it was “just dinner.” At first she’d considered coming over in what she’d worn for work that day, which was a plain white button-down
cotton shirt
and gray slacks, with a black leather belt and black flats. But still she’d found herself standing in front of her open closet, scanning her clothes and thinking she ought to change. Eventually she’d settled on what she liked to call “dress casual”—a red silk blouse and her best figure-enhancing blue jeans
, with ballet slipper shoes on her feet.

“I, uh, I’m sorry I couldn’t change to something more appropriate.
”

She looked back. “You look just fine,” she assured him. “I mean, you obviously weren’t expecting to stay in town overnight so you can hardly be blamed for not bringing a change of clothes. And really, there would be no need to dress up for little
ol
’ me.”
Or get dressed at all
, her suddenly wicked inner voice added.

Chris chuckled again. “My mother used to drill into us boys that a gentleman always dresses well for his lady…or any lady,”
he amended quickly.

Martie smiled. “You have brothers?” she asked.

He nodded. “Two. One’s older than me and one’s younger. To Mom’s eternal disappointment, she doesn’t have any daughters. And none of us are married, so she can’t even claim to have them by marriage—though my little brother Greg has given her a grandson.”

“And if she’s anything like my
very
Italian mother—
and grandmothers—then she’s
getting on your cases about settling down and giving her more.”

“Every chance she gets,” he said with a laugh. Then Chris abruptly reached for the room service menu next to the phone and handed it to her.
“Go ahead and choose your dinner. I’ve already made my mind up.”

“Okay,” Martie said, taking the menu and perusing it briefly. “What are you going to eat?”

Chris grinned. “We’re in Montana—it’s cow country. I’m
gonna
have a steak, a loaded baked potato, and an ice cold beer.”

She reflected his grin as she flipped the menu closed and handed it back to him.
“Sounds good to me.
I like my steak well dead.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Well dead?” he queried.

“Yes. If I wanted my steaks bloody, I wouldn’t bother cooking them,” she replied matter-of-factly.

Chris grinned and shook his head, reaching for the phone. He spoke briefly to the room service operator and after placing their order
,
he sat back into the corner of the couch, pulling a leg up and crossing it at the knee. Martie liked that he appeared to be relaxing—it meant that the poor man might finally be able to get the much needed sleep his body craved. She could tell just by looking that he was exhausted, and knew from experience that his mind was fighting the shutdown because his subconscious just wasn’t ready to accept the truth: his friend was dead.

They made small talk while they waited for the food to arrive
, mostly about their families and how they each got into firefighting. Chris had choked up more than once when he spoke of Calvin Maynard, from whom he had learned all there was to know
about being a fireman, and Martie had been hard-pressed not to draw him into her arms and hold him. To tell him it was alright for a man to cry over losing someone he loved so much.

But doing that was dangerous. She knew that if she touched him, even with the innocent intention of easing his pain, she would be tempted to do much more than that. She was here as a friend. She was
not
here to seduce him.

Thankfully she was saved by the arrival of their dinner, the smell of the steaks and the buttery potato
es
making her mouth water.
Chris tipped the bellman and closed the door, then wheeled the cart over to the coffee table. When he lifted the dome lids covering their plates the rich mix of meaty and buttery smells intensified. Her host leaned over the plates and took a long sniff.

“I have not been in the least hungry all day. Now suddenly I’m famished,” he said.

“Glad to hear it,” Martie replied as he handed her a plate. “I’d hate to be eating alone here.”

He next handed her the Bud
Lite
with lime she’d ordered to drink along with her utensils. Setting the drink down on a coaster, she held her knife and fork in her hand and waited until he was back beside her with his own food and drink before saying a silent Grace and cutting into her steak. Thankfully, there was no blood in the aromatic juice that flowed out.

“Well dead enough for you?” Chris asked, his tone teasing.

“Perfect,” she replied, emphasizing the point by placing another bite in her mouth.

Martie was not remiss to the way his eyes watched her mouth open and close around the meat, nor the thin sheen of sweat that broke out over his top lip. Chris blinked and cleared his throat, turning away pointedly to concentrate on his own meal.

Inside she was smiling. His reaction meant that she wasn’t the only one affected by the heat flowing between them. Martie wasn’t really sure what, if anything
,
she should do about that, but it was definitely nice to know.

After a few bites of the steak and a swig of her beer, she turned to the baked potato, which had come smothered in butter, shredded cheese, chives and sour cream.
It was as wonderful as the steak, and she was suddenly glad she had not liste
ned to her doubts about how
coming here was a mistake. The food was tasteful and much better than what she’d have made for herself—which was probably just a Hungry Man frozen dinner. Plus, she felt she was in good company. Chris had just needed a friend to help him unwind, and even if she was investigating the possibility of foul play in his best friend’s death, she could still be that for him. Not just tonight, but after the investigation was over. And hey, who knew what would happen then?

“Um, Martie?”

She looked over to find Chris staring. “What, do I have something on my shirt?” she asked, looking down and finding to her relief that no food had spilled onto the silk.

“Not your shirt, no,” Chris replied, reaching toward her with his right hand. He hesitated for a second before touching her, his thumb tracing a short path along the corner of her mouth. As he drew it away, she saw that she had missed a small dot of sour cream.

“Thanks,” she said, her heart stuttering against her breast as he brought the thumb
to his mouth to clean it. He then shocked her when he leaned over and captured her mouth with his.

Martie reacted instinctively, opening her mouth to his when his tongue pressed the seam of her lips. Chris tasted glorious, his mouth a mix of salt and beer and the food he’d eaten.
And male.
She might never be able to put it into words, but there was a strong essence of masculinity in the taste of him, and she wondered if the rest of him tasted this good.

She was stunned when Chris abruptly ended the kiss, pressing his forehead to hers, both of them drawing shallow breaths. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know it’s crazy, but I’ve
been wanting
to do that since the moment I saw you. But I shouldn’t have—”

“
Shh
,” Martie told him, touching a finger to his lips before taking his head into her hands and kissing him again.

Chris needed no further invitation, and raising a hand to hold her head by the nape he lowered her gently to the couch. Martie felt his weight on her and welcomed it, felt his already hardened erection against her thigh. She
arched
against him as his hand raked up her side, the heat of his open palm burning her through the silk. He stopped at her breast, cupping it and squeezing the nipple to a point through the fabric of her sh
irt and bra. She moaned into hi
s mouth
, her body aching for more of his touch.

He leaned back on his knees then, divesting himself of his shirt
and showing her that the tattoo on his arm was indeed a full sleeve
of praying hands, an angel, and birds that looked like doves surrounded by clouds
.
Though she’d never had the confidence to get one herself, she’d always been attracted to
men with tasteful tattoos,
so
now
she was turned on even more.
Martie reached for the buttons of her blouse and began to undo them as he pulled the hem from the waist of her jeans, his eyes on hers as he did so. She knew he was searching for permission to continue, making sure she wasn’t having doubts about what they were about to do. The heat, the longing—the
need
—that she saw burning in the depths of his dark browns was enough reason for her to nod ever so slightly, for surely he could see the same intense want reflected back at him.

Chris leaned over her again and kissed her deeply, their tongues twining together again and again, before he sat back once more and rose to his feet. Martie took the hand he held out to her and let
him pull her to stand with him
. They kissed again as he brushed her shirt from h
er shoulders and drew her close
. She encircled his neck with her arms and pressed her tightened, aching nipples to his chest. Chris skimmed his hand
s
down her back, unhooking her bra before moving them further down to her bottom, which he them grasped firmly a
s he pushed himself into her belly. He was ready for her, he wanted her, and the knowledge had liquid heat pouring from her core, soaking her panties.

The fire in her veins roared
as Chris pulled her bra
slowly,
teasingly
, down her arms to free
her breasts. He lowered his head to capture one pink pebble in his mouth and she gasped. Her grip on his shoulders tightened, her nails digging into the muscles there as he feasted on her flesh, moving from right to left and back again. While his mouth devoured, his tongue licked and his teeth nipped, stoking the flames of her passion even higher. For the first time in her life she wondered if she might come just from having her breasts loved upon, for she could alrea
dy feel a tightening within
herself
.

His hands weren’t idle as his lips took their fill. Chris had taken the button clasp in his hands and was now opening the fly of her jeans, drawing the zipper down and spreading the denim far enough that he could slip his hand inside. Martie moaned as he rubbed her intimately through the lace-lined satin
of her underwear
, the strokes slow at first but becoming more insistent. Suddenly desperate to have him truly touching her, she pushed her
jeans and panties down her hips herself, toeing her shoes off and kicking the pile of clothing behind her.