2

PICK

It’s amazing how much suckage can be packed into twenty-four hours and mine have been a fucking overachiever starting with the crap roads. Part fire access, part logging route, the pavement ran out after twenty yards, forcing me to bump northwest for hours. The ruts were deep enough that I fucking feared for my balls each time my truck bottomed out. Then, the pumper truck had hit mud left over from last week’s storm and bogged down. The boys and I had thrown a cable around a handy tree and winched like hell trying to pull the truck out. Eventually, I’d had to dump almost two hundred gallons of water to lighten the load.

Which totally worked.

Until the next colossal mud puddle did the truck in again. It was like being stuck in the Groundhog Day movie, re-living the same crappy moments over and over. God was probably laughing his ass off at the outtakes too. Me and him need to sit down and discuss all the ways he’s decided to keep my ego in check, preferably over a cold beer. I think we could come to some kind of amicable arrangement.

The fire hadn’t cooperated, either. Eventually, after an all-night battle with the wind picking up and fanning the flames for a steep upslope run, we’d been forced to admit that fire was now burning out of control and hand tools wouldn’t get the job done. We’d called for a tanker drop, packed up our shit, and started the long drive back to camp. Lining up for pancakes and coffee seems like a waste of time when there’s still fire to fight, but fresh guys are manning the line now and the higher-ups have decided that the Rogues need the rest. The sooner we start on the downtime, the sooner we can head back out there. Plus, God owes me that beer and I intend to collect.

I park my truck on auto-pilot, replaying the last hours in the field in my head. Some guys like their sports highlights or porn stars, but usually it’s just me and fire in my head. Take that line ten feet farther south and call in the tanker twenty minutes sooner . . . That right there was where the day had gone FUBAR. That’s fucked up beyond all recognition for you sensitive flowers who never have to put a quarter in the swear jar. A hand slaps me on the back, jolting me out of the full-color replay in my head.

The hand belongs to Hunter Black and is quickly retracted. He doesn’t look much happier to be on recall, either, but at least he’s got a girl. Maybe. Possibly. He’s been doing a kind of complicated dating/mating dance with one Lola Miller. They’re not officially a couple, but they’re definitely friends with benefits, as her rampaging on Piñata Night seems to imply. She’s hot as fuck, more colorful than a rainbow, and an aspiring actress who somehow manages to turn every encounter into a dramatic scene. Hunter is usually our resident Oscar the Grouch, but ever since he and Lola started shaking the sheets or hanging together, he’s practically been Suzy Fucking Sunshine. Right now, however, the look on his face is less than pleasant, so I’m betting he’s thinking about our fire instead of his maybe girl.

Hunter doesn’t bother with pleasantries as he falls into step beside me. There’s no need to say hi and bye given the quality time we spend together. “Not ready to pack it in?”

I snort and move forward with a groan as every muscle in my body protests. Too bad the fire camp hasn’t invested in masseuses. Or masseuse-strippers. Who serve filet fucking mignon and ice cold beers. I take a moment to appreciate that little fantasy. Ever since I got a little banged up and singed earlier this summer, I’ve been noticing the aches and pains more often. It’s like my body’s been put on high alert and wants to make sure I don’t inflict any more grievous bodily harm on my various limbs. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Not likely. You?”

“Nope,” Hunter replies. He’s a man of few words. There’s a reason why he’s been compared to Oscar the Grouch—and why Oscar has always come out ahead in any contest of manners. “And yet here we are. Back in base camp.”

The benching of our asses is a temporary state of affairs, I remind myself. Tomorrow’s another day. Blah fucking blah. Insert your platitude here, but I guarantee one thing. I will be out there, and I will be fighting fire.

Hunter stares balefully at the plume blocking out the daylight. He’s also thinking what I’m thinking. “Plenty of fire out there to go around. She’ll still be there when we finish our R and R.”

A couple of the guys bypass us, double-timing it toward their trucks. Must have a hot date in town. I can’t remember the last time I pulled that kind of shit myself, but I’m not a flower and roses guy. You want sex, I’m happy to put out. I’ll bring you to heaven and back and make you come so hard that you see stars, but I’m not gonna open doors or make restaurant reservations. I won’t remember to call, I don’t do anniversaries, and I don’t care if you went to the trouble to pick out a matching panty and bra set. I just want you naked, wet, and willing.

Hunter, however, is well on his way to being officially pussy-whipped thanks to Lola. I don’t know if she’s just got a magic pussy or he’s let her hijack his heart, but I don’t want that. Why would I? Relationships require work, and I’ve already got a full-time job. Hunter fishes his phone out of his pocket, spends a long moment searching for cell service, and then proceeds to thumb through about forty million texts from his female overlord. From the dazed look on his face, I’m pretty sure Lola sent him a naked selfie. I’m just not gonna ask of what—Lola’s good people but she’s not shy. I don’t need to accidentally spot her beaver shot.

Does it sound like I’m not happy for Hunter? Because I totally am. It’s just part of the man code that I have to give him shit because he’s getting regular sex in exchange for letting Lola housebreak him. The rest of the team already has a betting pool going on whether or not he pops The Question before fire season ends. The odds are split pretty evenly at the moment between Hunter investing in some high-quality diamonds and Hunter running for the hills. He’s already got one bad marriage under his belt, so I placed my ten bucks on his splitting. In the meantime, however, he’s spending time with her like the sex shop is about to close up and he needs to make his purchases now, now, now.

I don’t have the same draw to leave camp. In all honesty, I don’t have much of a home to go back to. That makes a difference. If you’ve got the Four Seasons and limitless kinky sex waiting for you, you’re gonna haul ass, right? My life is more like the Motel 6 with the vibrating bed that you feed quarters into—and that craps out on you mid-thrust.

The fire camp is a temporary way station. Like many of the guys, I’ve got my RV and my pillow, but where I hit the hay doesn’t matter much. Sure, sleep sounds good right now, as does a real hot shower, but getting my hands on a Pulaski and digging line sounds better. I like to finish what I start, whether that’s in bed or in the forest. It’s my job to kick fire’s ass, and the higher ups in the forest service had decided I wasn’t going to get the chance today.

“We were close,” I growl when Hunter finally looks up from the picture he’s salivating over. “Another hour and we’d have had her.”

Leaving a problem unfixed goes against the grain. Fixing what’s wrong just makes sense. Eight hours of knocking down flames, shoveling dirt wherever the orange pops up. Everything is dry and heated, ready to go up at a moment’s notice, and then the wind shifts and we’re suddenly staring defeat in the face. The flames had hopped the line we’d scratched out like all our work was nothing and raced upslope. Fire doesn’t offer do-overs. Just overtime.

“Maybe.” Hunter shrugs and pockets his phone. “But rules are rules, and coming in for a few hours isn’t hurting us.”

“You say that because you’ve got a date with Lola tonight.” Hunter’s fascination with the actress is an unending source of amusement for our team, and the guys miss no chance to give Hunter guff. When we’d found out about her national laundry detergent commercial, we’d packed Hunter’s bed full of the big, blue containers. “You taking her somewhere good this time?”

Hunter’s romantic repertoire makes me look like the world’s most talented Don Juan.

“I’ve got plans.” Hunter grins.

No, no, no.

Change the topic. Do not imagine what’s on his to-do list for tonight. I eyeball the chow line, instead.

“We’re first in line.” I’m never first. Don’t get me wrong—it’s not because I’m gonna voluntarily hang back and let someone else charge the goodies. The breakfast line is usually more stampede than orderly queue, and my teammates play dirty. It’s weird, because while we’re not Miss Fucking Manners, out in the field we look out for each other like we’re channeling our inner Musketeers and it’s one for all and all for one no matter how much fire Mother Nature tosses at us. Add pancakes to that equation, however, and I’m surprised we still have twenty hotshots. Pretty sure that if we were in a plane that crashed in the middle of the Himalayas, none of us would hesitate to eat the others. Tastes like chicken, right?

Hunter looks at me and I give him a big ass grin. It never hurts to play nice. Hunter’s gaze narrows as he takes in the cooks, waiting to serve up the day’s breakfast, and then he shoves me forward. “After you.”

I smell pancakes, bacon, and nothing out of the ordinary. “Not hungry?”

“Not for what those girls are cooking up.” He backs up, putting some more space between me and him.

Danger.

I eyeball the row of stainless steel heating trays. Still looks like pancakes and bacon to me. Smells like breakfast with a side of Styrofoam and coffee. Whatever trouble he sees, I’m not seeing—and I’m hungry as fuck. I look behind me, and sure enough, the rest of the team is hanging back. What’s up with that? It’s not my birthday and I’m not that much older than the other guys even if they do like to call me Gramps. Or Grumps. Age before beauty, right? Looks like I’m taking one for the team.

“Avenge my death,” I mock-whisper to Hunter and slap him on the back even harder than he walloped me in the spirit of keeping things even.

By the time I reach the start of the food line, I’ve figured a few things out. My teammates may have cleared the way to the pancakes for me like Moses parting the Red Sea, but looks like it’s a one-man pass. As soon as I’ve gone, they all fall in behind me, jostling for position like they always do. Whatever’s up, it’s only gonna shit on me and that’s fine because I’ve just spotted an unexpected bright spot in an otherwise suck-ass day.

Sarah Jo is working the line today.

Her haphazardly buttoned flannel shirt gapes as she shovels pancakes into a stainless steel warmer, giving me an excellent view of her blue T-shirt that announces Firemen do it hotter, the pink curlicues scrolling across her tits. I know she’s wearing the matching hot-pink bra because the lacy strap peeking out from beneath its evil cotton overlord just screams look at me. So I do. Even though I shouldn’t. It’s like being handed a beer when you’ve decided tonight is a dry night or a slab of chocolate cake an hour after you start that diet. I have no will power when it comes to Sarah Jo, just a whole lot of dirty thoughts, and I’d absolutely love to show her how this fireman does it.

The truth is, I am dirty. Whether she is is still up for debate. The last time I saw her, she was more scared than turned on. I remind myself that makes her really off-limits while I grab a plate and a napkin full of rolled up silverware. She’s wearing my favorite skirt, too, the one made out of some kind of clingy fabric that hugs her ass and stops two inches below the flannel shirt and far, far above her hiking boots. I suspect she thinks wrapping herself up in an acre of used flannel will be some kind of penis deterrent. My dick, however, just decides that she’s gift-wrapped herself for us and we should tear into her one button at a time.

My dick has the best ideas.

She glances toward the start of the line, and the southern parts of me perk up and wave hello.

Bad hotshot.

Dating anyone in camp is a potentially messy mistake, and she’s given me no real reason to think she might be interested anyhow. Plus, the odds of her lasting the summer are low. She can’t cook worth a damn, although her enthusiasm more than makes up for it as far as I’m concerned. Burnt eggs taste way better after I’ve brushed up against her. Or snuck a peek down the front of her T-shirt when she bends over, flashing me the sweet valley between her tits. Or… yeah. I’ve got a fucking catalog of dirty fantasies and she’s got… coffee. She beams like a lighthouse as she hands out the Styrofoam cups and fusses over her basket of Mini Moos and sugar. She always remembers how I like mine and hoards the French vanilla creamers for me. Mentally, I smack myself. This sounds way too kindergarten. Maybe I should pass her a note. I could itemize all the ways I like her—and want to do her.

Unlike her ignore-me flannel shirt, her hair demands a second look or three. I still can’t decide what the color was. Her chunky strands are a L’Oreal rainbow, browns and blonds mixed up with the occasional streak of red. I’ve spotted pink, blue, and purple, too. Like her choice of hair color, every emotion she feels is painted on her face. Watching her talk up the other cooks is like staring at a merry-go-round. She’s fucking full of life and color, and damned if she doesn’t make me dizzy. The ride would be worth it, though.

Yes, I’ve imagined riding her. More than once.

I’m a fucking HR lawsuit waiting to happen, but the truth is what it is and that T-shirt of hers isn’t helping any. She looks away, bending over to grab something, and the cotton stretches tight over her breasts, gifting me with another flash of pink and lace. Black lace. Christ. Wonder if the boys would be up for a panty raid tonight?

She looks back, and this time her gaze hones in on me like a bird dog sighting quail and her blue-gray eyes light up. Of course, knowing what color her eyes are is just one more sign I’m in trouble.

“Pick Revere,” she announces loudly, nodding her head like she’s continuing a conversation with herself. Not like I can disagree with my name, so I just let her continue while I grab a plastic tray from the closest stack. “You’re first in line. That’s just perfect.”

Whatever.

In addition to being almost a co-worker, she’s too young for me. The first day I laid eyes on her, slinging eggs and hash browns, I’d started running numbers in my head, guessing at her age. I’d pegged her for maybe twenty-four, and I’d last seen that side of thirty more than two years ago. She’s part-Goth, part sass—but I’m betting that, beneath the oversized clothes and the skittish demeanor, she’s one hundred percent sweet, hot female. She damned certain deserves better than me, and no way she belongs out here in the woods.

I don’t even care how she got hired on despite not being able to cook. Frankly, there aren’t too many people interested in camping for the summer, slinging eggs and burgers twelve hours a day for minimum wage. She looks more Corvette or racing car than RV, but she gives her job her all and I respect that.

“Morning.” Nodding my head toward her, I heft my tray and eye the dishes on offer. Yep. Pancakes. Bacon. And… beans. I’ll pass on those, but otherwise I’ll take everything else she has to offer.

“That’s settled,” she announces. I think about that for a moment, but I’ve got nothing. It’s like I’ve just barged in on a half-done conversation.

She steps around the food-laden table and stalks toward me, a determined look in her eye. I’ve seen fire start up a hill that way, unstoppable and devouring everything in its path. That look spells trouble. I back my ass up, doing a little fancy footwork. What. The . . .

Heaven.

Sarah Jo throws her arms around my neck, stretching up on tiptoe. Her enthusiastic embrace slams the empty tray between us, a plastic chastity belt squashing the fuck out of my balls. I’ll catch hell from the boys for that later, but right now all I feel is cheated with that hard plastic pressed against me instead of Sarah Jo. Those millimeters separating me from her are a fucking shame. She smells good, too. Pancakes and syrup, with a hint of something floral and feminine. She definitely smells better than I do.

She’s impatient too, pulling my head down toward her. There’s nothing tentative or shy about her, just all that happy laughter filling her eyes and her voice. “It’s going to be a real good morning, hotshot.”

I open my mouth. Damned if I know what I intend to say, but she takes full advantage. Hello.

Her mouth covers mine and she plants a hot kiss on me. Her tongue tastes my bottom lip, sweeps inside, and proceeds to pillage my mouth ruthlessly. When she comes out of hiding, she does it with a vengeance.

The groan escapes before I can bite back the rough, hungry sound. I haven’t kissed a woman in a long time. Too many fires, not enough time. My dick likes to argue about my priorities, but I think protecting people’s homes from burning up beats anything. Sarah Jo has no idea just how hungry I am, or that my inner pirate demands we make a sensual feast out of her body. If she did, she’d run like hell.

But she doesn’t know, and she doesn’t run. Her mouth locks on mine, her tongue retreating to tease my lower lip with a light stroke that’s nowhere near enough. And Christ, when her fingers seek the back of my neck, tracing a little up and down pattern across my bare skin, it’s game over.

Being kissed by Sarah Jo is so much better than anything I’ve imagined—and I have a great imagination. While her tongue explores my mouth with the enthusiasm of an orchestra racing toward the crescendo of a really awesome symphony, I kiss her back as much as she allows. I’m not just gonna be the audience on this kiss—after all, we’ve already got one. I’m dimly aware of raucous background noise as my fellow Rogues whoop and holler. Pretty sure even the kitchen staff is getting into it, laughing and waving the verbal pom-poms for us. As if I could stop this kiss. As if I’d want to. Mostly, though, I’m aware of the woman in my arms and the sweet scent of her pressed against me. Whether it’s shampoo or perfume, or some secret female thing, she smells damned good.

When she pulls back, her lips pink and swollen, and tries to dance away from me, I hold on tight. That mischievous smile of hers tugs at the corner of her mouth.

Too bad for her I’m not done with her yet.

Tossing the tray away, I scoop her closer with one arm. “Honey, I’m definitely wanting seconds today.”

Sarah Jo

Pick threads big hands through my hair, holding me in place for his next kiss. He’s either forgotten about or doesn’t mind our avid audience, because his mouth covers mine in a take-no-prisoners kiss. He pulls me into his body, a body that’s every bit as hard and muscled as I’ve fantasized—and I’ve done more fantasizing than is good for me. It’s hard not to notice how strong Pick is, from the muscled forearms I’m clutching like a sexual lifeline to the way his shoulders stretch the cotton of his T-shirt. Everything about him shouts that he’s got your back, that you’re safe from everything and everyone. My inner cave girl squees with delight—she’s not totally on board with my no man—stand on my own feet plan.

When Pick kisses me again, the rest of me rejects the plan, too. God, he’s gorgeous. He’s got brown hair that’s just long enough for me to run my fingers through, but not quite long enough to hold onto. Pick’s the kind of fantasy man who slips through your life, your arms, your dreams. But the way he grins… his whole smile lights up his face and you just have to like him. He’s built like an ox—or a stallion. A really big, really hung stallion. This man is Grade A, panty-melting male.

The firm press of his lips follows that full-body caress and then his teeth nip my lower lip with a sweetly erotic sting. When I gasp, he sweeps inside like he belongs there and he’s just been waiting for me to open up and hang out the welcome sign.

The whole gosh-darn fire camp could burn down around us now. I don’t care—screw fire safety. I want more of this. More Pick. More kissing. As first kisses go, this one is amazing and it’s going to be the crown jewel of my collection. His tongue strokes mine, mapping my mouth with slow, deliberate thoroughness and leaving behind a wicked burn of pleasure. Hell, the man kisses as if he’s the one in charge, and the heated arousal building low in my belly warns me that my body, at least, has zero complaints about the change in management because Pick is one hell of a kisser. Sliding my hands up over his arms, I hang on to his broad shoulders like some kind of sex-crazed kudzu vine as he deepens the kiss further.

This attraction exploding between us is a five-alarm blaze. Pick doesn’t pull his punches—he just goes all out as he devours the mouth I’ve offered him in lieu of pancakes. I’ve tossed a lit match into dry grass, and now we’re both on fire. His mouth moves expertly over mine as he plays a game of show-and-tell about how he’s feeling. Hungry. Possessive.

Unlike my city dates, who sport expensive colognes, Pick smells of smoke and pine, a woodsy, outdoor scent as wild and rugged as the man himself. He’s every lumberjack fantasy come to life, and he needs his very own warning label: smoking hot fireman… danger of smoke inhalation. Because when I breathe in, he just works his way deeper inside me. He’s big, he’s rough, and yet he’s impossibly careful in the way he holds me. This is no he-man clinch. I’m not bent over backward like a movie poster heroine. He wraps his enormous arms around me and holds me close while his mouth works wicked, dirty magic on the rest of me. The chest beneath his ash-smudged white T-shirt is as hard and unyielding as the muscled thighs pressed against mine, but I’ve already figured out for myself that there’s not an ounce of give in Pick.

But I’m not supposed to kiss him for real. This is just a hazing rite, a ritual so I can be one of the girls and hide in plain sight just a little more thoroughly. I’m the cook. He’s the firefighter. The only thing we have together should be pancakes—not the extremely thick, most impressive dick that makes its presence known when he tugs the plastic lunch tray from between us and tosses it somewhere. Away. If only his clothes would follow.

Pick’s big, protective, determined, and rough around the edges. So damn sexy. And for the cherry on my hotshot sundae, he’s out there fighting fires to protect homes and lives. That’s hero material right there.

The problem is, I’ve dated heroes before. Sometimes, heroes aren’t all that heroic when they get you alone and the capes come off. And I’m not precisely heroine material, either. Why would anyone want to rescue me? And why would I let them? This time, when I pull back, he lets me. And we both know it’s let. My girl parts sigh in happy protest because they’re really, really enjoying his alpha male lumberjack highhandedness even if my head’s shrieking danger danger.

Chocolate eyes stare at me, probably making connections I don’t need him to make because Pick’s as smart as he is pretty. Looking at him makes me want to do stupid things, like throw myself at him again, or maybe that’s just the rich, warm brown of his steady gaze making me want to lick him. Everywhere.

Pick regards me for another way-too-long minute. I’m not sure what he sees, but he slowly untangles his fingers from my hair. As he steps back with a polite nod of his head and a “Thank you, darling,” whoops and catcalls erupt from the hotshots watching the Pick and Sarah Jo Show. Our audience is clearly jonesing for a sequel.

Is that what I want?

He took charge of our kiss and then he just plain took over. So letting him know that he’s shaken me—woken me—to my very core isn’t an option. I’ll never let him know how close I came to losing control. Men like Pick don’t just take an inch. They take the whole goddamned mile and then some. Putting him in his place suddenly matters a great deal. He’s turned the tables on me and I need to turn them back. Fast.

I saunter back to the laughing, clapping cooks.

Game. On.