Page 241 of Her Reluctant Hero
She looked up from his chest, watched him open his eyes with some effort. The expression in them was replete. Their skin, where it touched, was slicked with sweat. She savored the sensation and, feeling a bit wicked, shifted a bit, enjoying the friction. An answering twinge from within her made her smile.
“I don’t think it’s over,” she replied, kissing his shoulder.
Peyton sat in the chair in the corner of the motel room, wrapped in Gabe’s sweatshirt, and stared out the window at the night sky. The scene was peaceful, no one would suspect a fire blazed just out of sight. Across the room, Gabe slept on his back, snoring softly, one arm tossed above his head, the other where she’d been lying. The sheet draped over his hips barely preserved his modesty. His position surprised her. A man so controlled in wakefulness was so unguarded at rest.
Dan always slept curled on his side, as if he could spring to action at the least provocation.
God, what had she done? She hadn’t thought about the past or the future, and it had been wonderful, liberating.
Why did she feel guilty now? She hadn’t dishonored Dan’s memory—a suitable period of time had passed, and while she would always love Dan, the resentment she’d felt when he’d left her alone had dulled her love to a pleasant warmth. She’d been ready to move forward.
She pulled her knees closer to her chest and pressed her face into the sweatshirt stretched across them, drawing in the scent. The person she chose to move forward with was what disturbed her. Gabe was exactly what she didn’t want, a man so committed to his job there was no room for anything else in his life. A man who would expect more than she was able to give. Oh God. She couldn’t—absolutely couldn’t—live a life of waiting and worrying again.
Because while she could tell herself this was only a one-night stand, she was already too attached. And there had been nothing casual about that sex.
He shifted on the bed. “Peyton?” he called gruffly.
“Over here.”
“What’s wrong?” He rose up on his elbows. “Come back to bed.”
She unfolded her legs and dug her toes into the shag carpet as if that would help her resist the pull of him. “I can’t sleep.”
“Who said anything about sleep?” His voice was low and sexy, and remembering the feel of his mouth, his hands on her had everything female in her humming.
God, why did she have no will where he was concerned? Why did she let her body rule her head?
Okay, as long as it was just her body and head at war, she would be fine. When her heart got involved, she’d be in trouble.
He held the covers up for her and she slid between them and into his arms. At the touch of his hands on her skin, her mind emptied and she gave herself over to the sensations.
This time the languor of sleep dictated the pace. Hands coursed over bare skin, dipping, clutching, skimming. Breath escaped in sighs, then moans. Skin heated and dampened. By the time he entered her, she had no concept of place and time, only of Gabe and now. When she shattered and floated back in fulfillment she decided she could be happy with that.
“It’s almost a shame to leave this lovely room,” Peyton teased as she packed her meager belongings in a brown paper sack, looking around the room decorated in early tacky, with orange shag carpet and black laminate furniture.
“You mean you aren’t going to go home and redecorate in retro Halloween?” Gabe teased, swinging his pack on his shoulder.
“Ha ha.” She stretched and cricked her back. “No matter how hard the mattress was, it beats sleeping on the ground.”
He looped his arm over her shoulders and kissed her temple. “Imagine making love on the ground. We might want to keep your tent where it is, away from the rest of the crew.”
Surprise flashed through her. There was a wealth of revelation in those words. He wanted to do this again, with her, and he wanted to keep her with his crew.
He was talking about more than one night. She couldn’t think about a future, even of only a few more days. Last night had been a big enough step. “You said one shift.”
“I thought—are you leaving already?” His voice was a smooth drawl, but his fingers tightening on his bag showed his tension. Clearly he thought she was here for the whole fire, maybe beyond.
Her plan had been to leave today. She had her story. She’d never top the rescue of the scouts, the run up the mountain, being rescued by slurry. Never in her career.
But there was the idea of the book. She just hadn’t worked out the details—like how to make a living while writing the book. She couldn’t go on to write other articles and focus on this. Did she want to make a living as a Hot Shot the rest of the summer? It wasn’t easy work. And she wasn’t sure she had what it took, especially after their brush with death.
But she would be with Gabe, who wanted her. Gabe, who thought she was brave. Gabe, who could destroy her again.
“I did want to get some pictures,” she hedged, unwilling to say no, unwilling to walk away from him. “My photographer is finishing up his training and will be here in a day or so.”
“And then you’re going.” His voice was flat.
“I hadn’t decided.” She turned to get her own bag. “I have to move on to the next story. And I have to write this one.” Successful journalists did it, moved from story to story. The one thing she’d found she was good at, even if it didn’t put her in the middle of the action, of the people. Which was the appeal of this career, at least for her.
