Men On Fire. Susan Lyons

didn’t make a practice of sleeping with guys on a first date, or even a second or third one. But tonight I wanted to. It had been so long since a man had held me, satisfied me, and Quinn was…smoking hot. Powerfully arousing.

      He must do this sort of thing all the time. That thought actually reassured me. He was right: We could have great sex and not let it complicate our lives, much less my faux fiancé plan. I could enjoy box number three as a treat on the side and remain committed to my real priorities.

      “Oh, wait,” he said softly, his mouth an inch from mine, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I forgot. You said you didn’t have time to waste on, what was it?”

      How could I think when he was invading all my senses? “Uh, a relationship that wasn’t going anywhere. But you have a point about the role-play thing. If we had sex and were, you know, attuned to each other that way, it would be easier to act engaged.” Was lust making me rationalize, or did I have a valid point?

      His quick “Absolutely” broke my train of thought.

      I chuckled. “You’d agree to anything if it got me into bed with you.”

      “Pretty much.” That dimple flashed.

      He was irresistible. A player, a sexy bad boy, whatever he might be, I wanted him. “Of course, if we’re not sexually compatible,” I teased, “that could mess up the role-play.”

      “Not going to be a problem.” He lifted my shirt to caress the skin above the low waistband of my pants. The pads of his fingers were slightly rough, a reminder he wasn’t my usual white-collar date. I’d have thought the abrasiveness would be unpleasant, but it was stimulating. He stroked my skin to a level of sensitivity I’d never experienced before.

      I wondered what those fingers would feel like on my nipples. My clit. Oh, God. “You’re right.” Need made me breathless. “Let’s go someplace where we can get comfortable.”

      “Oh, yeah.” He hoisted me in his arms, making me gasp with surprise. “Where?”

      “Down the hall.” My bedroom. Maybe I should have chosen the living room couch as being less intimate, but I wanted to make the most of this experience.

      He carried me easily—and I am by no means tiny—then, in the bedroom, let me slide down until I stood at the foot of the bed. I hurried to light a couple candles; then he tugged the hem of my T-shirt. “I want to see you, Jade Rousseau. All of you.”

      “I want to see you too.” From the first time I’d set eyes on him. And now that I’d made my decision, I was totally into it.

      Dark eyes gleaming, Quinn peeled my shirt over my head. A big, smug grin curved his lips. “Talk about pretty.”

      I hadn’t worn the champagne-colored lace bra and matching thong for him, honestly. I’d always loved sexy, feminine underwear, ever since I’d got over my adolescent embarrassment over my curviness. To put it bluntly, as Kimberly did, I had boobs and booty—and everything was toned and in the right place.

      From the expression on his face, Quinn agreed. He flipped open the button at my waist and undid the zipper; then I took over and tugged my pants down.

      My nipples were taut, thrusting against flimsy lace. My inner thighs and the crotch of my thong were damp. Knowing I made a sexy picture, a portrait of arousal, I thrust back my shoulders and stood proudly as his gaze roamed my body. When he reached out, I took a step backward. “Uh-uh. Not until you lose some clothes, mister.”

      “Want to help?”

      “No, I want to watch.” Perhaps because I’d first seen him onstage, I had the crazy notion I’d like to see him do a striptease. With music. The whole bump and grind thing. Not that I had the nerve to tell him that.

      He stretched, flexing and flaunting the muscles that pressed against his blue tee, then pulled the hem free from his jeans. His fingers grazed the fly, drawing my attention, and I gaped hungrily at the imposing bulge. Slowly, he raised his shirt and my gaze tracked up his body as the T-shirt rose, revealing six-pack abs and muscular pecs with a scattering of dark hair. Yes, I’d seen his naked torso the night of the auction, but this time I was up close and personal with all this beautiful masculinity, and his body was gilded by flickering light.

      When he pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it aside, I sucked in a breath. Never had I been with a man who was built like this. How was any other guy ever going to measure up?

      He unbuckled his leather belt, then unbuttoned his jeans, movements relaxed and confident. Not arrogant, just sure of himself, and of his effect on women.

      Well, I wasn’t exactly chopped liver myself. Casually, I raised my right hand and flicked my thumbnail slowly across my nipple through the lace, a soft, warm prickle of sensation that made the taut bud even harder.

      His heated gaze followed the motion and his hands paused in the act of unzipping his fly.

      “Don’t let me stop you,” I said.

      The zipper rasped and the jeans drifted down an inch, revealing his lean belly, the waistband of his underwear and—oh, God—the crown of his erect cock thrusting out the top. “In a rush, are you?” he teased back.

      I had to swallow before I could speak. “To see what you have to offer? You bet.”

      He stuck his thumbs in the waist of his jeans on both sides and eased them down farther, over bulging navy boxer briefs. The jeans hit the floor. Oh yeah, I was going to have trouble finding another guy who measured up.

      Not that I was all about size. It was how the man handled the equipment that mattered.

      I had a feeling firefighter O’Malley had a pretty good idea of how to handle equipment.

      He tucked his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs, hands framing his package. “On or off?”

      I really wanted to see him, and this was no time to play shy. “Off.”

      He slid down his underwear and his cock sprang from a nest of dark curls, and rose full and proud up his belly. I almost whimpered as a surge of pure naked lust shot through me. I realized I was fondling my nipple through my bra, breathing fast and shallow, squeezing my thighs together against a needy ache that urged me to spread my legs and offer myself to him.

      Quinn stepped toward me, took my hand from my breast, and cupped both my lace-clad breasts in his own big hands. Low in his throat, he hummed satisfaction as he explored me through the lace, teasing my nipples to buds so hard they hurt. Then he flicked open the front clasp and my breasts spilled free, into his hands. “Let’s lie down, so I can do these justice.”

      Stunned from the suddenness of this intimacy, the intensity of the way I responded to this almost-stranger, I let him tug me to the bed. I eased free of my bra, then pulled off the duvet and lay down, the cool cotton of the sheet a pleasant contrast to the heat of my skin.

      Quinn followed me down, lying beside me and stretching over to claim my lips in a slow, sexy kiss. My breasts hungered for his touch, and so did my pussy, but he was in no hurry. As our tongues and lips played sexy games, I ran my hands through his short hair, then down his neck to his shoulders, feeling soft heat over solid muscle and bone. The man felt as good as he looked.

      My fingers drifted through chest hair, found a nipple, and squeezed it between thumb and index finger. His chest tensed under my hand.

      My breasts were full and throbbing, crying out for his attention. Finally, he broke the kiss and eased back. He stroked down my neck, circled the hollow at the base of my throat with a finger, then moved across my chest. His touch, with those roughened fingertips, was firm, not a drifting caress but harder, as if he was recognizing and appreciating my own strength. Quinn didn’t touch me as if I were a porcelain doll, but like I was a healthy, vital woman.

      When he reached my breast, he lightened the touch, caressing my flesh with the gentlest of abrasion, tweaking my nipple. Then he lowered his head and sucked that hard bud into his mouth. Exquisite sensation