Page 9 of Up In Flames

Mari rolls her eyes, and is about to respond when the door to the basement slams against the frame. She springs to her feet, and one second later, Nicholas appears, a full orange mustache on his face, and a bottle half-filled with soda in his hand. “Oh, shit. Gotta run. I mean, shoot.” She sends her son a look before covering his ears with her palms. “Shit. Brownies. For the bake sale at the school tomorrow. Shit. I’m going to have to make another pan. They’re burning as we speak. You sure you’re okay, Nina?”

“Sure. Fine. Peachy.”

But she’s already pushing Nicholas through the door. He turns and waves before he disappears with her.

I flop my head back on the couch. Okay, fine, and peachy are relative terms. I mean…

The thing is, I’m not sure if I should be offended that I just allowed my enemy fireman to get me off, or gratified that I finally had an orgasm without the benefit of my trusty vibrator. And did Sampson take advantage of me? Did I take advantage of him? Am I supposed to be upset? Is he? What the hell are the social rules around a fireman’s rescue of a non-maiden from the desert of her dry spell and a tree?

I search my feelings, but all I can come up with is that he didn’t mean to touch me where he did, but when he noticed my reactions, he didn’t hesitate to make me happy. I’m pretty sure if I had said anything, he would have removed his hand, but I didn’t. I said yes, because I was enjoying the experience. I didn’t say stop because I’m a horny bitch.

But did I force him to continue by not stopping him? The fine points of the morality in this situation are eluding me.

Next time it’ll be on purpose. You just tell me when.

Is it too soon to shout when?

CHAPTER 4

Sampson

Of all the women in all the world, I can’t believe I rescued Nina yesterday and got her off. Normally, even thinking about her leaves a sour taste in my mouth. That female is… bad news. Always has been.

You’re one to talk, Sammy. Red Room and triplets, anyone?

I shush my inner dialogue. And yet, I can’t seem to enjoy the same level of disgust for her that I did only two days ago. Maybe it’s because I can still feel her silk against my fingers. She fit into my hand so perfectly, it’s like she’d been fashioned to my dimensions.

I rub the spot over my chest that’s begun to ache since I left her. I’m too young for a heart attack. Then again, since I don’t know my biological family’s medical history, it might not be a bad idea to get a checkup. Maybe the whole lot of them died of coronary issues at thirty.

I’m twenty-eight, which makes Nina, what? Twenty-seven? I was a senior in high school when she was a junior, so yeah. Probably. Let’s call it a year, which was a lot back then. Too much. It’s nothing now.

But is she still too young for me where sex is concerned? I like my bedmates seasoned, if for no other reason than that they can handle my dick better. Plus, older women usually don’t get all flustered and outraged by my proclivities. They want to experiment. They’re more open with their sexuality because they’ve had enough experience to get bored with normal.

Of course, we all know Nina’s had experience, probably enough so I’d slide into her easy, though she did seem tight around my finger. Maybe she was clenching down? From fear, embarrassment, whatever? Momentarily tight doesn’t mean that she’s inexperienced. In fact, I know for a fact that she’s just the opposite. She’s a maneater.

Double-standard, Sammy. Don’t be a hypocrite.

Good point. I’m usually anything but. I like women who like men. I like women who are open to assuaging their sexual urges and kinks. I like kinks.

It’s just that there’s something about Nina that makes me… defensive. And combative.

Horny. Call it what it is.

Fine. Defensive and combative, but horny. And angry. I’m still so danged angry after all these years.

Though, she’s obviously heard about my Red Room. I don’t know if the gleam I saw in her eyes was there for reasons I’d appreciate, but it was definitely there.

What the heck am I thinking? I don’t want to be lodged to the hilt inside that foul-mouthed creature as she drips down to my balls. I don’t ever want to see her again.

“Yo, Earth to Sam.” Mr. Baggins waves his hand up in the air, trying to attract my attention. Since he’s at least three feet shorter than I am, it’s the movement of air brushing against my skin that catches me more than the visual.

“Right. Sorry. How much?”

He looks over the five boxes of pastry. Each one is tied with red string and must fit at least a dozen of the assorted pastries inside. “Um, five dollars?”

I roll my eyes. “Look, give me a number that at least makes sense.”

“Aw, you know I don’t like to charge my boys. Plus, after what you did for me? I’d be in a sorry state, I would, if Mrs. Baggins had gone up like a candle. Who’d make my tea? Who’d feed me supper and make sure the bedding is even?”