Controlled Burn
Authors: Desiree Holt
Controlled Burn
By
Desiree Holt
Controlled Burn
Copyright 2015 by Desiree Holt
Published by Desiree Holt
Copyright 2015 Cover Art by Carey Abbott
Editing and Formatting Services by Wizards in Publishing
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
DEDICATION
Many, many thanks to Michelle Boone, who bid in the Pearls Inner Goddess Auction for the right to name a character in one of my books. Montana Wade and Boone Crider are the result of her generosity. Michelle, I hope you enjoy their story.
Controlled Burn
Montana Wade was home after writing off the past ten years of her life, but she needed one more night of courage before she faced her family. Boone Crider, hotshot firefighter, was burned out from the rash of malicious fires. They thought one night as strangers would cure them both, but the fire they started between them soon became a barely controlled burn.
Montana Wade pulled her travel-dusty car into a parking space at the end of the lot, turned off the ignition, and leaned back. The neon sign blinking
Pete’s
flashed its kaleidoscope of colors through her windshield. The name was the same, but she wondered if Pete Bartoly still owned it. He’d be pretty damn old by now.
Stretching away to the right, like a long concrete arm, was the row of rooms comprising The Highway Motel
.
Montana remembered them as a place where you could get drunk, hook up, and only have to stumble a few hundred yards to the nearest bed. Not that she’d ever been a patron, at least of the motel. She and her friends had spent many wild nights at Pete’s, though, especially the last one when they were all going their separate ways.
She hadn’t meant to stop here. Her parents’ ranch was less than an hour away, and she should have pushed on through the night and been done with it. But all the invisible baggage she’d dragged with her on the drive from California had exhausted her, and she needed something to give her the courage to unload. Ten years of her life down the drain. Fourteen, counting college. Could she have been any more stupid?
She couldn’t get rid of the feeling she was coming home with her tail between her legs. A little liquid courage would be a big help before she was forced to tell her parents what a fool she’d been. Not to mention she had no idea what she was going to do with her life beginning tomorrow. And if she drank too much courage, well, The Highway Motel offered a place to sleep it off.
Yeah, that’s what she should do. Spend the night and drive to the ranch in the morning, when she was fresh and her brain was working. And she’d found the inner resources to answer all the questions.
Sighing, she climbed out of her car, walked to the door of the bar, and pulled it open. The interior was as dim as it had always been, the only light coming from more neon behind the bar and small lamps on the walls. Montana supposed it was originally intended to create an intimate atmosphere, but Pete’s was a hundred miles away from anything even close high class. It did, however, create an ambience where the light was so muted anyone could look good and, after a couple of drinks, the stranger next to you began to resemble the star of your dreams.
Half of the tables were filled, some with couples, others with groups. The jukebox was blissfully silent at the moment, so only the buzz of conversation filled the room. Montana spotted an empty stool at the bar, choosing it rather than one of the small tables. She wasn’t there to get comfortable, just to wash away ten years of bad memories and fall into bed. Alone.
She didn’t recognize the bartender, a man with graying hair and bulging muscles. She only knew he wasn’t Pete and, frankly, she didn’t care. He tossed his bar towel onto his shoulder as he moved to stand in front of her.
“Name your poison.”
“Jack Black. On the rocks.”
If she was going to do some serious drinking, Jack Daniel’s Black Label was her liquid of choice. A couple of those and she ought to be ready to conk out for the night.
He lifted an eyebrow then nodded and took down a bottle to fill her order.
“You must be of a mind to do some serious drinking.”
Montana blinked. The voice, deep and raspy, came from the man sitting next to her.
“Excuse me?” Turning her head barely enough to catch a sideways glimpse, a pulse she’d thought in deep freeze thundered through her body. The owner of the voice had a face defined by a rugged jaw and piercing black eyes. Hair equally as dark hung barely to the collar of a dark tee shirt stretched across broad shoulders and accented muscular arms. His smoky essence teased at her nostrils. When he lifted the beer bottle to take a drink, she noticed how long and graceful his fingers were, fingers capable of playing play a woman’s body like a guitar.
Really, Montana? You can think about that now?
One corner of his mouth kicked up in a tired grin. “Most of the women I know only drink something from a bottle with a cork in it.”
Montana knew exactly what he meant. Women in the California culture thought wine was the only acceptable drink. How she had missed her bourbon these past ten years.
“You obviously don’t hang out with too many Texas women,” she told him.
“Or else, the wrong ones.” He said it as a joke, but she had a feeling, tonight at least, he wasn’t feeling very humorous.
When the bartender placed her glass in front of her, she lifted it and took a healthy sip. The rich blend slid down her throat like a fiery caress, waking up all her senses. Wait! This was supposed to soften everything, ease her tension, prepare her body to crash for the night. Instead, it made her hyperaware of the man next to her who she was sure had to be emitting pheromones at an alarming rate. It had been so long since she’d felt real sexual attraction, she thought her body had forgotten how.
But here she was, sitting next to a man she’d met seconds ago, and all it took was his gravelly voice, fuck-me eyes, and masculine nearness to wake up her body. A sudden ache danced through her breasts, her nipples tingled, and, between her thighs, the pulse in her cunt throbbed with the insistence of a jungle drum. And, ohmigod! Were her panties wet after a few words and less than sixty seconds?
Girl, you are in bad shape.
“Is that why you’re here tonight?” she asked. “Drinking to forget the wrong kind of woman?”
His laugh held little humor. He took a long swallow from the bottle, the play of muscles in his neck and throat fascinating her. She couldn’t seem to drag her eyes away from him.
“See something you like?” He signaled the bartender for another.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
When the bartender set a fresh drink in front of him, he took another deliberate swallow of beer then set his bottle down carefully. “Question?”
“Yes. Are you drinking to forget the wrong kind of woman?”
He turned on his stool, studying her from beneath hooded lids for so long she felt compelled to meet him eye to eye. Mistake. Big mistake. Sexual heat surged through her, the muscles in the walls of her cunt vibrating as if they were doing a two-step, and her nipples became so hard she thought they’d poke holes in her tee shirt. Her mouth suddenly dry, she lifted her drink and finished it in one swallow. This time, it burned going down, but she was grateful. It distracted her from the other reactions of her body.
“Maybe,” he said, at last. “Are you the right kind of woman?”
Montana had a feeling she could climax from nothing more than listening to his voice. She tapped her glass on the bar to signal for a refill and wondered what in the fucking hell she was doing, anyway?
Ooh, fuck! Andy would have a shitfit. Another naughty word.
She barely suppressed a laugh.
“Something funny?” Mr. Hotstuff asked.
“Just a private joke.” The fresh drink arrived, and she took a tiny sip. “Maybe I am. The right kind of woman. What does that mean to you?”
He draped his arm across her shoulders and threaded his fingers into the mass of curls at her neck. His touch was like the kiss of a match, igniting any nerve endings that might have still been sleeping. And, oh, god. If her panties hadn’t been wet before, they were soaked with her juices now. She squeezed her thighs together, trying to fight back the need radiating from her.
He nudged her around on her stool again, so he stared into her eyes once more.
Oh, god!
“It means maybe we both came in here for the same thing tonight.”
“Yeah? Explain.”
“A night out of time. Would you go for that?”
Would she?
There was certainly no mistaking his meaning, even if he hadn’t said the words. Well, hell. She definitely wanted to forget a whole lot of bad business. Getting naked with him would be so much better than getting drunk. And probably leave her in a better mood.
Boone Crider tightened his grip on the beer bottle. He needed the shock of the cold glass to counteract the sizzling heat from the warm woman he’d been stupid enough to reach out and touch. But the minute she’d hoisted herself onto the bar stool, he felt as if a charged field of sexual energy had wrapped itself around him. Around them. His cock, which lately had gotten little attention and somehow didn’t seem to miss it, practically poked a hole through the fly of his soft denim jeans, trying to stand up and salute. Why the hell he should have that little “problem” with the mood he was in was a mystery to him.
Stopping at Pete’s had seemed like a good idea when he’d pulled into the parking lot. He’d had a bitch of a day and an even worse evening. Another barn fire, this one nearly out of control by the time he and the other volunteer firefighters got there. He could still smell the burning wood, feel the heat of the flames, hear the crackle and snap. This made the fifth one in eight weeks. The chief had an investigator combing the debris at each site for evidence the fires were deliberately set, but the firebug was apparently very clever. And they all agreed it had to be arson. So many barn fires in such a short period of time were no accident or coincidence. Especially since months had gone by with nothing more than a small brush fire to call them out.
They were all damn lucky no one had gotten hurt so far. In two cases, the owners weren’t even home. Neighbors had seen the flames and called it in. In the others, the homeowners had called right away then did what they could with hoses. None of the barns had contained animals, but Boone felt sure it was only a matter of time before whoever this was hit one that did. The prospect of what could happen made him sick to his stomach.
Getting drunk and sleeping it off in The Highway Motel had seemed like an outstanding idea. Then, in the morning, he could drag his sorry ass home, wash away today’s memories, and hope the rest of the week was a lot better. And no more emergencies like tonight’s.
The
she’d
walked in, and his hormones had stood up and poked him in his dick and his balls. A thick mass of blonde hair cascaded from a face highlighted with emerald eyes, thick lashes, high cheekbones, and a full mouth just begging to be kissed. Or wrapped around his aching shaft. He wondered what she’d say if he told her he wanted to fuck her mouth almost as much as her pussy.
And do a lot of other things with her. To her. Things that—
Forget it. She probably likes her sex plain vanilla. Probably orders her drinks the same way, too.
But she’d surprised him when she ordered Jack Black on the rocks. Most of the women he knew, even in tiny Winslow, Texas, drank wine. For some it was a preference, for others an affectation. He always seemed to wind up with the ones who had nothing going on below the surface. After the last few months, he’d give anything for a warm, understanding woman who loved hot sex, had a good mind, and listened attentively.
Yeah, ask Santa Claus for one, right?
Maybe Santa had brought him an early Christmas present, at least for one night.
He was fascinated, watching her drink, not slugging down the aged whiskey but not taking tiny sips, either. No, she took healthy swallows and smiled as it burned its way into her system.
Touching her was a big mistake. Her blonde hair felt like corn silk against his fingers, and the contact with her skin was like touching a live wire. If his cock had hardened from merely being near her, now it was screaming for freedom from restriction and demanding to fill her soft mouth or the wet heat of her pussy. He wanted to bury himself in her so deep he could forget tonight—and the others like it—and the depression he was fighting would simply disappear.