wasn't cold. She hid a raging heat beneath her skin. A heat that drew him in like a moth to a flame.
He wanted her. And he had a feeling he wasn't going to stop wanting her. He was crushing hard but mostly, he just wanted her to stay away. He was still getting over the disappointment of his failed marriage and his failed attempt at having the future he wanted. The last thing he needed was a complication like Antoinette. She was a lovely distraction, and that was all.
It wasn't about Gwen. True, she'd destroyed his ego when she served him with divorce papers after less than one fucking year of marriage. But he wasn't in love with her. He didn't know if he had ever been in love with her. He used to love the way she fucked. He used to love the way she tasted. But that wasn't the same thing, was it? The rub was, he'd made a promise to her. When they got married, he hadn't lied when he said 'til death. He'd been willing to stick it out because he craved the comfort. He craved a warm body next to him in bed. He craved someone to talk with about his day. He craved a home-cooked dinner on the table at night. It was unglamorous, but it was true. He wanted a boring, middle-class life in the suburbs. Like his father and older brother before him. Nothing more, nothing less.
Girls like Antoinette St. James withered like dying flowers in the suburbs.
At his stop in Woodside, he sidled off the train, and moved with the stream of people heading for the exit. He headed toward his apartment, on auto-pilot. When he got to his sparsely furnished one-bedroom, he slammed the door behind him. He pulled off his shirt, wincing at the stab of pain he felt. He popped a beer and sauntered into the bedroom. He kicked off his jeans, slowly, careful not to agitate the bandage on his thigh. He felt so damn old and creaky. When he stepped into the hot shower, he felt his body finally relax.
A moan escaped his lips and he dropped his head back. It was the little pleasures in life, truly. His hand found his dick, and he stroked himself, finding more relief. Although he tried to force himself to think about the cute waitress at the pub, or the hot doc who signed his discharge papers, it was impossible. Antoinette St. James was haunting him. There was no pretending otherwise. His dick was a picky bastard.
He imagined her soft lips on his, kissing him rough and tumble like she did two years ago in the dark hospital room. He remembered how her tongue had slid against his, so needy and insistent. Like if she didn't kiss him, she was going to go crazy. And before he knew it, he was exploding in his hand, too quick to satisfy the deep need inside of him. Leaning a shoulder against the tile wall, he let the orgasm pulse through him, annoyed at himself despite the pleasure. He'd come just from thinking about kissing her.
Fuck.
He was so screwed.
Chapter 6
Toni wandered down the Queens street after exiting the train station. The map on her phone told her that the 163 rd ladder, O'Donovan's firehouse, was close. She'd called the hospital earlier and they told her he'd been discharged, so she'd headed for the firehouse. It was her best hope. Not that she was stalking him or anything.
She tamped down on the butterflies fluttering in her chest, telling herself that she was going to check up on him and that was all. If something more came of it, then so be it. She owed him. And she didn't give a damn if he liked it or not. Toni knew that she didn't know much about him, only that he had a permanent scowl and a dirty Irish mouth. He'd made it quite clear that he didn't want to be bothered. And yet, here she was, in the middle of Queens, seeking him out. Why was she so drawn to him? Her memories of him from that terrible night two years ago were so strong. The way he'd cradled her to his chest and kept her safe. She just had a feeling that he wasn't as big and bad as he tried to pretend. She knew how he'd responded to her kiss, too. He couldn't fake a
He wanted her. And he had a feeling he wasn't going to stop wanting her. He was crushing hard but mostly, he just wanted her to stay away. He was still getting over the disappointment of his failed marriage and his failed attempt at having the future he wanted. The last thing he needed was a complication like Antoinette. She was a lovely distraction, and that was all.
It wasn't about Gwen. True, she'd destroyed his ego when she served him with divorce papers after less than one fucking year of marriage. But he wasn't in love with her. He didn't know if he had ever been in love with her. He used to love the way she fucked. He used to love the way she tasted. But that wasn't the same thing, was it? The rub was, he'd made a promise to her. When they got married, he hadn't lied when he said 'til death. He'd been willing to stick it out because he craved the comfort. He craved a warm body next to him in bed. He craved someone to talk with about his day. He craved a home-cooked dinner on the table at night. It was unglamorous, but it was true. He wanted a boring, middle-class life in the suburbs. Like his father and older brother before him. Nothing more, nothing less.
Girls like Antoinette St. James withered like dying flowers in the suburbs.
At his stop in Woodside, he sidled off the train, and moved with the stream of people heading for the exit. He headed toward his apartment, on auto-pilot. When he got to his sparsely furnished one-bedroom, he slammed the door behind him. He pulled off his shirt, wincing at the stab of pain he felt. He popped a beer and sauntered into the bedroom. He kicked off his jeans, slowly, careful not to agitate the bandage on his thigh. He felt so damn old and creaky. When he stepped into the hot shower, he felt his body finally relax.
A moan escaped his lips and he dropped his head back. It was the little pleasures in life, truly. His hand found his dick, and he stroked himself, finding more relief. Although he tried to force himself to think about the cute waitress at the pub, or the hot doc who signed his discharge papers, it was impossible. Antoinette St. James was haunting him. There was no pretending otherwise. His dick was a picky bastard.
He imagined her soft lips on his, kissing him rough and tumble like she did two years ago in the dark hospital room. He remembered how her tongue had slid against his, so needy and insistent. Like if she didn't kiss him, she was going to go crazy. And before he knew it, he was exploding in his hand, too quick to satisfy the deep need inside of him. Leaning a shoulder against the tile wall, he let the orgasm pulse through him, annoyed at himself despite the pleasure. He'd come just from thinking about kissing her.
Fuck.
He was so screwed.
Chapter 6
Toni wandered down the Queens street after exiting the train station. The map on her phone told her that the 163 rd ladder, O'Donovan's firehouse, was close. She'd called the hospital earlier and they told her he'd been discharged, so she'd headed for the firehouse. It was her best hope. Not that she was stalking him or anything.
She tamped down on the butterflies fluttering in her chest, telling herself that she was going to check up on him and that was all. If something more came of it, then so be it. She owed him. And she didn't give a damn if he liked it or not. Toni knew that she didn't know much about him, only that he had a permanent scowl and a dirty Irish mouth. He'd made it quite clear that he didn't want to be bothered. And yet, here she was, in the middle of Queens, seeking him out. Why was she so drawn to him? Her memories of him from that terrible night two years ago were so strong. The way he'd cradled her to his chest and kept her safe. She just had a feeling that he wasn't as big and bad as he tried to pretend. She knew how he'd responded to her kiss, too. He couldn't fake a
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