Without warning he closed the remaining distance between them, shoving his hips between her legs. His erection was hard against her lower belly and she instinctively rubbed herself into the thick length. He shoved her against the wall and cold bottles pressed into her spine.
Anguish came at her then, fierce and sudden.
Tony was dead. And she was in a bar with a stranger. What was she doing? She needed to pull herself together and get back out there to clean up his cottage—and find the person who'd lit the fire that had taken his life.
Her stomach twisted up and her skin felt cold and clammy as reality threatened to break through. But then the bartender ran his lips and teeth over her jawline, down her neck, and Maya let herself get lost again in his touch, let his kisses shroud her in temporary safety.
She arched her neck back, shivering in gratitude, losing herself in this stranger. He moved his hands over her br**sts and his thumbs brushed across her hard ni**les a moment before his mouth covered her, first through her tank top and then—oh God—his tongue flicked over bare skin, demanding an arousal she'd never known before.
She shifted into his mouth, wanting more friction, more heat. Her elbow caught a bottle and it crashed to the ground. The scent of bourbon pervaded everything; a fitting backdrop to their fierce, anonymous love-making.
The stranger gave no indication of having heard the bottle shatter and with every rasping kiss he planted on her feverish skin, reality and broken glass moved further into the distance. He stood again and captured her mouth, robbing her brain of the ability to follow the direction of his hands, to realize he'd unzipped her jeans. His fingers slid into her damp pubic hair, her wetness.
She wasn't shocked by anything but the force of her need as she bucked her hips into his hands, silently begging him to enter her. His kiss was ruthless, his mouth never leaving hers, his tongue moving in time to his fingers as they slipped and slid, in then out of her desperate body.
She'd never been this out of control, never wanted to come so bad. She clawed at his back, his hips, using all of her strength to pull him into her. He obliged and his clothed erection joined his hands between her legs, thrusting, pushing harder and harder. An orgasm took her, pulling her under wave after wave of intense pleasure.
Maya was caught in the middle of a beautiful, violent ocean. Drowning, she cried out, begging for help, but she was too far gone.
Sudden sobs wracked her frame with as much force as her ongoing climax and she was powerless to control either of them. The only thing she could do was hold on to the man between her legs.
The weeping stopped Logan Cain dead in his tracks. This had been consensual, hadn't it? She'd grabbed his shirt, not the other way around. Still, he should have known better than to make out with a woman who looked that unhappy.
The problem was, Logan hadn't had a woman in nearly six months. And damn, did this one look good when she'd banged on the door to his friend's restaurant. She'd demanded to come in and have a drink, but he would have let her in anyway, with her long dark hair, br**sts that were peaking from the cool breeze coming in off the lake, and an ass so round and sweet it could make a guy cry.
One fire after another had burned up his entire spring, summer, and most of the fall. Every fourteen days he'd gotten two days to sleep like the dead and refuel. And then it was back to the mountains—downing trees, lighting backfires, clearing fire lines, and hiking twenty miles with 150 pounds of water and chainsaws on his back.
Being a wildland firefighter was the best damn job in the world, whether he was protecting a thousand acres of old-growth forest or saving houses at the forest's edge when the owners had already given up hope that they'd have a home to return to.
Logan never forgot for one second how lucky he was to be a hotshot. Firefighting had saved his life, had given him a way to channel his innate wildness—and his teenage anger—for something good. Fifteen years later, sleeping on rocks under a cloud of black smoke was still as good as the Ritz, but six months of near celibacy sucked. Particularly if it was a dry year and people were stupid about cigarette butts and weed-whacking.
Or, in some cases, if an arsonist had an axe to grind.
Which was why he'd been happy to let this woman think he was a real bartender, especially since his friend Eddie Myers, who owned the place, wouldn't be back for at least an hour. Hell yes, she'd seemed like the perfect way to break this summer's dry spell.
After the way she'd demanded to get inside for a drink he should have known better than to touch her golden skin, should have kept his mouth and hands off of the sexy stranger. But she'd tasted so sweet. And he'd been stunned by the instant electricity between them. He hadn't wanted a woman this much in years.
As quickly as the woman's crying started, it stopped. Her arms went slack around his chest. After aiding frantic fire survivors his entire adult life, Logan knew to move slowly, carefully.
Her pupils were huge and for a minute he didn't think she actually saw him. Suddenly, her gaze focused.
“Oh God.”
He had to ask her the tough question first. “Did you want this?”
She blinked once, then twice. “No,” she said. “God no.”
Fuck. She was gong to turn him in for something he hadn't done. Not on his own anyway. But that didn't matter, not when the Forest Service honchos would have to pull him from his crew until they'd settled their investigation into the matter. All because of a few hot kisses.
She wasn't looking at him anymore as she jumped away. Shards of glass crunched beneath her shoes.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered, almost to herself.
She was sorry? He hadn't been expecting an apology, that was for sure.
She flicked another glance at him. “I didn't mean for this to happen. For us to nearly …”
Her words fell away and he watched her carefully. She was skittish and unpredictable and he was long past wanting to get in her pants. Her tears put that fire out completely. Regardless, every instinct in him said she was in trouble. He put his life on the line year in and year out to protect people. Hell, when he was seventeen years old help had come his way when he most needed it. He couldn't walk away from trouble now, not even if it was the smart thing to do.
“Do you need help?”
She backed away even farther, knocking into the dark paneled wall with her shoulder. She shook her head.
“I'm sorry,” she said again. “I shouldn't have come here. It was wrong.”