“Oh, oh, oh!” she screamed, tipped over so fast as Dylan lunged for her, tongue lapping fast, Mike’s fingers in her, the vibrator plunging at her entrance, only in a few inches, though, the clamping and contractions of her pussy walls nearly torpedoing it into the shower wall. Huge spasms made her hips ache and howl, her body squirting now, the effort enormous compared to non-pregnant orgasms, the release four times harder than she was accustomed to experiencing.
Climaxing was anti-climatic, though—what she wanted now were strong arms to slump into, and preferably four of them. Someone to rub her feet. Another someone to get her favorite ice cream.
Instead, she got to finish her shower, towel off, somehow twist her way into her jammies and climb into bed, her cats curling up against her. They didn’t quite count as those four arms, but as the day faded into sunset and she patted her growing belly, she whispered, “Good night, sweet baby girl,” resolved to tell the guys in the morning.
It was time to be a grown up about this. To act like someone’s mom.
To stop being Ryan.
Chapter Seven
Wah wah wah wah 345 wah, Somerville, Dylan heard, his ears ringing as he sat up fast, the cold night air hitting his bare chest when the down comforter slid to his waist. The dispatcher’s words sounded so familiar.
When she repeated the address again, his blood ran cold. Then the words: multi-unit fire.
If you had told him even a year ago that he could move that quickly, shove on pants and boots and a jacket, be down God knows how many sets of stairs and out the door and in his car in less than two minutes, he’d have told you were a fool.
Tonight? Not tonight, though, because that was Laura’s address the dispatcher just announced, followed by the words multi-unit fire. Blood pumping hard, he fumbled for his phone (thank God it was still in his pants from yesterday) and as he peeled out of the garage he tapped through his Contacts list to Mike.
Multi-unit fire.
Weaving across two lanes, he sped to her place, the drive inching by so slowly. The dashboard clock read 3:11 a.m. Shit. Mike might not answer. Mr. New Age sometimes turned the damn phone off for peace and serenity and all that shit that he’d surely left behind the last time Dylan saw him. Please let him answer. Please don’t have blocked him.
Please.
Multi-unit fire.
“’Lo?” Mike’s voice. Dylan shot through a red light and prayed, making a sudden turn on a one-way street that might buy him an extra minute. Or kill him. Either chance was equally possible.
He put it on speaker. “Laura’s apartment is on fire.” Not the time for preliminaries.
“WHAT!” Mike’s voice went up an octave.
“Sorry to be so blunt. Get over to her apartment. You remember where it is?”
Mike’s voice had a weird quality to it. “Oh, yeah. I do. Just—shit! Just save her, Dylan.” Click.
Multi-unit fire.
Ask for so little, Buddy. He took a right so hard he thought the Audi might flip, but damn if that fine European engineering didn’t come in handy when you’re doing 77 mph on Mass Ave. If a cop saw him, he was toast.
No cops yet.
Two minutes.
Multi-unit fire.
In a multi-unit fire, two minutes could mean death. Block that thought, Dylan, his mind shouted at him.
One minute. He heard sirens, ears perked, discerning the direction. Going away from her part of town. Damn it! He might beat them all at this rate. He shot through four different stop signs, hoping like hell no one was walking an unleashed dog in the middle of the night, and slammed on his brakes, halting in the middle of an intersection, running for her building.
Smoke poured out of the basement windows. Fuck fuck fuck. That could make the first floor—literally, the floor itself—a structural nightmare, depending on where the actual fire was. Firefighter mind battled with his lover’s (ex-lover’s) mind and love won out as he sprinted up the steps and felt the front door using the back of his hand. Cool.
Red lights and his all-too-familiar siren sound caught his attention, the truck making its slow turn. “Stanwyck!” someone shouted. Murphy. Dylan waved as felt the locked doorknob, then kicked in the door. A mother with two teens ran past him, followed by a young woman, college-age, carrying a cat and dragging her bike.
Laura. His mind raced, plotting out the scene. No heat—yet—but tons of smoke. Crouching, he found clear air on the ground and began feeling his way to her front door. Just feet away, he felt it; cool. Locked.
“Thank God,” he muttered, two bodies moving past him as he heard the steady thump thump thump of fireman making their way cautiously upstairs. A loud clanging from below; a different crew was sourcing the fire, figuring out the focal point to work on containment and the level of danger.