Embers (Blaze Series Book 3) (3 page)

A persistent buzzing noise pulls me from
sleep. I’m lying flat on my back, on my bed, and the room is almost completely
dark except for a swirling blue light on the wall by my feet. I sit up and see
my laptop on the floor, open. I have the screensaver to thank for the disco
lights dancing on the wall.

The buzzing continues and I’m aware enough
to recognize it as my phone vibrating against something hard. I locate it on a
shelf by the window, and answer as I fall back onto the bed.

“Hello?” My voice is scratchy so I turn my
head and clear my throat.

“Damn it. I woke you up. I’m sorry.” Sam
sounds frustrated.

“It’s okay. What’s going on?”

“Sounded like your friends were having a
good time earlier. I wanted to make sure you got home okay.”

“Huh?” I pull the phone away from my face
and squint at the display. It’s nearly one in the morning. When I put the phone
back to my ear, I catch Sam mid-sentence.

“. . . think you butt-dialed me. I could
hear laughing, music, drinking. I was on duty so I couldn’t call you back.”

I groan. “Oh, God. Did you hear anything
bad?”

“No, just some girl trying to talk you into
tequila shots.”

“That would be Nat. Normally, a bad
influence, but tonight I came home like a good little girl. No tequila shots
for me.” I roll onto my side, wrapping one leg over the blanket.

“And now you’re in bed,” he says, and I hear
the smile on his face, those dimples flashing through the stubble.

“Now I’m in bed.”

“So am I. You know, that’s my one regret
with letting you go. Never got to have you here, in my bed.”

It’s barely a whisper, a tickle really, yet
I shiver.

“Sam . . .”

“Hmm?”

“Tell me about your day.” I say this a
little too brightly, and when he sighs, I feel like shit. “It’s just—”

“No. I get it. What do you want to hear
about first? The vandalism at the pet store or the two meth heads we busted
pissing off the Westgate Bridge?”

“I never turn down a meth head story.”

He chuckles and starts his story. By the
time he’s done, we’re both laughing, the awkward moment forgotten. It’s not I
don’t
want
to talk about being in Sam’s bed. Hell, I
want
to be
in his bed. But that can’t happen now. What sense does it make to torture us
both?

Besides, romantic entanglements aren’t at
the top of my priority list right now—work and my book are. I can’t be
distracted by thoughts of being in anyone’s bed.

“Katy? Did you fall asleep?” He sounds more
amused than worried.

“Huh? No. I’m . . . thinking.”

“I should let you go anyway. I’ve got an
early call tomorrow.”

“Okay. Listen, it’s not that I don’t want to
. . . it’s just . . . we said—”

“You need to figure things out, Katy. I
promise. It’s fine. I just wanted to hear your voice. That’s okay to say,
right?”

I smile despite the sadness sitting on my
chest. “Of course.”

After we hang up, I consider tackling the
manuscript again. It feels good to write about someone who’s the kind of person
I want to be. Samantha Stone says all the things I’d never say and doesn’t
second-guess her decisions.

Finding a creative outlet for all the guilt
I feel is tempting, but it will have to wait. My body is telling me the two
hours of sleep I had before Sam called isn’t enough. I tighten my grip on the
blanket and close my eyes. One of my last thoughts as sleep takes me is of Sam,
and whether I should have admitted that I wanted to hear his voice, too.

He’s standing framed in the doorway. All
I can see is the silhouette of his body, the way he holds himself. It’s still
dark and I struggle back to consciousness; the warm fogginess of sleep doesn’t
want to let me go just yet. The cold lights of the moon and the city, streaming
in through the window behind him, wash over him, defining the contours of his
shoulders, the broad muscles of his chest, in lines of shadow.

When I move to get a better look at him,
I feel the cool touch of silk against my naked body. The sheets whisper secrets
against my skin. The touch is cool against the slenderness of my thighs, the
curve of my hips. I want to feel his skin above me, pushing against the silk
below.

He walks into the dark room, moving with
that lazy grace that drives me wild. The familiar warmth starts to build
between my legs and I drop a casual hand down, cupping myself. Feeling the
wetness there. He stands by the bed, his cock hard and arrogant, standing
straight up against his flat stomach.

He leans over me to kiss me. His kiss is
soft and tastes sweet, like honey drizzled over my lips. My body arches of its
own accord, offering itself to him.

I trail a hand down his torso, feeling
the warm, unyielding slabs of muscle that are his pecs. Then the grooves of his
abs. Further down, further down . . . and then my hand encircles him, feeling
the throbbing of blood through his cock. I run my palm over the tip, and a
sticky strand connects us for a moment.

Then I’m rolling off the bed, going to my
knees. The carpet is rough, a sensation a whole universe away from the silk.
But I don’t care, I don’t care. Not when I’m settling my lips over the hard
length of him, not when I’m touching my tongue to the tip of his cock, and that
slick, salty taste is blooming on my tongue.

He hisses in pleasure, his head thrown
back, his face merging with the shadows that haunt the corners of the ceiling.
For a moment he pulses between my lips, then he’s moving me back onto the bed.
A tiny sound of disappointment escapes me; I love it when he explodes over my
tongue. But it’s all washed away as he settled between my thighs, his mouth
opening, his tongue flicking over my pussy.

I surrender to the sensation; it’s as if
the whole room is pulsing to the beating of my heart. A line of fire races
after the touch of his tongue; molten fire that threatens to make me melt. I’m
lost in him, the sensation settles over me like thick blankets. There’s no
escape from this, no escape from his love.

He pulls back and kisses me again. I
taste myself on his lips. I suck his lower lip, nipping at it gently with my
teeth. I rake my fingers down his back. I want to leave scars on him, so he’s
got me on his skin for always.

He plunges inside me with one swift
stroke and I scream. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, all I’ve ever needed. My pussy
is the whole world and he’s inside it, inside me. He’s everything. There’s
nothing else but his thrusts, swift and sure. I squeeze him with all the
muscles I have inside me; I want to hold onto him forever.

He thickens inside me and I know he’s
close to the edge. I bite his shoulder, and cling to him, shaking, while his
orgasm hits, and his warmth pumps out into me, right into the heart of my body.

I fall back, exhausted. My head is
plastered to my forehead. He collapses, his breath like the screaming of a freight
train’s engine.

“I love you,” I breathe out. It’s all I
can say. “I love you, Gabriel.”

And then I wake.

I look around the room, wild-eyed. There’s
no one here, no phantom lover. My heart is pounding inside my chest.

Jesus, that was real. And Christ. That
was Gabriel.

My sheets are soaked under my ass. I
remember every moment of the dream. I’ve never had an experience so vivid.

The sheets aren’t silk, but they’re warm and
comforting. The pillows aren’t silk either, but once I’ve got my head settled
back down my eyelids are heavy again. I think of the dream, hoping I’ll
recapture it once I’ve gone back to sleep.

I might not know what I want, but I know
what makes me feel good. And when it comes to dreams, that’s enough.

I’ve never heard of this place before, a
little café at the valley end of California St.
The Salmon Crisp.
But it
looks like Amy has surprised me again. The woman I thought was the biggest
button-down bitch in the world has levels within her I never would have
suspected.

That keeps happening
, I think ruefully as I push the door open. The little bell jingles
and a waiter scoots over to me dutifully.

“Well, hey there,” he says, and his smile
widens. “God, I hope you came to see me.”

“Sorry.” I laugh him off with a pretend
clutch at my heart. “I’m sure you’re very charming. But I’m here to see her.”

And I point out Amy, looking relaxed for
once, her hair loose around her shoulders. Perhaps it’s just seeing her outside
of the office, but she looks younger, relaxed, almost like a different person.

She’s sipping from a cup of hot tea and she
eyes me over the brim of it as I sit down, shrugging out of my heavy gray jacket.

“So does it happen everywhere you go?” she
asks, leaning back in her chair. “Men throwing themselves at you? Famous
authors and waiters alike?”

I blush.

“No, it really doesn’t,” I say. “Lately . .
. I don’t know. I must just be on a roll, you know?”

She shakes her head.

“No, I can’t say I do. Must be nice.”

I blush again.

“OK,” she says matter-of-factly, and for an
instant, Old Amy is back. “I didn’t ask you here to talk about your love life.
Lord knows, you must have gotten enough of that.”

She pulls some papers from her bag and
stacks them neatly on the table. The waiter hovers nearby, obviously not
wanting to interrupt. I take pity on him.

“A coffee please,” I call out. He nods and
disappears.

“Snow Publishing is in a shitload of
trouble,” Amy says, and I blink. Did a curse word really just come out of her
mouth? “But you know all this already,” she continues. “What we need to work
out is what to do next.”

I stare at the checkered yellow-and-white
tablecloth for a moment before my gaze goes back up to Amy’s eyes.

“What do you want to do?”

The words burst out of me. I’ve had them
penned up inside me since all of this has started, and finally, I just have to
trust Amy. We’re plotting a mutiny here, and if I’m going to be a part of it, I
have to start somewhere.

Amy plays with the bag in her tea for a
moment before answering.

“When I first got to San Francisco,” she
says, and I can’t help but interrupt.

“I thought you were from here?” I ask,
unable to keep the surprise from my voice.

“No,” she says. “No, no. When was the last
time you met someone who was actually
from
here? No, I come from Boston.
I moved out here when I was . . . well, when I was about the age you are now.”

She drinks her tea.

“I wanted to be a writer,” she says simply.
“A journalist and a non-fiction writer. I thought I had what it took to write
about what was important. Of course, that was very hard to do, and I didn’t
have much money. So after a few months of trying to find work, which I found a
little of, now and then, at this magazine or that paper, I took up a
copyediting job. And that paid the bills, but it left me with less time.”

She stops for a moment and plays with her
cup.

“And I met a man, and so that left even
less
time, and before too long all the spare time I had I had to spend sleeping.
Then I got married, and well . . . let’s just say life wasn’t too kind.”

She sighs.

“And now here I am, and I’ve been editing
for so long it’s all I really know how to do. So I’m going to keep doing that.

“And I want you to do it with me,” she says.
“I need an acquisitions editor. I’ve been around long enough to know who would
back a new venture. I can get the investors. My question is—is that work you’d
want to do?”

I want to ask so many things. But Amy’s
waiting for my answer, appeal written all over her face. And I realize: she
really wants me for this job. I smile, and relief breaks like a wave over her
features.

“I’d love to,” I say. “I can’t thank you
enough for offering me this. So yes. Sign me up.”

She doesn’t say anything, just finishes the
rest of her tea with a deeply pleased smile.

“In fact,” I say gingerly, and her eyes
flick back up to me, watchful. “I might have something in mind. Something I’ve
been working on myself.”

And before I know what I’m doing, I’m
breaking down the whole Samantha Stone book to her. Who the character is
(badass), how much shit she takes (none), and how many books I can see in the
series (dozens).

Amy muses over the information.

“She sounds like Stephanie Plum with a badge
and a right hook,” she says finally. I start laughing.

“Okay,” Amy says. “I know your talent. I can
give you an advance of five grand. It’s not much, but it’s all I can muster
right now. Especially as you’ll be doing all the work on the book yourself.”

My jaw drops. Five grand?

OK, I know that for the Gabriel Calls of the
world, that’s a new pair of cufflinks. But for Amy to offer me an advance like
that, when I’ve got exactly zero publishing credits to my name… well, it’s a
better sign than any other that I’m making the right choice.

And when you look at my bank balance… no
matter what it is for anyone else, for me, five grand is a
fortune.

When the check comes, Amy goes to pay for it
and I grab the plate from her hand.

“Least I can do,” I say with a grin.