Page 57 of Into the Fire

“Dante.”

“—or the thing on the bark. If I had the map, I could probably put the tree within a hundred yards, and if the bright thing is what we both think it is, then what he was shouting—”

“Dante.” Boone glanced at me. “You don’t have to give me anything else.”

I stopped. “Right,” I said. “Sure. Don’t hand the concussed man a shovel. I’m not fragile, Boone. I’m telling you what I—”

“That’s not what I said.” He stopped the truck before pulling onto the county road. “You’re sitting there building maybes because you think you owe me the rest of that memory. You don’t. If your head gives us the rest, we’ll use it. If it never gives us another thing—I still believe you.”

We were both quiet as Boone pulled onto the county road. “Did you rehearse that?” I asked.

“No.”

“It sounded a bit rehearsed.” My voice broke on the last word. That made me furious. I couldn’t even be an ass about it properly.

Instead of driving to the base, he took the spur to his cabin. I watched him drive, and I wanted him.

At his house he took his boots off on the porch, and I took mine off next to them. Inside, he didn’t turn on the overhead light, just the lamp by the chair. He carried the notebook, map, and photograph through to the back. I heard a metal door swing shut. He was storing them in the gun safe bolted to the wall of the mudroom.

I ran the tap hot in the kitchen and washed the dust from Dutch’s cabin off my hands. It took two rounds of soap before the water ran clean.

“You hungry?” Boone asked behind me.

“Not yet.”

I dried my hands and hung the towel on the oven handle. I crossed the kitchen and kissed Boone with my clean hands on his face.

He kissed me back, and then he took hold of my wrists, not moving them, just holding on, and he closed the distance between us.

“I’m not ready to take you home,” he said.

He let go of my wrists and wrapped his arms around my waist.

“Bedroom’s down the hall,” I said. “I know the way now.” He laughed and then kissed me, walking me backward out of the kitchen.

He turned on a single lamp in the bedroom, the one on the nightstand.

We undressed each other slowly. When his shirt fell off his shoulders, I trailed my fingers down his chest. I unbuckled his belt, opened his jeans, and shoved them off his hips.

Black boxer briefs underneath, snug across his hips and thighs. Perfectly Boone.

He looked at me. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m appreciating.”

When I pulled them down, his cock came free, already hard.

Since leaving Silvertip five years ago, I’d learned to run sex like a jump: commit, execute, land, gather your gear, and know your exit before the door opens. My body kept waiting for that part to start.

It didn’t start. There was just Boone—and time.

“On the bed,” I said. I climbed over him and took my time about everything, mouth on his neck, and then down the scattered hair on his chest. His hands moved over my back, tracing the muscles.

When I settled between his legs, he breathed out long and slow and looked at me.