“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 pus**sy 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 f**k 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.
Kicking in his second door in less than thirty seconds, his heard the splintering of the threshold, bent down again and shouted “Laura!”
No answer. Some memory gnawed away at him, how horrified she'd been (but had tried to hide it) when he'd mentioned fire safety in her building on that first date. Her unease, a pained look in her eyes. Fear? A victim?
Bullhorn. Dylan couldn't make out the words he heard outside, but he knew the crew worked to remove everyone from the building. He guessed six units, but it could have been more. As he crawled through the tiny apartment he felt a wave of adrenaline, then gratitude, that she lived in such a small place. Finding her would be easy.
But what if you find her dead? a voice crept in. He shoved it away and felt, hand by hand on the wall, along the perimeter of her place. Living room, kitchen, no dining room, a bathroom, and then – bedroom.
“Laura!” The smoke was rising up through vents in the floor, especially near the forced hot water heaters against each wall. As he moved, eyes closed, he cursed himself for not grabbing a mask. Stupid stupid stupid, violating ten years of careful work. Emotions put people in jeopardy, Joe had taught them, and now he was caught in his own emotional turmoil, the blaze endangering them both.
Mike would kill him if he couldn't save Laura. He half blamed Dylan for Jill's death anyway, irrational as it was. If something happened to Laura...
Something brushed against him, too small to be human. Cat? She had three cats, right? In the darkness he coughed, then shouted her name again, the cat long gone. “Laura! It's Dylan!”
“Dylan?” a little voice cried out. Left. It was to his left. Moving away from the wall, he violated what he'd been taught, disorienting himself. The bed, thankfully, was close. Instinct surged within him as she came into view, huddled under the covers, two cats guarding her.
“Get off the bed now, Laura,” he ordered, steel in his voice. The cats scattered. She was trembling and likely half in shock.
“I can't,” she mewled. How could a grown woman's voice be so tiny? Something was off, but this wasn't the time for psychology. He stood, grabbed her, and pulled her off the bed roughly. No time to be kind. Her body fell in a funny way, more awkward and bulkier than he expected.
“You can and you will,” he said gruffly. The smoke was thicker now above, and he could feel the heat from below. They had a minute here, maybe two.
“Stanwyck!” someone shouted. Murphy. “You in there?”
“Back bedroom. One female. Still conscious. I got her.” His arms were on her shoulders and she was struggling to stand.
“Don't stand. We have to crawl out now. The smoke is too thick.”
Murphy shined a bright flashlight in the room, illuminating what little could be seen in the two feet above the floor. “This way out!” he shouted. “Two minutes, max!”
“The cats! And grandma and grandpa!” Laura cried, trying to stand and walk toward Murphy. He could see her shins and knees and then nothing – grey.
Yanking her hand, hard, he made her fall. “The cats are probably outside by now. Don't stand!” he warned, nearly growling. “Follow me!” Fear made him a lousy leader. And what did she mean by “grandma” and “grandpa”?
“Are your grandparents here, Laura?”
“No!” she wailed. “They diiiiied.” Her voice took on a keening tone and she began to rock. Oh, shit. No time for this.
“Crawl!” he ordered. Murphy started toward them on all fours, the line of light bobbing and weaving in his hand.
“I can't! The baby!” She sat on her as**s and began what looked like an agonizing crab walk, her as**s dragging.
Baby? Baby?
Murphy's flashlight ray landed on her belly in that instant, illuminating a very obvious mound. She was pregnant? A zing of every emotion he'd ever felt, from joy to agony, flashed through him.
Grabbing the covers off the bed, he thew them on the ground and spread them out. “Get on,” he barked. Somehow, her addled state cleared enough for her to comply.
“Murphy! Help!” he begged. Crawling, he dragged Laura a few feet using one hand. The hardwood floors were a godsend right now. “Clear the way – remove the area rugs!”
“Done!” the gruff man shouted.
Two more pulls and Dylan barely had her in the living room. He was doing this wrong. Murphy came in and planted himself in front of Laura.
“I'll pull, you push,” Murph suggested. Within seconds they had it figured out, blind and coughing, freeing her into the hallway which was blessedly more clear. Dylan stood, slid his arms under her, and ran out into the fresh air, hefting Laura delicately.
