Firestorm - Ellie Masters Page 0,50

fills our empty glasses for the fifth time with an audible sigh. She plops a check on the table and spins around without a word.

“I guess we’ve been told it’s time to go,” I say.

Asher laughs. “I suppose so.”

My lack of sleeping accommodations—my lack of everything actually, weighs heavily on me. All I have is a phone, the clothes on my back, and a wallet full of fresh credit cards. In a small town like this, however, I don’t anticipate many late-night shopping opportunities.

Asher pays the bill, leaves a generous tip, and wraps his arm around my shoulders as we leave. Every chance he gets, he touches me. Whether it’s his hand on my back, an arm draped over my shoulder, or his fingers entwined with mine, we’re in constant physical contact.

He’s completely absorbed in me.

I’m not used to the attention, but I love it. The degree with which I love it makes me question some of my previous choices.

I’ve known Asher less than two weeks, yet feel closer to him than I ever did with Justin. Sure, Justin had a comfortable familiarity about him. Our history bound us together. We were good in bed, nothing earth-shattering, and I was happy.

Content.

But I wasn’t head over heels in love.

It never occurred to me how much of a spark Justin and I never shared.

It makes me sad. Sad for me. Sad for him. Sad that we were ready to commit our lives to each other without ever really being in love which each other.

Things are different with Asher, if I decide to head down that path. It’s not as if I’m head over heels in love with Asher. The spark igniting between us is too new, too incendiary. It’s combustible which makes it unreliable. We’re more likely to burn and crash than sustain whatever this is that’s happening between us.

The thing is, Asher appears more than eager to lead me into the inferno of what we can become. It’s written in the smoldering looks and the soft touches which linger longer than they should. The way his touch sets off a storm of electrical sparks shooting through my body, tells me I’m happy to follow. Yet, Asher doesn’t push.

The one kiss is all we’ve had, yet it reverberates inside of me with echoes of what might be.

The heat.

The passion.

The promise for more.

All it’ll take is one spark to kindle an awakening inside of me. The only question is will it burn through me like a firestorm, leaving nothing but destruction in its path? Or is it sustainable, a low simmering heat which can last a lifetime?

But as that fire burns, what price will it claim? This is what worries me the most. Will my memories of Justin fade away? Will my love for him be obliterated in the sizzling heat promised in the lusty gazes Asher so easily tosses my way?

Is that something I want?

Is it something I can live with?

When we head out to his truck, I pause.

“What’s wrong?” He spins me until I face him, placing both of his hands on my hips.

He towers over me and I brace against his overwhelming presence. There’s too much of him to take in.

“I’ve been so caught up in everything I haven’t really thought about where I’ll stay for the night. Not to mention I have no toothbrush and nothing but the clothes on my back. What are the chances there’s a store open this time of night?”

“There’s always the mother of all superstores. They’re open 24-7. It’s about a half-hour drive. Does that fit the bill?”

I cringe. I’m a bit more discerning in my tastes, but then I can generally afford to be. This is not the case right now, however.

“It’ll have to do. I should probably find a hotel first.”

“Hotel?” His brows pinch together and he rubs at the back of his neck. “I figured you’d stay with me.”

“You?”

“Sure.” He gives a shrug, like it’s a foregone conclusion. “I just assumed.”

That I would stay with him, or sleep with him?

Okay, I may be assuming the exact same thing, but I’m a little concerned. This is moving too fast. Can I handle a relationship that’s only about sex? Is that even considered a relationship? What does it mean when I want more? And I do want more. I don’t want to be a notch on Asher’s bedpost. The wild and free me simply doesn’t exist. My brain, and heart, are hard-wired for commitment. That may be a problem.

But if I’m going to