Page 27 of The Blaze Between Us

I'm still riding the aftershocks of my orgasm when his movements become more urgent and less controlled.

"Tasha," he warns, his voice tight. "I should pull out—"

"No," I hear myself say, wrapping my legs around him despite the twinge in my ankle. "Don't."

He searches my eyes for a moment, then thrusts deep one final time, his whole body tensing as he finds his release. I feel him pulsing inside me, warmth flooding my core as he fills me with his seed, spurt after spurt until he collapses, careful to brace his weight on his forearms.

No man has ever touched me before, let alone finished inside me. It's an intimacy I hadn't anticipated—feeling him release within me, the warmth of it, the primal satisfaction of knowing he found his pleasure in my body. I feel it dripping from me onto the couch, but in this moment, I can't bring myself to care about such trivial concerns.

Brock raises himself slightly, looking down at me with an expression of wonder, like he can't quite believe what just happened.

"You're incredible," he says, his voice rough but gentle. "So beautiful."

Reality begins to seep back in as our breathing steadies. I'm suddenly, acutely aware of my nakedness, of the vulnerability of my position.

"I'm a bit embarrassed now," I admit, fighting the urge to cover myself. "Being naked like this, after..."

He takes my hand, twining our fingers together. "Never be embarrassed with me," he says firmly. "There is nothing—absolutely nothing—wrong with you or your body. You're perfect exactly as you are."

The sincerity in his voice brings unexpected tears to my eyes, which I blink away hurriedly.

"Well, there might be something wrong with the fact that I just had sex with my best friend's dad," I point out, trying to lighten the moment even as the reality of what we've done begins to sink in.

He chuckles, shaking his head as he pulls out, leaving an emptiness that I immediately miss.

"That's going to be a problem," he acknowledges, reaching for his discarded t-shirt to gently clean between my legs. "I have no idea how to tell my daughter."

"First," he continues, his expression turning serious, "we need to decide what happens next. Because I can tell you right now, Tasha, this wasn't just physical for me. I want to know you better, to see where this could go. If that's something you want too."

I stare at him in disbelief, my heart hammering in my chest. Is he really saying what I think he's saying? The words I've secretly wanted to hear since I first saw his photo on Ellie's desk years ago?

"I want that too," I confess, my voice barely above a whisper. "I know it won't be easy, with the distance and... everything else. But I'm willing to work for it. To make this work."

The radiant smile that spreads across his face transforms his features with a joy that takes years off his appearance. He leans down to kiss me again, this time with gentle affection rather than desperate hunger.

"We'll figure it out," he promises against my lips. "Together."

As he pulls away to retrieve our scattered clothing, I watch him move through his living room, confident in his skin in a way I aspire to be in mine.

In the meantime, the reality of what's happened—of what might happen next—feels simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating. I, Tasha, just lost my virginity to Brock Sullivan. On his couch. With a sprained ankle.

And somehow, despite all the complications it will bring, it feels like the beginning of something rather than a mistake to regret.

Epilogue - Brock

Three years later

"Chief, we're running low on the non-alcoholic punch," Lewis calls from across the station bay, where folding tables have been transformed into a makeshift buffet.

"On it," I reply, shifting my sleeping son to my other shoulder as I head toward the kitchen.

The fire station looks nothing like its usual. Colorful balloons and streamers hang from the ceiling, a banner reading "HAPPY 1ST BIRTHDAY JAMES" spans the wall where our gear usually hangs, and the vehicles have been moved outside to make room for tables, chairs, and the small crowd of people celebrating my son's first year of life.

James Sullivan. My miracle. Our miracle.

His warm weight against my chest still amazes me daily—the trust with which he sleeps in my arms, the subtle scent of baby shampoo, and something indefinably his own. Even after a year, I sometimes find myself staring at him in wonder, marveling that at forty-seven, life granted me this unexpected second chance at fatherhood.

I spot Tasha across the room, deep in conversation with Max and Jennie, her hands animated as she tells some story that has them both laughing. My wife—still a thrill to think of her that way—catches my eye and smiles, that same smile that knocked me sideways the day I showed up at the cabin doorstep three years ago.

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