Page 9 of Wrong Number, Right Firefighter
I stepped inside, careful not to make too much noise. The cabin smelled like grilled cheese and lavender body wash. Her empty margarita glass still sat on the table, and the sandwich plate had been cleared.
A soft light came from the bedroom down the hall. I hesitated, but not for long.
I took off my boots by the door and padded in quietly. The door to the bedroom was open. She was curled on her side, the covers pulled up to her waist. One arm was tucked under her cheek. Her long, dark hair spilled across the pillow like ink.
But she wasn’t asleep.
She turned before I could say a word, eyes heavy-lidded but clearly still awake. “You came.”
I swallowed. “I shouldn’t have.”
“But you did.”
“Camille…”
She sat up, the sheets sliding down her chest to reveal the oversized T-shirt she’d changed into. Her thighs were bare beneath the hem.
“I meant what I said,” she whispered. “And I know you did too.”
I stayed just inside the doorway, jaw tight. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Yes, I do.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, bare feet silent against the floor as she crossed the room toward me. “I’m not looking for a fairytale. I’m not asking for promises. I just want this. With you.”
My hands flexed at my sides. “You don’t know me,” I said quietly.
“Then tell me.”
I looked at her—really looked at her—and something inside me cracked. “I’ve hurt people. Not physically. Not like that. But I’ve left a trail of women behind me who thought I could give them something I wasn’t capable of. I love the feeling of being needed. But I don’t…stay. I’ve tried. And it always ends the same.”
She reached up and touched my chest, right over my heart. “Why?”
“Because something always feels wrong after. Like I gave too much too fast. Like I said yes to something I wasn’t ready to hold onto.” I looked down, met her eyes. “I don’t want to do that to you.”
“You won’t.”
“You think that because I cooked you a sandwich and moved you onto your side like some kind of hero. But I’m not. I’m?—”
She silenced me with a touch. Her fingers slid down my chest, slow and light. Her voice was steady.
“You’re not perfect,” she said. “Good. Neither am I.”
She reached for the hem of her shirt and lifted it over her head in one slow movement. My breath caught as she stood in front of me, bare and unashamed.
“I’ve waited twenty-three years,” she said. “Not because I was afraid of sex. Not because I’m some prude. But because I wanted the first time to mean something. I wanted it to be mine. My choice.”
She stepped closer. I didn’t move.
“You don’t have to love me, Scoop. You don’t have to promise forever. But I know you’ll be kind. I know you’ll make me feel safe. And right now, that’s all I want.”
I still didn’t touch her.
Her fingers traced the waistband of my jeans, slow and deliberate. My pulse pounded in my throat as she undid the button, then the zipper, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet room.
I should stop her.
I didn’t.
Her hand slid inside, warm and sure, and I hissed through my teeth as her fingers wrapped around me. A groan tore from my chest before I could stop it, my hips jerking forward of their own damn accord.
