Page 48 of Controlled Burn
The thread they were walking on was thin.
And it was only a matter of time before someone snapped it.
Chapter 18
Decontamination
Talia
Even after the inspection was over, the pressure in the air clung to her like sweat and smoke. Eyes tracked her everywhere—Watts watching for her to slip, Hastings circling like a shark, Maddox moving through the station tight as a wire. Controlled. Barely.
She didn’t have time to decompress. Because tones dropped.
Structure fire. Third-floor apartment. Smoke showing. Possible entrapment.
Talia threw on her gear with practiced speed, every snap and strap tightening her nerves. She climbed into the ladder’screw cab, wedged behind the officer’s seat—behind him. Captain Maddox. Her secret. Her problem.
From here, all she could see was the hard line of his neck, helmet pressed low, shoulders broad and squared. But the flush creeping up his skin told the truth: he was fighting it, the heat between them burning hotter than anything outside.
The rig roared through traffic, sirens screaming, every bump jarring her closer to the edge.
She tried not to stare. Tried to focus. But she could only remember the way he’d looked at her across the bay—like he’d already stripped her down with his eyes, like he could taste her name on his tongue.
He turned, met her gaze once across the cab. “You’re with me. Primary search.”
Her mouth went dry. She nodded. “Copy.” And followed him into the fire.
Inside, the heat punched like a fist. Visibility: zero. Smoke thick as velvet, walls closing in.
But with Maddox leading, she felt invincible. His voice cut through the chaos, calm, deep, a lifeline in hell. They cleared rooms in practiced tandem—one, two. No victims. Third room: a dog, shaking under the bed.
Talia crawled low, soot clouding her mask, coaxed it out, passed it to Ryan at the stairs, then spun to follow Maddox deeper. Her heart hammered for reasons that had nothing to do with fire.
She didn’t have to see him to feel him. His presence filled every shadow, every foot of hallway. And somewhere under bunker gear, her body ached for something that had nothing to do with the job.
They returned to the station drenched in sweat and smoke, nerves still shot with adrenaline. Talia stripped her gear insilence—jacket, boots, pants—her hands trembling for reasons she’d never admit out loud.
She didn’t say a word. She just moved, pulled by a need she couldn’t ignore.
Helmet off. Hood discarded. She walked to the decontamination room as if she were chasing oxygen.
The door clicked shut behind her, and locked.
She barely had time to turn before Maddox was there—still in bunker pants, undershirt painted to his chest with sweat. The cotton clung to the thick muscles of his pecs, every line of his abs defined, his waist narrowing to that perfect V that vanished below the elastic.
His eyes were wild—hungry, ruined.
He didn’t speak. He just crossed the room and grabbed her, hands rough and shaking, hauling her up and setting her on the warm, humming dryer. The vibration ran straight through her, making her legs fall open.
He dropped to his knees.
Rough fingers hooked her waistband and yanked both her station pants and panties down in one motion, boots be damned, baring her to the cool air, her thighs parted on instinct.
She gripped the edge of the dryer, knuckles white, the other hand tangling in his short brown hair as he dove in.
He didn’t warm her up—he devoured. His mouth was greedy, tongue relentless, scraping her clit with the perfect edge of his teeth, then sucking hard until she broke apart, hips jerking against his face, the drum humming under her spine. His hands squeezed her thighs, bruising, pinning her open for his mouth. He groaned, the sound vibrating through her, deeper, hungrier, as if he could live off her pleasure.
“Talia,” he growled, voice hoarse, filthy, “I’ve been losing my mind. Thinking about you. About this. You ruin me.”
