Page 11 of Let it Burn
He chuckles. “You’re absolutely flustered.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Maybe. But I like what I’m imagining.”
That right there? That slow, teasing burn in his tone? It lights a fire low in my belly that I haven’t felt in a long, long time. And for the first time in years, I don’t feel fear. I feel wanted. I feel warm. I feel seen.
And that might be even scarier.
I grip his phone tighter, pretending to focus, but all I can feel is the heat coming off him, the way he smells like sawdust and coffee and safety.
“You’re not making this easy,” I murmur, my voice barely steady.
“Not trying to,” he replies, that lazy, low voice curling around me like smoke. I lift my gaze and he’s already looking—at me, through me, like he knows every reason I should walk away but is daring me to stay.
A slow, burning heat ripples through me not just desire, but something deeper. A stirring. An awakening. For so long, I’ve been numb, playing it safe, living small. But now? Now my gorgeous-as-fuck firefighter neighbor is looking at me like I’m the only woman on the planet. Like I’m not broken. Like I’m worth every second of his attention. And for once, I don’t want to shrink away from it. I want to lean in. I want to be reckless. I want to live. Maybe it’s foolish. Maybe it’s messy. But maybe it’s time Lena stops surviving—and starts feeling alive again.
“Zeke,” I whisper, heart thudding.
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to do something really stupid now.”
His lips twitch. “I hope so.”
I set the phone down, reach up with shaking fingers to touch the scruff on his jaw, and when he doesn’t pull away, I lean in and kiss him. Soft at first, hesitant, but the moment our mouths meet, it’s like I’ve been starved and didn’t know until now. His hand settles at my hip, warm and sure, not demanding, just there—and my fingers curl into the front of his shirt like I need something to hold onto because I’m falling fast. The kiss deepens, slow and consuming, his lips moving over mine like he’s savoring every breath, every part of me I thought I’d lost.
When I finally pull back, breathless and stunned, he’s just as wrecked, his voice thick when he murmurs, “Told you I liked what I was imagining.” He hardly finishes his sentence before I claim his lips again.
The kiss deepens. He groans into my mouth, low and rough, and suddenly I’m not the only one shaking. His hand tightens on my waist, then slides lower, anchoring me against him—and God, he’s solid everywhere. Hard muscle pressed against every soft curve I’ve tried to hide for years.
Zeke pulls back just enough to whisper, “Tell me to stop, and I will. Just say the words.” But I don’t. I can’t. I’m already arching toward him, my fingers curling into his shirt like I’ll come undone if I let go.
“Don’t stop.” That’s all it takes.
And then it’s all heat. Hands everywhere. Breaths that aren’t mine.
Zeke lifts me onto the kitchen counter like he’s been dreaming about doing it since the moment we met. The cool stone kisses the backs of my thighs, but he’s already there, stepping between them, swallowing my gasp with a kiss that turns rougher by the second. His hands grip my waist like I’m something precious and breakable—but he’s not treating me like glass. No. He’s handling me like he owns every curve, every soft place, like he knows I need this—need him—to forget the fear, the loneliness, the years of being unseen. I need this so badly.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he growls against my mouth, dragging his lips along my jaw, down to my neck where he sucks, slow and deep, until my knees go weak and I’m clawing at his shirt. “You let me in, Lena. That’s all it took. And now I’m wrecked.”
My fingers slip under the hem of his T-shirt, desperate to touch him. I drag it up and over his head, and sweet God—he’s all muscle and heat and restraint barely held together. Broad chest, dusted with dark hair that narrows into the waistband of his jeans. Defined arms with thick veins that make my thighs clench. Shoulders built to carry weight—mine, the world’s, doesn’t matter. And that deep cut of muscle down his abdomen? Sin incarnate. I can see his manhood bulging with desire.
He stands still for a beat, letting me look. Letting me devour. His chest rises and falls, slow and heavy, and his eyes—dark, molten, locked on mine—are wild with want.
And in that moment, I know: this man could break me apart. And I’d let him.
Because it’s not just lust flooding my system—it’s need. Need for his touch. For his strength. For the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted.
“Take this off,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint as he tugs at the edge of my sleep shirt. My breath catches, but I nod, lifting my arms. He peels the fabric away slowly—deliberately—like he’s unwrapping something sacred. Like he’s been dreaming of this moment and doesn’t want to rush it.
Underneath, I’m just in my bra and panties. Simple. Soft cotton. Nothing sexy. And suddenly I feel exposed, shy. My arms instinctively twitch like I might cover myself, but then his gaze drops—and everything inside me stills.
His eyes scorch down my body, lingering at the curve of my breasts, the swell of my hips, the softness I’ve always tried to hide. And then his jaw tightens. His hands fist at his sides like he’s barely keeping control.
“Fuck,” he grits out, low and reverent. “You’re perfect.”
Not pretty. Not nice. Perfect.
