Page 10 of The Firefighter's Claim
Her hand slides between us, fingers finding her clit. The sight of her pleasuring herself while I fuck her is almost enough to end me.
"That's it, baby. Show me how good it feels."
Her walls begin to flutter around me, signaling her approaching climax. I drive into her harder, hitting the spot that makes her gasp with each thrust.
"Come for me," I demand. "Come for me now, Connie."
She shatters with a cry of my name, her body convulsing around my cock, milking me with rhythmic pulses. The sight and sensation push me over the edge. I come with a roar, emptying myself into the condom, my hips jerking erratically as pleasure crashes through me.
In the aftermath, I gather her close, unwilling to break our connection just yet. Her body is soft and pliant against mine, her breath warm against my chest.
"You okay?" I ask, suddenly concerned I might have been too rough.
She nods, a smile curving her lips. "Better than okay."
Relief floods me. I withdraw carefully, disposing of the condom before returning to bed and pulling her against me. She fits perfectly in the crook of my arm, her curves aligning with my angles like puzzle pieces snapping into place.
"That was..." she trails off, seemingly at a loss for words.
"Just the beginning," I finish for her, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Get some rest. We're doing that again when you wake up."
She laughs softly, the sound warming something cold and hard inside my chest. "Confident, aren't you?"
"About wanting you? About needing you?" I tilt her chin up, making sure she sees the truth in my eyes. "Absolutely."
Her smile fades into something more serious, more vulnerable. "I've never felt like this before."
"Like what?"
"Like I belong to someone," she whispers. "Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."
The simple honesty of her words hits me like a physical blow. I tighten my arm around her, drawing her closer.
"You do belong to me," I tell her, no room for doubt in my voice. "My girl. Right where you're supposed to be."
She nestles closer, her breathing gradually slowing as exhaustion claims her. I remain awake, watching her sleep, marveling at how completely this woman has upended my life in less than twenty-four hours.
Mine, I think again, the word settling in my chest like a vow. Mine to protect. Mine to pleasure. Mine to keep.
Forever.
five
. . .
Connie
I wakeup wrapped in heat and muscle, momentarily disoriented. The weight across my waist is an arm—massive, tattooed, distinctly male. Dagger's arm. The events of yesterday crash back into my consciousness: the fire, the rescue, the hospital, and then... this. His bed. His body. His possession. Twenty-four hours ago, I was a kindergarten teacher who lived alone and slept in flannel pajamas. Now I'm naked in a firefighter's bed, my body pleasantly sore from activities that make me blush to remember.
Sunlight streams through industrial windows, illuminating the unfamiliar room. Dagger's bedroom is spartanly masculine—dark wood furniture, gray bedding, minimal decoration. The only personal touch is a framed photograph on the dresser of Dagger with his firefighting crew. No family photos. No evidence of past relationships. Just the essentials and nothing more.
Like the man himself, I suppose. Direct. Uncompromising. Focused.
His breathing is deep and even against my neck, his chest a wall of warmth at my back. I should feel trapped, pinned by his heavy arm and the leg he's thrown over mine. Instead, I feel secure. Protected.
Is this real? The question loops through my mind. People don't fall into... whatever this is... after one day. That happens in movies, not real life. Especially not to women like me.
I've spent most of my life being the "good girl"—sensible, reliable Connie who wears modest clothes and always has tissues in her purse. The girl who's "got such a pretty face" but whose body has never matched society's ideal. I'd made peace with my curves, mostly. Stopped hoping for the kind of passionate romance that seems reserved for women with flat stomachs and thigh gaps.
