Page 19 of The Firefighter's Claim
I nod, throat suddenly tight. "Been trying to figure out how to ask. Thought this might be the right time. Seeing the old place. Knowing you have options."
"Dagger, we've only known each other two weeks."
Two weeks that feel like a lifetime. Two weeks that have rewritten everything I thought I knew about myself, about what I wanted, about what was possible.
"I know," I acknowledge. "Too fast by normal standards. But nothing about us has been normal from the start."
She turns the key over in her fingers, her expression thoughtful. "I'm still not sure this is real," she admits softly. "What if it's just the circumstances? What if once everything settles, you realize I'm not what you want?"
The mere suggestion is absurd. As if I could ever want anything, anyone other than her. As if the need pulsing through my veins could ever diminish.
"Not possible," I say, the words coming out harsher than intended. I soften my voice with effort. "But I understand why you're unsure. Why this feels fast. Why you need to be certain."
She looks at me with those big brown eyes that see straight through to parts of me no one else has ever reached. "I do need to be certain," she says. "Not because I doubt what I feel. But because I've never felt anything this intense before. It scares me how much I need you already."
The admission makes my heart pound harder. She needs me. Not as much as I need her—that wouldn't be possible—but she feels it too, this bone-deep connection that defies explanation.
"Let me take you home," I say, the single word—home—heavy with meaning. "Let me show you why you belong there. With me."
She nods, slipping the key into her purse—not a rejection, but not an acceptance either. The drive back to my apartment—our apartment—passes in charged silence. My mind races with all the things I want to say, all the ways I need to convince her.
Inside, she sets her purse down, turns to me with that look of gentle uncertainty that makes me want to gather her close and never let go.
"I'm scared," she admits again. "Not of you. Of how much this would change my life. How completely I'd be choosing you over everything familiar."
Something shifts inside me at her words. She's right to be cautious. Right to question the speed and intensity of what's happening between us. My instinct is to demand, to possess, to claim—but that's not what she needs right now.
For the first time in my life, I drop to my knees before another person.
Her eyes widen as I kneel at her feet, looking up at the woman who's become my whole world in two impossible weeks.
"You don't have to wonder," I tell her, my hands finding hers, engulfing them completely. "I'm yours, heart and soul."
I press my forehead against her stomach, breathing in her scent, feeling the warmth of her through her sweater. "I've never begged for anything in my life," I continue, my voice rough with emotion. "But I'm begging now. Choose me. Choose us."
Her hands come to my hair, fingers threading through the short strands in a touch so gentle it nearly breaks me. "Dagger," she whispers, and my name on her lips sounds like both a question and an answer.
I look up at her, letting her see everything—all the need, the vulnerability, the love I've kept locked away my entire life until she came along and shattered my defenses.
"Let me show you," I say, my hands moving to the waistband of her jeans, seeking permission with my eyes. "Let me worship you. Let me prove what you mean to me."
She nods, her own eyes shining with unshed tears. I unbutton her jeans with reverent hands, sliding them down her legs along with her underwear. She steps out of them, and I guide her to the couch, positioning her on the edge.
I remain on my knees before her, spreading her thighs with gentle pressure. This isn't about my pleasure. This isn't even about sex. This is supplication. Devotion. Proof.
"I love every inch of you," I tell her, pressing kisses to her inner thighs, working my way inward with aching slowness. "Your body. Your mind. Your heart. Everything you are."
Her breathing quickens as I approach her center, but I take my time, letting anticipation build. When I finally taste her, it's with a groan of satisfaction that vibrates against her sensitive flesh. She gasps, her hands returning to my hair, neither pushing nor pulling—just connecting.
I worship her with my mouth, my tongue, exploring every fold, every texture, learning what makes her sigh, what makes her moan, what makes her thighs tremble against my shoulders. This isn't the hungry devouring of our previous encounters. This is prayer—deliberate, reverential, focused entirely on her pleasure.
"So beautiful," I murmur against her. "So perfect. My everything."
Her hips begin to move, seeking more pressure, more friction. I give her what she needs, circling her clit with the tip of my tongue, then sucking gently, gauging her reactions to find exactly what sends her climbing toward release.
"Dagger," she gasps, her head falling back, exposing the elegant line of her throat. "Please."
I slide two fingers into her heat, curling to find the spot that makes her cry out. Working in tandem with my mouth, I build her pleasure systematically, relentlessly, pouring all my devotion into every movement.
