Page 11 of The Firefighter's Claim
Then Dagger Wolfe kicked down my door and looked at me like I was the answer to questions he'd never thought to ask.
It has to be the trauma, right? The shared adrenaline of the fire, the life-or-death situation. I've read about this—how intense circumstances can create false intimacy, trick the brain into thinking there's a deeper connection than actually exists.
Or maybe it's just gratitude on my part, lust on his. A temporary thing that will burn itself out once reality reasserts itself.
Behind me, Dagger stirs, his arm tightening around my waist, pulling me closer against his hard body. I feel the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressing against my backside.
"Morning," he rumbles, voice sleep-rough and impossibly sexy. His lips find the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss that sends shivers cascading down my spine.
"Morning," I whisper back, suddenly hyperaware of my nakedness, my bed hair, my morning breath.
None of which seems to deter him. His hand slides up from my waist to cup my breast, thumb brushing over the nipple until it pebbles beneath his touch. A small, embarrassing whimper escapes me.
"Sleep okay?" he asks, continuing his gentle assault on my senses, his teeth now grazing my earlobe.
"Yes," I manage, though sleep is the furthest thing from my mind right now.
"Good." His other arm slides beneath me, his hand finding my other breast, now cradling both in his large palms. "Because I need you again."
The raw honesty in his voice makes me tremble. Need. Not want. Need. Like I'm essential to him, as necessary as oxygen.
"Dagger, I... We should talk about?—"
"Later," he growls, rolling me onto my back and hovering over me. His blue eyes are dark with desire, his hair mussed from sleep. He looks dangerous and beautiful, like something wild barely contained in human form. "Need to taste you first."
Before I can formulate a response, he's moving down my body, pushing my thighs apart with gentle but insistent hands. His mouth finds my center without preamble, his tongue making one long, deliberate stroke that has me arching off the bed.
Any protest I might have made dissolves into incoherent moans. He devours me like a starving man, alternating between teasing flicks of his tongue and deep, penetrating thrusts that leave me gasping. My hands find his hair, fingers tangling in the short strands, not sure if I'm trying to pull him closer or push him away from the overwhelming sensation.
"So sweet," he murmurs against me, the vibration of his voice adding to the pleasure. "Could do this for hours. Make you come over and over until you're begging me to stop."
The image his words paint is too much. Combined with the skilled ministrations of his tongue, it sends me careening overthe edge. I come with a cry, my body bowing, thighs clamping around his head as pleasure washes through me in pulsing waves.
He doesn't stop, working me through the orgasm and building me toward another with ruthless determination. I'm still trembling from the first when I feel him slide two thick fingers inside me, curling to hit a spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
"Dagger, please," I gasp, not sure what I'm begging for.
He seems to know, though. In one fluid movement, he rises above me, positioning himself at my entrance. Our eyes lock, and something in his gaze makes my breath catch—a tenderness at odds with the raw desire etched on his features.
"Say yes," he demands softly. "Need to hear it."
The fact that he's asking, despite the obvious evidence of my arousal, melts something inside me. "Yes," I whisper. "Please, yes."
He enters me in one smooth thrust, filling me completely. The stretch is exquisite, my body still sensitive from the night before and my recent orgasm. He gives me a moment to adjust, his jaw clenched with the effort of restraint.
"Okay?" he checks, his voice strained.
In answer, I wrap my legs around his waist, drawing him deeper. His control snaps. He begins to move, setting a rhythm that's both demanding and attentive, hitting spots inside me that send pleasure spiraling through my nervous system.
"Mine," he growls, the word punched out of him with each thrust. "My girl. So perfect. Made for me."
His praise washes over me, as intoxicating as his touch. I've never felt desirable like this—never had a man look at me with such naked hunger, such unrestrained appreciation. It's heady, addictive.
We move together like we've been doing this for years instead of hours, my body responding to his as if choreographed. When he slides a hand between us to circle my clit, I shatter again, crying out his name. He follows moments later, his release triggering aftershocks of pleasure that leave me boneless and breathless.
He collapses beside me, immediately pulling me against his chest. The tenderness of the gesture, contrasted with the primal intensity of our coupling, makes my throat tight with emotion.
We lie in silence for several minutes, our breathing gradually slowing. His hand traces lazy patterns on my back, occasionally dipping lower to possessively cup my ass.
