Page 17 of The Firefighter's Claim
When I'm naked beneath him, he sits back on his heels, eyes roaming over me with such blatant appreciation that I resist the urge to cover myself.
"So beautiful," he says, tracing a finger along my collarbone, down between my breasts, across the soft expanse of my stomach. "Every inch of you. Perfect."
He sheds his own clothes, his powerful body revealed in the soft evening light filtering through the windows. The sight of him still takes my breath away—the broad shoulders, the sculpted chest tapering to narrow hips, the thick thighs and impressive evidence of his desire for me.
He lowers himself over me again, skin to skin, our bodies aligning perfectly despite our size difference. His weight should feel oppressive; instead, it grounds me, anchors me to this moment, to him.
"Feel this," he says, guiding my hand to his chest, to the thundering of his heart. "This is what you do to me. Just being near you. Just looking at you."
He rolls us so I'm straddling him, my thighs spread across his hips, my softness pressing against his hardness. His hands span my waist, supporting but not controlling.
"Take what you need," he urges. "Show me how to make you believe."
The position is new—he's always been the one in control, setting the pace, directing our pleasure. Now he's offering me the reins, watching me with heated anticipation as I hesitantly begin to move against him.
I brace my hands on his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath my palms as I rock against his length. His hands slide up to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over sensitive nipples, drawing a gasp from my lips.
"That's it," he encourages, his voice strained with restraint. "So beautiful like this. Taking your pleasure. Taking what's yours."
What's mine. The concept is novel—that this gorgeous, powerful man considers himself mine as much as he considers me his. I lift myself slightly, positioning him at my entrance, then slowly sink down, taking him inch by delicious inch until he's fully seated within me.
"Fuck," he groans, his hands tightening on my hips. "You feel so good. So perfect around me."
I begin to move, setting a rhythm that's both teasing and satisfying. His eyes never leave mine, watching every expression, every reaction. There's something profoundly intimate about this—being so exposed, so vulnerable, yet feeling so powerful as I watch pleasure transform his features.
"I never believed in this," he says suddenly, the words seemingly torn from him. "Never believed in finding someonewho'd fit me so perfectly. Who'd see past the surface. Who'd make me feel like I finally found home."
His raw confession breaks something open inside me. I lean down, pressing my forehead to his, our breath mingling as our bodies move together.
"I'm falling in love with you," he whispers against my lips. "Never said that to anyone before. Never felt it before. But I'm falling in love with you, Connie Evans."
Tears spring to my eyes, unexpected and overwhelming. No one has ever said those words to me and meant them the way he does—with absolute certainty, with bone-deep conviction.
"I'm scared," I admit, my voice breaking. "Scared of how much I feel. How much I need you already."
He rolls us again, taking control, his body covering mine, surrounding me. "Don't be scared," he says, beginning to move within me with slow, deep thrusts that make me gasp. "I've got you. Always going to have you."
The pleasure builds between us, intensified by the emotional vulnerability, by the words we've spoken. His movements become more urgent, more focused, his hands gripping my thighs, spreading them wider, driving deeper.
"Say it," he urges, his eyes locked on mine. "Say what you're feeling. What you're afraid to admit."
I know what he wants. What I want too, despite my fears. "I'm falling in love with you," I whisper, the truth of it washing through me like a wave. "So fast. Too fast. But I can't stop it."
His response is a growl of satisfaction, his thrusts becoming more powerful, more possessive. One hand slides between us, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves that makes me cry out.
"Come for me," he demands, circling his fingers in the precise way he's already learned drives me wild. "Come for me while you say it again."
The dual stimulation is too much. I feel the tension coiling tighter, my body climbing toward release. "I'm falling in love with you," I gasp, the words punctuated by moans as pleasure overwhelms me.
"Again," he insists, his own release clearly imminent, his movements becoming erratic.
"I love you," I cry as the first wave of orgasm crashes over me. "Dagger, I love you."
My admission triggers his climax. He comes with a roar of my name, his body shuddering against mine, within mine, our pleasure feeding into each other's in an endless loop of sensation.
In the aftermath, he gathers me close, his large body curled protectively around mine. His hand strokes my hair, my back, my hip—soothing, claiming, cherishing.
"Believe me now?" he asks, his voice rumbling beneath my ear where it rests on his chest.
