Page 20 of The Firefighter's Claim
"Let go," I encourage between strokes of my tongue. "I've got you. Always going to have you."
Her thighs begin to shake, her inner walls fluttering around my fingers. She's close—so close—but I need her to know what this means. Need her to understand that this isn't just physical.
"I love you," I tell her, the words spoken directly against her most intimate flesh. "Choose me, Connie. Let me love you forever."
The declaration pushes her over the edge. She comes with a cry of my name, her body arching, her hands tightening in my hair almost to the point of pain. I work her through it, gentling my touch as the waves of pleasure recede, until she collapses back against the couch, breathing hard.
I rest my cheek against her thigh, giving us both a moment to recover. When she tugs gently at my hair, I look up to find her watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Come here," she says softly, patting the space beside her on the couch.
I rise from my knees, my own arousal evident but irrelevant. This wasn't about me. I sit beside her, and she immediately curls against my side, fitting perfectly under my arm.
"No one has ever made me feel the way you do," she says, her voice still husky from her release. "Wanted, cherished, safe...seen."
I press a kiss to the top of her head, inhaling the sweet scent of her shampoo. "Because no one has ever seen you the way I do. From the first moment."
She's quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest. "I'm still scared," she admits finally. "But I'm more scared of walking away from this. From you."
Hope flares in my chest, bright and painful. "What are you saying?"
She shifts to look up at me, those beautiful eyes serious and clear. "I'm saying I want to try. Really try. Not just stay with you because I have nowhere else to go, but because I'm choosing you. Choosing us."
The relief that washes through me is so intense it's almost painful. I gather her closer, pressing my face into her hair to hide the emotion threatening to overwhelm me.
"I'll never give you reason to regret it," I promise, the words muffled but fervent. "I'll spend my life making you happy. Making you feel safe. Making you feel loved."
She reaches up, cupping my face in her small hand, guiding me to look at her. "I believe you," she says simply. And in those three words, I hear everything I've been desperate to hear.
I believe you. I trust you. I choose you.
I capture her lips in a kiss that tries to convey everything words can't—my gratitude, my devotion, my absolute certainty that she is everything I will ever need or want.
When we part, she reaches into her purse, retrieving the key I gave her earlier. She places it on the coffee table, then reaches into her other pocket and pulls out a small, empty keyring.
"Maybe we should make this official," she says with a smile that lights up her entire face. "Put my key on a proper ring. Since I'm going to be living here."
Living here. With me. Not out of necessity but by choice. My heart feels too large for my chest, expanding with a joy I've never experienced before.
"Yeah," I agree, my voice embarrassingly thick with emotion. "Definitely need to make it official."
As I thread the key onto the ring, my fingers brush hers, and the simple contact feels as intimate as any physical act we've shared. This small piece of metal represents everything—her trust, her choice, our future together.
"Welcome home," I tell her, pressing the keyring back into her palm, closing her fingers around it.
Her smile is worth everything. "Home," she repeats, testing the word, claiming it. "I like the sound of that.”
nine
. . .
Connie
I watchhim move around the kitchen, all controlled power and unconscious grace. Three weeks since the fire, since he carried me from the flames and into his life. Three weeks of learning his habits, his preferences, his body. Three weeks of falling deeper into something I never expected to find. He's making Sunday breakfast—shirtless, because he knows what the sight of his bare torso does to me. The muscles in his back flex as he flips pancakes, and desire pools low in my stomach, familiar now but no less potent than the first time.
"You're staring," he says without turning around, a smile in his voice.
"Can you blame me?" I reply, not bothering to deny it. Why should I? The man is gorgeous, and he's mine.
