Page 7 of The Firefighter's Claim
"Connie."
I look back at him, this stranger who doesn't feel like a stranger.
"You're safe now." He says it like a promise. Like a vow.
And despite everything logical, everything reasonable, everything I should be feeling—I believe him completely.
four
. . .
Dagger
She walksthrough my apartment in my shirt, and it's fucking undoing me. The hem falls mid-thigh, exposing legs that go on for days despite her height. The fabric drapes over curves I'm desperate to map with my hands, my mouth. Every time she moves, I catch glimpses of her—the soft swell of her ass, the generous curve of her breasts. Mine. The word pounds through my blood like a second heartbeat. Been pounding since I carried her from the flames.
After her shower, I gave her one of my t-shirts to wear. Seeing her draped in my clothes, marked with my scent, triggers something primal in my chest. Something hungry and possessive that wants to devour her whole.
She catches me staring and tucks a damp strand of hair behind her ear, a flush spreading across her cheeks. She has no idea how beautiful she is—how the sight of her padding barefoot across my hardwood floors makes my cock strain against my zipper.
"Are you sure I'm not imposing?" she asks for the hundredth time, fingers playing with the hem of my shirt. She keeps pulling it down, trying to cover more of herself. I want to tell her to stop—or better yet, to take it off entirely.
Instead, I say, "You're exactly where you should be."
The words come out rougher than intended. Everything about her makes me rough, makes me raw. I haven't felt this way about a woman... ever. This instant, overwhelming need to possess.
I should be taking it slow. She's been through trauma. Lost everything. Needs time to process. I know all this intellectually. But my body, my instincts, recognize her as mine. The waiting is physical torture.
"Let me make you something to eat," I say, needing distance before I do something that scares her off.
I move to the kitchen, hyperaware of her presence as she follows, perching on a stool at the counter. The simple domesticity of the moment hits me with unexpected force. How many nights have I come home to this empty apartment, eating whatever's convenient, sleeping in a bed that's always felt too big? Now she's here, filling spaces I didn't even realize were empty.
I make us omelets—simple but protein-rich. She watches me cook with those big brown eyes, curious and still a little wary. Smart girl. She should be wary. The things I want to do to her would make her blush all the way down to her toes.
"You cook," she says, sounding surprised.
"I live alone. Had to learn." I slide a plate in front of her. "Eat."
She takes a bite, humming with appreciation. The sound goes straight to my groin. I imagine her making that same sound with my head between her thighs.
"It's good," she says. "Thank you."
We eat in companionable silence. She's exhausted, dark circles under her eyes despite her nap in the truck. But there's something else there too—a tension that has nothing to do with fatigue and everything to do with the charge between us.
"You should sleep after this," I tell her, watching her fork push the last bits of egg around her plate.
She nods, then asks the question I've been dreading. "Where will I sleep?"
In my bed. With me. Under me. Over me. Around me. The answers surge through my mind, each more explicit than the last.
"I have a guest room," I say instead, the lie bitter on my tongue. I have no intention of letting her sleep alone, but she doesn't need to know that yet.
I show her to my bedroom, watching her eyes widen at the king-size bed dominating the space. "This isn't a guest room," she says, more observant than I gave her credit for.
"No," I admit. "It's not."
She turns to face me, those doe eyes searching mine. "Where will you sleep?"
"Wherever you want me to."
