Page 13 of Knotting the Firefighters
Slick coats her inner thighs, a testament to how wet she got from my touches, my kisses, and I have to bite back a groan, my free hand bracing harder against the house. It takes every ounce of willpower not to burst back inside, to make this fantasy real, to bury myself in that welcoming heat and hear her cry out my name.
The image sears into my mind, accelerating my hand's rhythm, pumping with frantic urgency as pleasure builds like a gathering storm.
The edge approaches swift and merciless, my body tensing as ecstasy crests.
I stifle a loud growl, letting it rumble low in my throat instead, as release crashes through me, hot spurts painting my hand and splattering against the side of the house.
Waves of bliss pulse outward, leaving me shuddering in the shadows, but then the knot at my base swells, insistent and aching, demanding attention. I growl softly again, one hand moving to massage it with firm pressure, working the tension free before it turns to outright pain.
Relief floods in as it subsides, the knot taming under my touch, and I sag against the wood, chest heaving with the effort to quiet my breaths so she doesn't catch wind of my indiscretion.
In the aftermath, clarity pierces through the haze—I'm addicted to her, dangerously so, my love a consuming blaze that threatens to leave me in ruins.
If I don't act, don't make her see that I'll follow her anywhere, pack or no pack, she'll slip away, finding bonds that exclude me and shattering my heart in the process. I glance down at the mess on my hand and the streaks on the siding, huffing in self-disgust at my impulsive horniness.
What a bastard I am, jerking off like a teenager while the woman I adore bakes pies inside.
I fish out a handkerchief from my pocket, wiping myself clean with quick, efficient swipes, then scrubbing at the house until no trace remains, the fabric growing damp with evidence of my weakness.
Just as I tuck the handkerchief away, my phone buzzes insistently in my pocket, the vibration cutting through the lingering haze of satisfaction. I pull it out, squinting at the screen—an area code that screams fire department, but not the familiar LA digits that would drag me back to old haunts.
Frowning, I glance back at the cottage window where Wendolyn still moves about her kitchen, oblivious to my recent lapse. Better not take this here; the last thing I need is her overhearing station business that might pull her into memories she'd rather bury.
I hustle off the property, boots crunching on the gravel path leading to where my truck sits parked at the edge of the road, the dawn light now fully breaking and warming the air.
By the time I reach the cab, I'm surprised the call hasn't dropped—service out here can be fickle as a summer storm, but it rings on persistently. I slide into the driver's seat, theworn leather creaking under my weight, and swipe to answer, my voice shifting to that measured professionalism honed from years in the field.
"This is Calder Hayes," I say, keeping it steady, though curiosity prickles at the back of my neck.
The voice on the other end is gravelly, authoritative, carrying the weight of command I've come to recognize instantly.
"Mr. Hayes? Chief Tom Rodriguez here, head of Station Fahrenheit out in Sweetwater Falls district."
I straighten instinctively, even though he can't see me, my mind racing through connections—Station Fahrenheit, the crew that pulled Wendy from that blaze, the ones who've been circling her life like protective hawks since.
"Chief Rodriguez," I acknowledge, keeping my tone even. "What can I do for you?"
He clears his throat, the sound crackling slightly over the line.
"First off, confirming this is Calder Hayes, previous rookie from the LA Station department?"
A huff escapes me before I can rein it in, irritation flaring at the outdated label.
"That'd be me, though I graduated from rookie status a while back. Full firefighter now, Chief."
His chuckle rumbles through, warm and knowing, like he's sharing an inside joke.
"Aware of that, son. But the note left from Chief Murphy specifically states to call you a rookie. Figured I'd honor her wishes."
My eyes roll skyward, but a smile tugs at my lips despite myself—classic Wendy, leaving little barbs like that in her wake, probably to keep me humble or just to needle me from afar. The thought of her scribbling that directive warms something inmy chest, a reminder of our tangled history that both aches and anchors.
"That sounds like her," I admit, the grin evident in my voice. "So, what does the chief of Station Fahrenheit need from a so-called rookie like me?"
There's a pause, heavy with intent, before he replies.
"A proposition."
UNEXPECTED ALLIES
