Page 9 of Knotting the Firefighters
We both know what this is, what it's becoming. The messy, complicated thing neither of us wants to name because naming it makes it real, and real things can be lost.
Real things can burn.
But right now, with sunlight turning his hair bronze and his scent wrapping around me like home, I let myself pretend this could last. That a packless Alpha and a traumatized Omega could somehow make sense in a world that demands conventional arrangements.
"I need to preheat the oven," I announce, moving toward the stove with extra sway in my step because I'm not above torture. "Apple pies for the ranch hands. Willa asked me to?—"
"Fuck the pies," he growls, and suddenly I'm being pressed against the counter, his body caging me in as his mouth finds that spot on my neck that makes rational thought impossible. "Fuck the ranch hands. Fuck everything that isn't you coming apart in my arms."
"Such language." My voice comes out breathy, undermining any attempt at scolding. "What would the good people of Sweetwater Falls think?"
"Don't care." His teeth graze my pulse point, making me gasp. "Don't care about anything except the way you smell right now, like sunshine and want and mine."
That last word—possessive, claiming, dangerous—sends a thrill through me that I should absolutely not be feeling. We don't do possession. We don't do claiming. We're just two broken people finding comfort in each other's bodies, nothing more.
Liar.
His hands slide up my sides, calluses rough against the thin fabric of my dress, and I arch into him before I can stop myself, that familiar ache building low in my belly. Calder's mouth trails fire along my collarbone, each kiss a promise he never quitekeeps, and I tangle my fingers in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him growl against my skin.
"You always do this," I murmur, my voice thick with the heat pooling between us. "Tease until I'm the one begging."
"Not teasing." He lifts his head, those whiskey eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath. "Waiting. For you to say yes without the walls up."
I swallow hard, the truth of his words hitting like a desert wind—hot and unrelenting. We've danced this line for years, ever since he pulled me from that fire, his presence the only anchor in a world gone to ash.
But saying yes means risking everything, means admitting he's more than just comfort on lonely nights.
His thumb traces my bottom lip, gentle despite the storm raging in his gaze.
"Tell me to stop, Wendy. Or don't."
The challenge hangs there, heavy as the scent of him wrapping around me, and damn if my body doesn't betray me with a shiver that has nothing to do with the cool air seeping through the open window.
I lean in, brushing my lips against his ear.
"Don't you dare."
That's all it takes.
His mouth crashes onto mine, hungry and demanding, the kind of kiss that erases thoughts of mugs and ranches and the shadows of my past. I melt into it, into him, my hands roaming the broad planes of his back as he lifts me onto the counter like I weigh nothing. Flour dusts the air between us, mixing with the spice of our combined scents, and I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer.
"God, you drive me insane," he mutters between kisses, his voice rough as gravel.
I laugh softly, the sound breaking into a moan when his hands find the hem of my skirt, pushing it up just enough to make my pulse race. But he doesn't go further—never does without that unspoken permission—and instead trails his fingers along my thighs, teasing the sensitive skin there until I'm trembling.
"Calder..." His name slips out like a plea, and he stills, forehead pressing against mine as we both catch our breath.
"Not today," he says finally, though his body screams otherwise, that hard length pressing insistently against me. "You deserve better than a kitchen counter quickie."
I pout, even as relief floods through me—relief I hate admitting.
"Since when are you the voice of reason?"
"Since you showed up here looking like sin in that apron." He grins, that lopsided smile that always disarms me, and carefully sets me back on my feet, adjusting my skirt with reverent hands. "Now, about those pies. Need a hand?"
I swat at his chest, trying to ignore the way my skin still tingles from his touch. We’re always playing these up and down games, which is surely frustrating for both of us, yet we continue to do this dance.
Like it’s truly a rodeo…at least until one of us finds what we’re looking for…
