Page 87 of Knotting the Firefighters
Need this final connection before you leave.
Need to memorize how you feel, how you taste, how you make me feel alive in ways I've never experienced with anyone else.
The kiss evolves slowly, passion building with careful control rather than explosive urgency. His mouth moves against mine with practiced familiarity, knowing exactly how to coax a response, understanding the particular rhythm that makes my breath catch and my body melt.
He's learned me.
Spent six months studying my reactions, cataloging my preferences, discovering every trigger that transforms a competent Fire Chief into a desperate Omega.
And he's using that knowledge now.
Deliberately.
Carefully.
Making this count.
His hands move to my shirt—careful, mindful of bandages covering burns that haven't fully healed. Fingers trace along hem with reverent patience, asking permission with touch before proceeding.
I arch slightly, granting access, helping him navigate around injuries without breaking contact. The fabric lifts slowly, exposing skin to cool air that makes me shiver despite the warmth of his body against mine.
Vulnerable.
Exposed.
Trusting him with parts of myself I've guarded from everyone else.
He pauses when the shirt clears my head, taking a moment to simply look—amber eyes tracking across freckled skin, cataloging curves he's explored countless times but somehow treating like first discovery.
"Beautiful," he breathes, voice rough with emotion that transcends physical attraction. "So fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you."
The honesty destroys me.
Completely, utterly destroys whatever composure I've been trying to maintain.
Fresh tears spill over, silent testimony to how thoroughly he's dismantled my defenses, how completely he's wormed his way past every wall I've constructed.
"Don't cry," he whispers, though his own eyes are suspiciously bright. "Please, Wendy. I can't—if you cry, I'll?—"
"Then don't look," I interrupt, pulling him down for another kiss that swallows whatever confession he was about to make.
Because we can't go there.
Can't acknowledge what this means.
Can't name the emotions driving this desperate connection.
Not if we want to survive what comes after.
His hands resume exploration—one bracing beside my head for support, the other tracing paths across my ribs, my waist, the curve of my hip with touch that's simultaneously possessive and reverent.
Memorizing.
Creating a tactile map he can revisit in his absence.
Building muscle memory of how I feel beneath his palms.
I match his pace, my own hands moving beneath his shirt to find warm skin and defined muscle. He's maintained firefighter fitness despite a small-town existence, his body still carrying strength earned through years of hauling equipment and carrying victims and running into situations everyone else flees.
