Page 89 of Knotting the Firefighters
He follows the pants' trajectory with kisses—pressing lips to my hip, my thigh, my knee, my ankle as each section of skin is exposed. The gesture is romantic, old-fashioned, completely at odds with our usual frantic couplings.
This is different.
This is goodbye dressed as hello.
This is memorization disguised as celebration.
His own pants follow—efficient removal aided by my shaking hands, both of us now completely exposed in the growing light. Dawn is approaching faster now, sky lightening incrementally, nature's countdown to the moment when the real world intrudes and forces us to stop pretending time has paused.
But we still have now.
This moment.
This connection before everything changes.
Calder positions himself above me, weight carefully distributed to avoid pressure on healing burns, his body creating shelter while his eyes search mine for any hesitation.
"You're sure?" The question is whispered, vulnerable in ways Alphas rarely allow themselves to be. "We don't have to…if this makes it worse…"
"It already couldn't be worse," I say, and my voice doesn't crack but it might as well, the words falling into the space between us with all the subtlety of a bomb. There is no room left for gentleness, none for pretending we're nobler or more restrained than we are. This is it: the end, the last time, and to deny ourselves this would only be another layer of pointless martyrdom. So I say it again, softer, for his sake and mine both. "It couldn't possibly hurt more, Calder. So let's just—let's just be here. With each other. Please."
For a moment, he just stares at me, the muscles in his jaw working as if he could chew the truth and swallow the pain. I see the hesitation, the flicker of fear—what if this is the last good memory we ever have, what if it ruins everything? But then he sees my resolve, and something in him settles. He nods, the motion slow and final, as if he's just signed an oath in blood.
His hands are on me before I've finished inhaling, but they're reverent. Not frantic, not the way we always were in the past, tearing at each other with the desperation of starved wolves. No—he moves with almost excruciating care, like I'm precious cargo he's only just discovered is breakable. His palms glide up my sides, stopping to map the border where skin gives way to scar, and he lingers there, one thumb brushing the rough edge of a healing burn as if he could smooth it away with touch alone.
He kisses me again, harder now, but still not rough. I can taste the tears neither of us have wiped away and the magnitude of everything we're trying to compress into this single moment. There's nothing left to talk about, nothing either of us needs to say. We both know what we are, and what we're doing, and neither of us is afraid of the truth anymore. The only thing that matters is this: he is here, I am here, and for the next fewminutes—or hours, if we can manage it—nothing else will exist outside the four walls of my bedroom.
My hands tangle in his hair, and I find myself laughing, or maybe sobbing, into his mouth. He pulls back, eyes wide and vulnerable, searching my face for something—regret, maybe, a sign that I've changed my mind. But there is none. I couldn't be more certain if the universe itself had reached down and carved my desires into the bone.
So I pull him closer, silencing his doubts with my lips and my tongue and the press of my body against his. Our skin slides together with the familiar friction of old lovers, but there's a softness to it now that wasn't there before—a tenderness born of impending loss. I can feel his heart pounding in his chest, each beat telegraphing a message I can't quite decode but don't need to. It's there, it's enough. He wants me as badly as I want him, and that is all that matters.
We move together, piece by piece, stripping away the remaining barriers between us. There is no more shame, no more anxiety about what comes next. Only the slow, inevitable progression of touch into heat into need into the ache that nothing but him can satisfy. His hands are everywhere, imprinted in every memory I will ever have of this house, this room, this body. He is memorizing me, the same way I'm memorizing him, hoping it will be enough to last a lifetime.
When he finally enters me, it's not with a thrust, but a slow, careful glide, like he's afraid I'll dissolve if he pushes too hard. The sensation is electric, every nerve ending stretched taut by the anticipation of loss and the knowledge that this is the last time. I gasp, and he swallows the sound with his mouth, his body shielding mine from the world outside.
Joining.
Becoming one entity instead of two desperate, incomplete creatures scrabbling for warmth in the dark. He moves inside mewith aching, slow inevitability, every inch a homecoming. This is not novelty, not the thrill of forbidden lust or the thrill of being sneaky or any of the things that fueled us in our first months together. This is something older, sadder, richer—a language built from the marrow of need and the inevitability of endings.
I feel every detail as if my senses have been sanded raw. The way Calder’s hands bracket my hips—steady pressure from calloused palms, thumbs circling the faded stripes of last month’s bruises, as if he can massage away every scar and every humiliation I’ve ever worn. He keeps his eyes open, not blinking, determined not to miss a single microexpression of pain or pleasure. It’s like he knows that every moment is being archived, that this is the last time he’ll ever get to see me like this, and he’s greedy for the memory.
His breath hitches each time I move beneath him, like he’s startled by the heat and slickness and reality of it, even now. Our rhythm is unhurried, measured in increments of heartbeats and the tremble of limbs, deliberate in its refusal to rush. We could go fast, fuck like we’re racing time, but instead we draw it out, both of us greedy for seconds and inches and sensations, both of us praying for time to stutter and repeat, for the sun to freeze on the horizon, for morning to never come.
I let him inside as deeply as he can go, not just physically but emotionally, too—the denial and bravado stripped away. I let him see everything there is to see: the yearning, the terror, the bottomless love I can’t stop from leaking out even though I know it’s both useless and too late. My hands dig into his shoulders, curling around muscle and bone, anchoring myself to the one person I’ve ever let close enough to really hurt me. I want to leave marks, if only to prove I was here, if only so the next Omega or the next city or the next life doesn’t erase me completely.
He buries his face in my neck, inhaling like it’s the only air he’ll ever get, and for a moment we’re both silent, the only sound the wet, obscene joining of bodies and the thunder of hearts in our chests. I can taste his grief in every kiss, feel the apology in every thrust. How the hell do people do this, I wonder? How does anyone survive loving someone this much and knowing there’s an expiration date taped to the side?
For the first time in forever, Calder isn’t performing. There’s no posturing, no Alpha bravado, no smirks or cocky quips to break the tension. He moves like a man walking to the gallows, resigned and reverent, desperate to memorize every detail of this last communion. He keeps one hand on my cheek, thumb brushing away tears as fast as they fall, the gesture more intimate than any touch lower down. Our eyes meet, and I see myself reflected in his—messy, snot-nosed, trembling with effort and emotion. I see the man he’s pretending not to be: the man who’d stay if I asked, the man who’d burn down the world if I needed him to, the man who’s been mine for years even if we never said the words.
I want to tell him it’s okay. That I understand. That I love him enough to let him go, even though it feels like extracting my own bones with a set of rusty pliers. But I can’t speak, not with him inside me, not with the air so dense with history and longing and everything we never said. So I let my body talk for me—arching into his every movement, clinging tighter, grinding my hips to draw him deeper, as if I can tattoo him into my muscles and veins. Every time he moves, I say I love you in the only language I have left.
We move together, perfectly synced, the rhythm of heartbeats and breath and the slow build toward inevitable collapse. Neither of us is trying to win; there’s no contest, no power games, no one keeping score. We are simply—finally—equals here. Two people holding on for dear life, knowing thesecond we let go, gravity will snap us apart and fling us to opposite sides of the country.
He shudders and slows, forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged. “Wendy,” he whispers, and the sound of my name in that voice, in that moment, nearly undoes me. It’s a prayer, a plea, a benediction.
I answer with a kiss, crushing our mouths together so I don’t have to hear what comes next.
The taste of him is salt and sorrow, the kind of passion that sours instantly into nostalgia because you know you’re losing it even as you try to swallow it whole.
