Page 13 of Falling for the Firefighter
Fast. Wild. Unforgiving.
The fantasy unfurls before I can stop it—vivid, startling, unwanted… and god, so delicious.
Him. Towering over me. Broad, commanding, radiating heat like he’s forged from fire.
That gravel voice drops an octave—low, feral.
No words of warning. No slow build. Just that look. That knowing.
Then a fist knots in my hair—tight—and he shoves his cock past my lips like I’m made to take it.
Like I exist for this. For him.
Not sweet. Not careful.
Savage.
Hips grinding slowly at first—testing me. Teasing me.
Then faster. Rougher.
Fucking my throat like he owns it. Like he’s waited long enough and now he’s taking what’s his.
The stretch burns.
My eyes water.
I moan around the length of him, and he growls, hips jerking, pushing deeper until I’m gagging, drool slicking my chin, and he’s panting curses into the air.
“Look at you,”he’d snarl.“Kneeling for me like you were born for this.”
My hands grip his thighs—hard muscle wrapped in denim—trying to anchor myself.
But he doesn’t let up. Doesn’t ease.
He fucks my mouth like he needs it, like this is his release and his religion.
My spit runs down my neck. My pulse hammers in my ears. My core throbs—needy and slick and completely untouched.
And when I reach for my jeans, desperate for friction, he yanks me off his cock with a filthy pop, breath ragged as he fists his length and rubs it across my lips.
“You don’t get to touch yourself,”he growls, voice like smoke and sin.“Not until I say.”
Then he pushes back in—deeper, harder—fucking my mouth while I claw at my restraint.
Powerless.
Starving.
So fucking wet I’m shaking.
I blink suddenly, surprised by the intensity of the fantasy. My heart’s hammering. My breath is sharp and ragged in the cool mountain air.
He stands there—real, solid, and completely unaware of the war raging inside me.
The ache clawing through me like wildfire.
The fantasy still pulsing at the base of my spine, slick between my thighs, the ghost of him still on my tongue.
