Page 23 of Falling for the Firefighter
Good Girl
Mac’s mouthcrashes to mine, ruthless and claiming. Bruising and hot, while the storm rages outside, forgotten. Nothing exists now but this—our bodies drawn tight with need, the press of his chest, the taste of his mouth, the certainty that we’re both standing at the edge of something we can’t take back.
He spins me, chest to wall, and pins me there—hard. His palm fisting in my hair, jerking my head back so his lips graze my ear.
"I'm gonna fuck you," he rasps. "It's going to be messy. Angry. And Hard. The way you've been begging for it since the second you ran into me."
"You ran into me," I snap, but my voice betrays me—breathless, shaking.
"No," he snarls. "You ran into me."
His hand yanks at the waistband of my pants, dragging them down rough and fast, panties with them, baring me in seconds. The cool air hits my skin, and I gasp—but then his fingers are there, sliding between my thighs, and all I can do is moan.
"Look at that," he mutters. "Soaked. You've been fighting me with your mouth, but begging with your body."
I want to deny it. Should. But I can't.
I hear the hurried sound of his zipper, the rustle of fabric as he frees himself. Then I feel him, thick and hot, nudging against my entrance.
"I’m going to give you exactly what you've been asking for, unless you say stop," he growls.
"Oh my god, just fuck me already."
His eyes flare when I say the words—just fuck me already—like I’ve finally surrendered the truth we’ve both known since the moment we collided.
“Finally,” he growls, voice gone guttural. “I know what you need. Hard. Fast. Dirty. Raw. You need to be fucked, not coddled.”
And then he gives it to me.
He slams into me with a single, brutal thrust that knocks the air from my lungs. I cry out—sharp, startled, wrecked—as he buries himself to the hilt.
“God—” It’s not a prayer. It’s a curse. A plea. A confession. "You feel good."
He thrusts and I scream—not from pain, but from the sheer shock of how good it feels to finally let go.
His grip is relentless—one hand on my hip, the other wrapped tight around my wrists behind my back, pinning me, holding me there while he pounds into me like he owns every inch.
“You like this,” he snarls against my neck, voice shredded and breathless. “Need to be fucked until you forget how to fight me.”
I moan, a raw, helpless sound. My body bucks into his thrusts, instinct overriding everything else—logic, shame, pride—none of it matters now.
“You pretend you don’t want it. Act like you’re in control.” His hand slides up my spine, fingers tangling in my hair to yank my head back. “But your body tells the truth.”
He moves like he's angry. Like he owns me. Slamming into me over and over, breath hot on my neck, mouth dragging over my skin with growls and curses and promises I'm too far gone to process.
He bites down on my shoulder, not hard enough to break skin—but enough to mark. Enough to brand.
"You think I don't see it?" he pants. "You think I haven't noticed? You think I don’t know what you need?"
My only answer is a broken cry as my body clenches around him.
He kisses me then, messy, consuming, biting at my lower lip as I fall apart beneath him.
My climax tears through me like a live wire. Blinding. Violent. My vision goes white, knees buckling, mouth open on a silent scream as I shatter in his grip.
He groans, curses, drives into me once, twice more—then stills, buried deep as he jerks with his release, growling into my neck like a man possessed.
His shudder rocks us both.
