Page 27 of Falling for the Firefighter
“—shoving me down. Making me open my mouth and take you. Rough. Angry. No questions. Just—control.”
“Fuck.” His breath hisses between his teeth. “You’ve thought about me using you,” he finishes, voice like gravel.
"Yes."
“No asking. Just gripping your hair, unzipping my pants, and shoving my cock past your lips.”
"Yes." My thighs part without thinking.
“Jesus, Josephine,” he growls. “You could’ve told me.”
“I couldn’t.”
"Why?" He leans down, dragging his teeth along my jaw. “Afraid I wouldn’t want it?”
“Afraid you’d think less of me.”
He grabs my chin, forces my eyes to his.
“I’ve seen you from day one. You want it hard. Dirty. Forced without force. You want to kneel. To serve.”
I swallow, but it’s useless. My body’s already answered.
“You’ll get that,” he says, deadly soft. “Out there. On the trail. You’ll hike ahead, and I’ll follow. When I decide it’s time, I’ll put you on your knees and fuck that filthy little fantasy into your throat.”
His hand slides lower, cupping between my legs.
He smiles, slow and wicked. “Start praying for clear skies, sweetheart. Because once the storm breaks, I’m taking you outside and making that mouth mine.”
God help me, I want every filthy piece of it.
Reality seeps back slowly. I become aware of Scout watching us with resigned acceptance from her corner, the dying fire inthe stove, the fact that we're completely naked and entwined on a narrow cot in Jackson Hart's emergency shelter.
Eventually, reluctantly, we dress. Every movement feels charged, meaningful in ways it wasn't before. I catch him watching me when he thinks I'm not looking, his expression a mix of wonder and something more profound I'm not ready to name.
Once the rain stops, we step outside. Sunlight breaks through dissipating clouds, turning raindrops on pine needles into diamonds. The fresh-washed mountain air fills my lungs, but does nothing to clear the fog in my brain.
We walk back in silence, the usual comfortable banter impossible after what just happened. The trail seems both longer and shorter than before, time stretching strangely in the aftermath of that kiss.
At the trailhead, Mac unlocks the SUV, holding the door for Scout, who jumps in with subdued energy, tail low but alert, sensing the shift between us like a storm about to break.
Mac doesn’t look at me as he circles to the driver’s side. Doesn’t ask if I’m ready, okay, or if I need a minute. He just gets behind the wheel, starts the engine, and waits—expecting me to fall in line.
I do.
The drive back to my cabin passes in silence, but the air between us hums. Every nerve in my body is aware of him—his hand steady on the gearshift, the muscle ticking in his jaw, the low rumble of his breath syncing with the hum of the engine. He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t glance over. He simply exists with complete focus, radiating calm, coiled control. And God help me, it stirs something low in my belly I thought I’d buried years ago.
What do you say after kissing someone like the world was ending? After letting him take you apart like it was his right?
When we reach my cabin, he puts the vehicle in park and kills the engine without a word.
Silence stretches. Tension thickens.
Then he speaks. One word.
“Josephine.”
The way he says it—low, sure, already claiming me—sends a tremor through my chest. Not a question. A summons.
