Page 28 of Falling for the Firefighter
“What?” I turn my head slowly.
His gaze meets mine, dark and steady. He doesn’t blink.
“Ask me to come inside.”
NotCan I come in?Not Do you want me to stay?A command, disguised as a request. Softened at the edges, but still a command.
I should say no.
I should tell him this was a mistake, draw the boundary I already bulldozed.
Instead, I swallow hard, pulse fluttering at my throat. “Please come in.”
His smile is slow. Dangerous.
“Good girl.”
Two words. That’s all. But they land like a brand, low and deep and molten.
I follow him into the cabin without another word.
Chapter 6
Six Trails
The cabin doorclicks shut behind us, and everything else falls away.
The only sound is our breathing, the only light the golden afternoon sun filtering through pine-framed windows. The charged silence between us crackles like static before a lightning strike.
He doesn't speak. Doesn't ask. He steps in close and grabs the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head. His mouth is on mine before the shirt hits the floor.
There's no space for doubt. No room for fear. Just the scent of pine and sweat and man, the taste of coffee and desire on his tongue.
He lifts me onto the kitchen counter, hips pressing between my thighs, granite cool against my heated skin. The scrape of stubble on my throat, the rough glide of his palms down my ribs. His touch leaves fire in its wake, turning bones to liquid, resistance to need.
"You love this, don't you? You need this," he murmurs against my throat, voice rough like mountain stone, already knowing the answer.
"Yes." I drag him closer, fingers digging into the solid muscle of his shoulders, anchoring myself to the only steady thing in a spinning world.
He takes it as permission.
We fuck in the kitchen, fast and filthy. My back against the cabinet doors, legs wrapped around his waist, every thrust punctuated by the rattle of dishes and my gasping breaths. He fucks me in the shower, where steam fogs the mirrors and hot water cascades over us. I bite his shoulder to keep from screaming as he pins me to the slick tile.
We fuck in bed, where he slows down just enough to make me beg, over and over, until my muscles ache and my mind goes quiet from too much pleasure. And when I fall asleep curled against him, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, it's not comfort I feel.
It's possession.
The next morning, the rain lightens to a pale mist. The world outside my cabin windows shimmers with droplets that cling to pine needles and spider webs, turning the forest into a crystal cathedral. The storm broke, but whatever passed between us hasn't.
We pack in silence for more trail exploration, but something's shifted. He moves with certainty now, no longer a visitor but someone claiming space.
Takes the lead without speaking.
His hands occasionally brush against mine, casual touches that feel deliberate and proprietary.
On the trail, I follow. His long strides eat the miles, boots crushing wet leaves that release the scent of earth and decay. Water drips from branches overhead, occasionally landing cool against my heated skin.
He doesn't glance back, but he knows I'm there.
