Page 32 of Falling for the Firefighter
I come undone with my eyes locked on his, the vast open sky reflecting in blue irises turned stormy with desire.
And he doesn't look away. Doesn't blink. Doesn't let me hide from what's happening between us
---
Back at the cabin, I barely close the door before he grabs me, wood thudding as my back hits it. The sound echoes through the small space, followed by the rasp of his breathing.
No words. No warning.
Just raw, unbearable need.
He spins me to face the wall, tears my leggings down, and thrusts inside me like he can't wait. Like he's been holding back all damn day. The wood is rough against my palms, my cheek, contrasting with the smooth heat of him stretching me, filling me.
One hand fists in my hair, pulling just enough to make my back arch, my body yield. The other spreads across my stomach, fingers splayed wide, holding me in place. His palm is calloused, his skin rough from years of fighting fires and saving lives.
"I can’t get enough of you," he groans, fucking me through the words like he needs them to come harder, like my surrender feeds something primal in him. His rhythm turns brutal, perfect, pushing me past thought into pure sensation.
---
On the fourth day, I take him on a route that is significantly longer than the previous ones. We hike all day through terrain that shifts from dense forest to alpine meadow.
Summer wildflowers nod in the breeze, painting the slopes in splashes of purple lupine and golden paintbrush. I lead through brush-choked switchbacks, correcting his GPS again and again as we climb. He doesn't argue this time, nods and adjusts, marking waypoints where our knowledge differs.
But when we stop to rest beside a tumbling stream, water chattering over ancient stones, he doesn't let me sit on the fallen log I've chosen.
Instead, he grips my jaw with gentle fingers. Kisses me deep, tasting of trail mix and desire. Then pushes me to my knees, the motion a silent command.
My breath catches in my throat as I look up at him, sunlight haloing his dark hair, turning him into something almost mythic against the mountain sky.
He pauses. Watching. Checking.
His eyes have softened since that first day, not less intense but more attentive, reading my responses beyond words.
I nod. Just once. Permission and plea wrapped in a single gesture.
"Open that mouth, my Josephine. Please me." His voice drops to that register that makes my skin tighten, my core clench.
The moss is damp beneath my knees; the earth yields as I sink into it. He cups the back of my head, guides me, his touch both firm and careful. Takes what he wants. Gives me exactly what I need. The stream's music covers my sounds, his groans, creating a private world despite the open mountainside.
When he finishes, he pulls me up, kisses me like I just gave him air after drowning, and we hike on like nothing happened.
But everything has.
With each trail, each encounter, boundaries blur—professional, personal, and physical.
---
By the last trail, we don't pretend anymore.
The final route takes us to the highest point, where trees surrender to rock and sky. The wind whips my hair, carrying the scent of snow from distant peaks. Below us, Angel's Peak looks like a toy town, vulnerable to the whims of nature.
We argue over the final evacuation sector. He wants a GPS overlay for the emergency services. I want the hand-marked elevation guide that shows which slopes become unstable after heavy rainfall.
We don't agree. However, the argument lacks the intensity of our first confrontations, having evolved into something collaborative despite our differing approaches.
When we get back to the cabin, he fucks me over the table, my hands splayed across maps I drew, routes I marked, all pressed into my skin as he claims me.
When I come, shuddering against smooth paper and rough wood, he presses his forehead to mine and murmurs, "I’ve never fallen this hard, this fast."
