Page 12 of Falling for the Firefighter
Some traitorous part of me wants him to keep saying it.
Wants to hear what my name sounds like on his lips, rough and low in the dark as he unapologetically takes me.
No. Hell no.
Keep walking. Keep talking. Keep it together.
"Family business, then." Mac glances at me, completely oblivious to the thoughts racing through my head.
"Something like that." I glance back at him. "What about you? Firefighting in the blood?"
"Military first. Army Rangers." He ducks under a low-hanging branch. "Firefighting came after. Felt natural to keep running toward danger instead of away from it."
"Adrenaline junkie?"
His laughter echoes against the rock face. "More like purpose junkie. Need something that matters."
The conversation flows easily as the trail climbs. I learn he takes his coffee black, has a younger sister in medical school, and can name every native tree in California. He learns I've never been outside Colorado, prefer dogs to people, and make my own trail mix because store-bought never has enough chocolate.
By the time we reach the summit viewpoint, the careful professional distance has shrunk considerably.
“This is…” Mac turns in a slow arc, the wind teasing his hair as he takes in the jagged sweep of peaks and shadowed valleys bathed in late-afternoon gold. “Spectacular doesn’t cover it.”
“Worth the climb?” I ask, but my breath still stutters—not from the altitude.
From him.
He stands there like the mountain itself—solid, powerful, carved by elements I’ll never tame. Wind tugs at the dark strands of his hair. His jaw flexes, a muscle ticking beneath sun-warmed stubble. And his eyes—God, those eyes—burn with a heat that melts straight through the alpine chill.
One corner of his mouth lifts, slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Every step.”
He lifts his water bottle, tilts it to his lips. His throat works as he swallows, slow and steady, and a single drop escapes, trailing down the column of his neck, carving a glistening path over sun-browned skin.
My mouth goes dry.
I should look away.
Too late.
The droplet disappears into the open neck of his shirt, and all I can think about is following it—tracing that trail with my fingers, then my tongue. Down his throat, across the broad planeof his chest. Over the sharp ridges of his abs—solid, sculpted, the kind of body built by fire and grit, not gyms.
And further still.
Heat blooms low, deep, dark, and slow, curling through me like smoke. My thighs press together. My breath shortens. Every inch of me tightens with want, aching, and alive.
I blink hard and snap my gaze to the horizon, but it’s too late.
The hunger’s already taken root.
You’re here to assess evacuation routes, not fantasize about what lies beneath his belt.
But the image won’t leave.
It lingers like heat lightning behind my eyes—searing, impossible to unsee.
And once it sparks, it spreads.
