Page 14 of Falling for the Firefighter
God help me, I want it.
The command. That edge.
He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, oblivious.
But if he looked at me right now—really looked—he’d see it.
He’d smell it on me.
And I don’t know what terrifies me more?—
That I want him to see…
Or that he already does.
“So these evacuation routes.”
His voice—steady, professional, completely unaffected—slices through my lust-drenched haze.
He spreads my map across a flat slab of granite, crouching beside it like nothing’s shifted. Like I wasn’t just mentally on my knees, moaning around the hard weight of his cock.
“You’ve marked three alternates from the summit.”
He taps one with a calloused finger, precise and focused.
The contrast hits like a slap.
Whiplash.
My mind scrambles to catch up—to tear itself away from the fantasy still burning like an ember behind my ribs.
But it’s not gone.
Not even close.
Because I’m still throbbing.
Still soaked.
Still aching to give in to the raw power he doesn’t even seem to realize he holds.
I drag in a breath, but it’s shaky, thin—no match for the way he smells.
Like pine and smoke and heat.
Like danger dressed in denim and sweat and absolute control.
He doesn’t look at me.
Doesn’t glance up.
Just crouches there, legs spread, forearms braced on his thighs, the sun cutting sharp shadows across the muscles straining beneath his shirt.
Virility. That’s the word that hits me next.
Not sexiness. Not attraction.
Virility.
