Page 18 of Falling for the Firefighter
“This isn’t about rank.” He steps closer, the firelight catching the sharp line of his jaw. “It’s about basic survival. You of all people should know better.”
“Now, who’s questioning whose expertise?” The words come fast, sharp, but a violent shiver rips through me before I can hold it back, my arms hugging tighter around my damp clothes.Dammit.
“Fine.” His jaw tightens.
He steps back—but not far enough. His fingers go to the hem of his soaked t-shirt, dragging it up in one slow motion. The fabric clings to every ridge of his chest before peeling free, water-dark and heavy. He drops it to the floor with a wet slap, standing bare-chested in front of the fire like something carved from sun-drenched stone.
I can’t stop staring.
His chest is broad, thick with muscle, a dusting of dark hair catching the flicker of firelight. Defined pecs taper into an obscene, impossible six-pack—each line sharp enough to cut. And lower… a single drop of water tracks a lazy path down the deep groove of his abs, disappearing into the waistband of his pants.
My mouth goes dry.
He catches me looking and—of course—smirks. A dark, knowing thing that sends a pulse of heat straight between my legs.
“Something interesting, Mackenzie?” His voice roughens, amusement curled beneath it.
I jerk my gaze away, scowling. “Just making sure you weren’t about to pass out from hypothermia.”
He huffs a laugh, the sound low and infuriating. Then he hooks his fingers under his beltline, pausing there. Not unbuckling. Not yet. Just watching me.
“You can look if you want,” he murmurs, tone all heat and steel. “But fair warning—if you don’t want me watching you change, now’s your last chance to turn around.”
The fire crackles between us, but it’s nothing compared to the burn crawling across my skin. Every breath feels too deep, too sharp. The shelter is suddenly too small. The air is too thick. And him, too much.
Too much confidence, too much heat, too much everything.
I don’t move.
And neither does he.
Yet.
I huff, spin on my heel, and face the wall with more force than necessary. The timber planks are rough beneath my palms, the scent of pine smoke curling into my hair.
Behind me, the metallic click of his belt slices through the hush. Fabric drags slowly over skin, a whisper of sound thick with intent. Wet gear lands with a soft, final thump on the floorboards. Each noise punches low, deliberate, unhurried, designed to torment.
The silence that follows is louder than anything. He’s not just changing. He’s performing. And he knows damn well I’m listening to every second of it.
“You gonna change,” he calls, voice maddeningly casual, “or stubbornly freeze out of spite?”
Teeth clenched, I dig into my pack and yank out a dry base layer, keeping my back to him. My hands tremble—not from coldanymore, but from the sheer effort of ignoring the heat rolling off his body like a goddamn furnace.
I strip off my wet shirt, the cold air biting at my skin. My bra clings damply, and I peel it away with a sharp inhale. Goosebumps rise instantly across my arms, my breasts, my spine. I reach for the thermal top, tugging it over my head as quickly as I can—but not quickly enough to stop the thought from hitting.
He’s behind me. Half-naked. Dry. Watching.
Or not watching.
I have no idea which is worse.
Leggings next. They peel down slowly, wet fabric clinging like a second skin. I curse under my breath, kicking them off and stepping into warm, dry thermals with a muttered, “This is your fault,” though it sounds more like a prayer than an accusation.
I grab my thick socks and yank them on with shaking fingers, then zip up my fleece halfway, forcing myself to inhale.Breathe. Reset. Get your shit together.
“You can turn around now,” I mutter without looking.
“Thanks for the show,” he says behind me, the smirk audible.
