Page 21 of Falling for the Firefighter
The word barely makes it past my lips before his hand slams against the wall beside my head, caging me in. His chest rises, falls, heavy.
So does mine.
The air between us is thick, humid with the storm, charged with everything we haven’t said.
Neither of us backs down.
Each word lands like a spark to tinder, narrowing the space between us until there’s nothing left but breath and heat and defiance. I can count his lashes. See the nick just beneath his jawline. Smell the fire and damp earth clinging to his skin.
"You drive me crazy, Mackenzie." His voice drops to a dangerous growl.
"My name is Jo."
"Do you always need to correct me?" His voice drops, low and dangerous, my name rolling off his tongue like a warning and a promise all at once. "Challenge me?"
"No." But it’s a lie, and we both hear it.
“You’ve been fighting me since day one. Every look. Every step. Every breath.”
His other hand slams into the wall beside my head—hard. The sound echoes like a shot. “You think I haven’t noticed?”
“This isn’t a fight.” My voice is breathless. Shaky.
“The hell it isn’t.” He leans in—just enough to make my knees threaten to give—but still doesn’t touch. Not yet. Not quite.
His body radiates heat, lightning barely contained. His breath brushes my lips. The air between us pulses.
“You want to hate me,” he growls, the words scraping across my skin like grit and fire. “But what you really want—what you’ve wanted since we met—is for me to rip that control out of your hands. Make you feel what it’s like to be undone.”
Silence coils, thick and breathless.
I don’t answer. Can’t. The tension is a vice around my throat. My heart thunders. My body trembles, no longer from cold but from the raw, aching hunger I’ve tried to deny since the moment we collided.
Then—
“Ah, fuck this. Don’t even know why I’m pretending.” It rips from him, raw and guttural, like something he’s been choking back for far too long. "I’m done holding back."
His gaze drops to my mouth, then his mouth slams into mine.
Hard. Hot. Starving.
The kiss hits like a thunderclap—wild and brutal and consuming.
One hand spears into my hair, fisting tight. The other wraps around my waist, yanking me against him so fast it knocks the air from my lungs.
He doesn’t coax. He conquers—tongue sweeping in, lips crashing down, owning me like it’s his right. Like he’s done waiting for permission.
And I don’t resist.
I burn.
I moan, helpless and furious at the way my body melts for him, with how he knows exactly how to kiss me—hard enough to punish, soft enough to addict.
It's furious, full of everything we haven't said, every glare, every fight.
Tongue, teeth, tension.
My mind goes blank.
