Page 31 of Falling for the Firefighter
He growls low, sharp. His grip tightens in my hair.
“Fuck—I’m gonna come down that pretty throat.”
I hum for him. Sink deeper.
He shudders. Comes hard.
Groaning my name like a confession and a curse. His release hits the back of my throat, and I swallow it all.
He doesn’t let me go right away. Just holds me there, softening slowly between my lips while his thumb brushes thecorner of my mouth. Finally, he pulls back, tucking himself away with shaking hands, eyes dark and satisfied.
I’m ruined.
He stares down at me like I just handed him every secret I’ve ever had.
Mouth swollen. Knees scraped. Chest heaving.
He crouches in front of me, thumb sweeping over my lip like he’s marking me all over again.
Then he offers a hand. Helps me stand. Then he brushes a kiss against my ear.
“On the way down, I’ll bend you over that boulder and fuck you like you were made for it.”
Mac keeps his promise on the way down.
On the third day,we attack a rougher portion of the trail. The terrain is steep. Mud clings to our boots, and pine needles stick to damp packs.
The air thins, making each breath sharper, more deliberate. Mountains rise around us like sleeping giants, indifferent to our passage.
I point toward a fork where two narrow trails diverge around a massive boulder. "We'll cut left, loop back past Grizzly Rock."
He hesitates, the sun casting his face in sharp relief, highlighting the stubborn set of his jaw. "That trail's marked impassable on the map."
"Because no one's walked it since the '98 burn." I meet his gaze, refusing to look away. "I have. Recently."
His eyes search mine, no longer challenging but assessing, weighing not just my words but the confidence behind them. Then he nods, the gesture a concession and acknowledgment wrapped in one.
"Lead the way."
The trust in those three words settles in my chest, heavier than it should be.
By noon, we're off track according to GPS. The forest has reclaimed this path, wildflowers pushing through charred stumps, life persisting despite devastation. But the route opens onto a quiet glade, high and wide and ringed with granite that gleams silver in the midday sun.
A perfect natural shelter, invisible to technology but known to those who read the land itself.
We wander across the glade to the sheer granite walls.
He drops his pack. Pulls mine off me in one clean motion, the sudden lightness making me sway toward him.
"I’ve been thinking about this all day," he says, voice deeper now, commanding. "How I want to fuck you."
He pins me against the rock wall, his thigh sliding between mine, stone cold through my clothes, while his body radiates heat. "Have you?"
"Yes."
He grips my wrists, holds them above my head against rough stone. The position makes me arch and press against him in a silent plea.
He fucks me like he doesn't care who hears—fast, aggressive, relentless. The rock cold at my back, his mouth hot at my throat, the contrast as dizzying as the altitude. Beneath us, the valley stretches to the horizon, witness to my claiming.
