Page 33 of Falling for the Firefighter
And just like that, I forget how to breathe. Because it's no longer about maps. Not about routes and protocols and whose knowledge matters more.
Six routes. Five days.
Countless arguments. Countless orgasms.
He pushes. I resist.
He takes. I give.
The rhythm of it becomes its own language. My yielding is a choice. His dominance isn't control but an offering—showing me what he sees, what he wants, what he believes I need.
And somewhere in all the friction, we find a harmony I never expected. My knowledge of the mountains, his tactical expertise. My caution, his confidence. His command. My surrender.
Notjustsex. Notjustwork.
It’ssomethingelse.
Something I'm scared to name.
Because he still won't call me Jo—that casual nickname everyone else uses.
And I'm starting to like the way he saysJosephinetoo damn much. The way the syllables roll off his tongue like a caress, like he's tasting something precious.
Like he's claiming not just my body, but the person I've always been. The woman waiting for a man like him to take what I need to give.
Chapter 7
Buried Embers
Mac's armlies heavy across my waist, his breathing deep and even against my neck. I've been awake for an hour, watching shadows retreat from the corners, wondering how my life transformed so completely in just six days.
Six days. Six trails. And whatever this is between us.
I ease from beneath his arm, holding my breath when he stirs. His face in sleep lacks the intensity that normally charges his features—softer somehow, vulnerable in a way he'd never allow while conscious. For a moment, I almost reach out to trace the line of his jaw, the curve of his lower lip. Instead, I slip from the bed and pad silently to the bathroom.
In the shower, hot water pounds against my shoulders, washing away the physical evidence of last night but doing nothing for the memories etched into my skin.
Every muscle carries the pleasant ache of being thoroughly used. My wrists bear faint marks from his grip, my inner thighs the shadow of beard burn. I should be horrified by how quickly I've surrendered to this—to him—but all I feel is the low hum of satisfaction and the disturbing absence of regret.
This isn't me. I don't do this—fall into bed with arrogant men who call me by a name I don't use, who take control like it's theirright, who somehow find the hidden switch that transforms my usual independence into willing submission.
I step from the shower and wipe the steam from the mirror. My reflection stares back, unchanged yet unrecognizable. Same eyes, same face, but something's different in the way I carry myself. Like my body knows a secret my mind isn't ready to acknowledge.
"Stop overthinking," I mutter to my reflection, wrapping a towel around my torso. "It's just sex."
Except it isn't, and lying to myself has never been a particular skill of mine.
When I emerge, the bed is empty, sheets thrown back. The scent of coffee reaches me, mingling with domestic sounds from my kitchen. Mac’s at my counter, moving through my space with an ease that suggests he belongs here. The presumption should irritate me.
It doesn't.
He belongs. Definitely belongs. Just as I belong to him now.
"Morning." Mac's voice is morning-rough, a lazy drawl that sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. He stands shirtless in my kitchen, wearing only his tactical pants, feet bare against the hardwood. His hair is sleep-mussed, with stubble darker than it was yesterday.
"You made coffee." I adjust my towel, suddenly self-conscious in a way I wasn't when he had me bent over the kitchen table last night.
"Figured you'd need it." He slides a mug across the counter. Two sugars, no cream. Perfect. "You were restless last night."
