Page 53 of Falling for the Firefighter
And he smiles—dark, possessive, absolutely feral.
"I was holding it together,” he murmurs, hot against my neck. "I was doing just fine until you saidit,” he murmurs, voice low and sharp as a blade. “Back at the ridge.”
“What?”
His gaze scorches. “When you called me, Sir.” Dark heat floods his expression—dangerous, unfiltered want. “Instant fucking hardon. And now I need relief before I go back out there. I need you. Right here. Right now. On top of everything you’ve built.”
Heat rushes to my core, a breath stolen by the memory.
Before I can respond, he lifts me onto the table, scattering maps and documents. My legs part instinctively as he steps between them, the position putting us at eye level.
"Tell me you need it too." His fingers trace the pulse hammering at my throat.
"Yes, sir." The words escape in a whisper. A surrender. A goddamn invocation.
“Fuuuck, you did that on purpose.” His mouth crashes down on mine—consuming, claiming.
There’s no pretense. No softness. Just raw possession. One hand knots in my hair, the other already working at my belt, my pants, my body.
Within moments, he has me bare from the waist down, the cool air of the fire tower raising goosebumps across my exposed skin.
I shudder, exposed and wanting.
"Look at you." His voice roughens with appreciation as his fingers trace the evidence of my arousal. "Dripping for me. Spread out on your maps like an offering."
He captures my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand while the other wraps around my throat—not choking, but controlling, claiming. Just enough pressure to make the room tilt. Just enough to make me dizzy with want.
A flex of power, of intent. My breath hitches. My core pulses. He’s not guessing what I want. He knows.
"Mine." The word rumbles from his chest as he thrusts inside me, hard and deep. "My brilliant, stubborn, impossible woman."
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out—not until he moves.
Every stroke is punishing. Worshipful. Fierce.
“You’re not just mine,” he growls, voice rough silk over granite. “You’re perfect when you give it all over like this. Arms pinned. Throat under my hand. Needing me.”
I moan—sharp, involuntary. The sound barely escapes before he captures it with his mouth. His kiss is rough and consuming, all heat and hunger and teeth. His hips slam forward again, pushing me back across the maps. My arms strain against his hold, but I don’t want freedom. I want more.
His fingers shift from my throat to my breast, pinching my nipple hard enough to make me gasp.
“Louder,” he demands, rolling the sensitive peak between callused fingers. “Let me hear you.”
I arch under him, the sudden spark of pain blooming into raw pleasure. “Mac—please?—”
“Sir.” His voice is low. Commanding. “Say it. See what it does to me.” His grip tightens. Not painful—yet the pressure slices clean through thought. My airway compresses. Breath thins.
My thighs quiver. The word’s there, perched behind my lips. I whisper it, barely a breath.
Something deep inside me… yields.
“Sir…”
He growls. Low. Primal.
“There she is.” He watches the surrender flash across my face, and his smile turns savage. “Goddamn right.”
The map table rocks under us, wood groaning beneath the force of his need.
