Page 8 of Christmas with the Firefighter
"Just want to be sure—"
I cut him off by grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him down for another kiss, this one designed to leave no doubt about what I want. He groans into my mouth, one hand sliding up to tangle in my hair while the other works the key card.
The door opens behind me, and we tumble inside together, mouths still connected, hands already reaching for clothes. He kicks the door shut while I work at the buttons of his shirt, fingers clumsy with want.
"Easy," he murmurs, catching my hands in his. "We've got time."
"Do we?" Because suddenly it feels urgent, like if we don't do this right now, the spell will break and I'll remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
"All night," he says, and then his hands are at the hem of my sweater, warm fingers brushing my skin as he starts to lift it. "Can I?"
Instead of answering, I raise my arms, letting him pull the damp wool over my head. It hits the floor with a soft sound, and then he's looking at me, his gaze traveling over my soft stomach, the full curves of my breasts in their simple white cotton bra, the way my jeans hug my hips.
I fight the urge to cover myself, to apologize for taking up space, because the expression on his face stops me cold.
He looks hungry. Reverent. Like I'm exactly what he's been hoping to find.
"Christ," he breathes, hands hovering just above my skin like he's afraid I might disappear. "Look at you."
Then his mouth is on my collarbone, pressing hot kisses along the ridge of bone before moving lower. His beard scrapes against my sensitive skin, leaving trails of fire in its wake, and when he reaches the swell of my breasts above my bra, I thread my fingers through his hair and hold him there.
"More," I whisper, and he responds by reaching behind me to unhook my bra with practiced ease.
The cotton falls away, and then his mouth is on me properly, tongue circling one nipple while his hand covers the other breast. I arch into the touch with a sound that's half gasp, half moan, and he makes an answering noise against my skin that vibrates through me.
My hands work at his shirt buttons, needing to touch him, needing skin against skin. He helps me, shrugging out of the uniform shirt and the white t-shirt underneath, revealing a chest that's broad and solid and perfect.
There's dark hair across his pectorals, trailing down to disappear beneath his belt, and I follow it with my fingertips, feeling the way his muscles jump under my touch.
His fingers find the button of my jeans, working it open with deliberate slowness. The zipper follows, and then he's hooking his thumbs in the waistband, tugging the denim down over my hips.
I have to sit on the edge of the bed to get them all the way off, and he kneels to help, pulling them past my ankles along with my socks. When I'm sitting there in nothing but white cotton panties, he sits back on his heels and looks up at me.
Then he leans forward and presses a kiss to my inner thigh, just above my knee, and I have to brace my hands on the bedto keep from falling over. His mouth moves higher, alternating between soft kisses and gentle scrapes of teeth, and by the time he reaches the edge of my panties, I'm trembling.
"Corey, please."
"Please what?"
"Touch me. Properly."
He hooks his fingers in the elastic and looks up at me, waiting for permission. I lift my hips, and he slides the cotton down and off, leaving me completely bare.
For a moment, he just looks. Then he spreads my thighs wider and settles between them, hands gripping my hips to hold me steady.
The first touch of his tongue makes me cry out, back arching off the bed. He's thorough, methodical, using his mouth and fingers to map every sensitive spot until I'm writhing beneath him, one hand fisted in his hair and the other gripping the quilt.
"Oh god, oh fuck—" The words spill out of me, incoherent and desperate, and he hums against me in approval.
He finds my clit with the tip of his tongue, circling it with exactly the right pressure, and I feel myself getting close, the familiar tightening low in my belly that signals I'm about to come apart.
But then he pulls back, leaving me gasping and empty.
"Why did you stop?"
"Because I want to be inside you when you come." He stands, hands going to his belt buckle. "Want to feel you fall apart around me."
I watch him undress, taking in the breadth of his shoulders, the way his jeans hang low on his hips, the impressive length of him when he finally pushes his boxers down. He's thick and hard and beautiful, and suddenly I need him closer.
