Page 25 of Christmas with Three Firemen

I straighten immediately and step back.

Noelle’s cheeks are flushed. I think mine might be, too. Or maybe Danny cranked the heat up too high on the mezzanine again.

“Just stay out of active scenes until I personally invite you into them, Investigator Meadows,” I grumble at her.

Her expression shutters. “Noted, Captain Hale.”

Then, without another word, she storms out of the room, letting the door slam shut behind her with an unnecessary bang.

I stare at it for a long time, trying to remember a single fucking thing I was supposed to be doing before she walked in. Which is deeply irritating, because I’m only five hours into a twenty-four hour shift. And I already know exactly what I’ll be thinking about for every single one of the hours remaining.

***

Chapter six

Chapter Six: Noelle

I hate him.

I decide this approximately three times over the next few hours.

Once while reviewing photo evidence of the accelerant residue.

Again while pretending to listen to Mateo explain why Die Hard is the greatest Christmas movie ever made.

And a third time while lying awake in my bed later that night, staring up at the stupid string lights still taped over the headboard.

He is the single most infuriating person I have encountered in my professional career. And that is saying something, because I once spent six weeks working alongside a federal agent who chewed with his mouth open and took credit for my evidence.

The problem is that my body doesn’t appear to have received the memo, because every time I close my eyes, there’s his face, looming so dangerously close to mine. His voice, rumbling deep with a challenge. His gaze, so dark and heated.

He’d been standing so close to me in the conference room earlier that I could feel the warmth radiating off him.

My barren little bedroom is dark except for the merry illumination winking at me overhead, casting a rainbow glow across my bare legs as I spread them.

I shouldn’t be doing this. I should be sleeping or preparing for tomorrow, literally anything but lying here with my fingertips gliding down between my thighs.

But I can’t stop thinking about him, and I’m afraid the only solution might be to simply allow myself to take the edge off.

And God I hate how he looks at me. Like I’m something he owns, something to be commanded, rather than someone who depends on his willing collaboration. The way he towered over me just to force my chin to tilt up, as if he wanted nothing more than remind me how much bigger he is. The audacity of it. The fucking arrogance.

My fingers slide beneath the waistband of my sleep shorts, and I’m already wet.

I think I hate myself, too.

In my mind, he’s here now, standing at the foot of my bed with that infuriating smirk playing on his lips.

“Look at you,” he might say, his voice low and commanding. “Already desperate for me, aren’t you?”

Stupid handsome beast. Know-it-all control freak.

I bite my lip as my fingers find my clit, circling slowly. I’m not desperate. I’m just a little stressed out.

“You think you can ignore me?” he’d probably growl. “You think I don’t know what you need?”

My fingers move faster, matching the rhythm of my quickening breath. He’d be rough with me, I think. Not cruel, of course, but definitely demanding. Taking what he wants without apology, without asking twice.

“You’re going to look at me when I speak to you,” he’d command, maybe gently wrapping his fingers around my throat with the barest hint of a sexy threat. “You should answer when someone asks you a question.”