Page 57 of Falling for My Grumpy Fireman

For one breath we hold still. Full. Shaking with it. I clench around him just to be mean and he says my name like a curse.

Then his hands close hard on my hips and he moves me, lifts me and brings me down, sets a pace with nothing polite in it. Every drop punches the air out of me. I ride him with my thighs burning and my head thrown back, soaked and loud and past caring, and he sits up, wraps an arm around my waist, gets his mouth on my breast and pulls until I sob. The chain slides hot between our chests. The headboard knocks the wall in rhythm. I don't care. I don't care about one single thing outside this bed.

"Harder," I hear myself beg.

He growls it back against my skin and gives it to me. Fingers digging in deep enough to leave prints I'll find in the mirror tomorrow, driving up to meet me every time I come down, so deep I feel him everywhere, hitting a place inside me that makes sparks climb my spine. The sounds coming out of him are ruining me. Low and wrecked and mine. Every one of them mine.

"Feel that?" His hand splays low on my belly, thumb sliding down to my clit, circling slow, a filthy counterpoint to the pace of his hips. "Four weeks I've been half out of my mind."

No fumbling. No apology. He moves me like he knows me and the terrible thing is he does.

"Eyes on me." His hand slides up my spine, into my hair, tips my face down to his. "I waited too long for you to hide now."

I keep my eyes on his. That's my mistake. Because he watches me the whole way, watches every wall I own come down, and when I clamp down and break apart it's with his name in my mouth and his gaze holding mine like a hand. He gets three more strokes before it takes him too, hips stuttering up hard, my name grinding out of him through his teeth, and I feel every pulse of it.

After, we lie sideways across the wrecked bed, breathing like we ran here.

"Okay," I manage.

"No." He rolls, braces over me on his forearms, and there's a look on his face I've never seen. Unhurried. Certain. "That was four weeks of wanting you. Now I'm going to take my time."

"Owen, your leg—"

"My leg's got hardware. The rest of me is fine."

I'm not writing home about what he does on the way up. I couldn't. There aren't words for it I could say in daylight.

But it goes like this.

His mouth starts at my ankle and climbs. The inside of my knee. The soft skin of my inner thigh, where he stops and sucks a mark into me, slow, deliberate, branding, and when I gasp he does it again an inch higher. By the time his breath ghosts over my pussy I'm already trembling, already wet enough that I can feel it on my thighs.

He doesn't put his mouth where I need it. He kisses my hip instead. The other hip. The curve of my belly.

"Owen." It comes out ragged.

"Mm." His stubble drags across my thigh, rough velvet, and my whole body arches off the bed. "You washed every inch of me and called it clinical." His hands slide under me, big and sure, tilting my hips up to his mouth like an offering. "Lay there. My turn."

Then his tongue is on me and I stop being a person.

He takes me apart slow. Long, flat licks first, lazy, like he's got all night and intends to spend it. Then his tongue finds my clit and everything in me pulls tight. He circles it. Soft. Softer. Learning exactly what makes my thighs shake and then doing it until they do, until I'm dripping down his chin and he groans against me like I'm the one doing something to him.

When I grab for his hair and try to hurry him, he pins my wrists soft to the sheets without lifting his head.

"No, ma'am."

"Owen. Please."

"Say it again." The words vibrate straight through my clit and I nearly come from that alone. "Four weeks I've been dying to hear you say please."

"Please. Please, plea—"

He gives me his whole mouth then, tongue working my clit hard and steady, two fingers sliding into me and curling, and I break so hard I lose the ceiling. My heel hooks over his shoulder. His name comes out of me in pieces. He doesn't stop, works me through every last shudder with his tongue going gentle, and when I finally go boneless against the sheets, he presses one more kiss to the inside of my thigh like he's signing his work.

My fingers find the scar on his shoulder blade when he moves back up my body. The shiny patch I noticed weeks ago and never asked about.

"Rookie year," he says against my throat. "Flashover drill. I zigged."

"You were supposed to zag."