Page 7 of Tangled Up with the Firefighter

She’s close enough that I can see the faint smudge of pollen on her collarbone. She always has pollen somewhere. Her fingers, her jaw, the edge of her sleeve. Evidence of the work she does, the living things she touches, the constant tending that is so deeply part of her that she doesn’t even wash it off before she leaves the house.

“Laurelle?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you for the flowers.”

She looks up at me. The smile is gone, but something steadier has replaced it—something that holds my gaze without flinching—and her hand comes up and rests on my shoulder where the turnout suspender crosses the muscle. Her palm is warm, and her fingers curl against my skin. I stop breathing for a second because nobody touches me like this. Carefully. Like I’m something worth the extra effort.

I reach past her and hit the switch on the wall. The overhead doors grind down, slow and heavy, and the bay goes dim. The morning light narrows to a bright seam at the floor, then disappears.

“Laurelle,” I say again, rougher this time.

She doesn’t answer with words. Instead, she rises up on her toes and kisses me.

It’s not tentative. Her mouth meets mine like she’s been thinking about this for days, and the second our lips touch, something inside me snaps. I drop the last of my restraint, cupping the back of her neck with one hand while the other slides around her waist and pulls her flush against me. She tastes sweet, and I groan into her mouth when her tongue brushes mine.

We move without thinking. I back her toward the engine, the cool metal of the side compartment panel pressing against her back. The height is perfect—solid, wide, and smooth. I lift her just enough that one of her thighs hooks around my hip, opening her to me.

My hands move under her sweater, shoving it higher. I tug her bra down and close my mouth over one tight nipple, sucking hard as she arches into me with a soft moan.

“Need you,” I growl against her skin.

“Yes.”

I don’t waste time. I pop the button on her jeans and drag the zipper down. My hand slides inside, finding her soaked. I push her jeans and underwear down her hips just far enough and slip one thick finger into her tight heat. She gasps, her fingers digging into my shoulders. I curl my finger, stroking that sensitive spot inside her while my thumb finds her clit and circles with firm, steady pressure.

Her hips start rocking against my hand, chasing every stroke. I keep going—deep, rhythmic thrusts of my finger combined with relentless circles on her swollen clit—until her breathing turns ragged and her thighs begin to tremble around me.

“Dean—” she whimpers.

She comes hard, clenching around my finger with a broken cry she tries to muffle against my neck. I feel every pulse, every flutter, and it takes everything in me not to come undone right there.

She’s still catching her breath when she pushes gently at my chest. “Dean…wait.” Her voice is shaky, vulnerable. “I’m a virgin.”

I freeze, searching her face. The words hit me like a bucket of cold water. I glance around the bay.

“Not here,” I say. My voice comes out rough, but I mean it. “Not like this. You deserve better than a fire bay, Laurelle.”

She holds my gaze. Her breathing is still uneven, her cheeks flushed, but her eyes are steady and certain in a way that stops me mid-thought.

“I don’t want perfect,” she says. “I want you. Right here.”

I search her face for hesitation. I don’t find any.

Her hands are at my shoulders. She pushes the suspenders down my arms, then goes for my waistband. She opens my turnout pants with trembling fingers, shoving them down just enough to free me. Then she slides down the engine panel and sinks to her knees on the bay floor in front of me.

She’s clumsy at first—tentative licks, unsure pressure as she explores the length of me with her tongue. But she learns quickly. Her hand wraps around the base, stroking in time with her mouth as she takes me deeper, her tongue swirling along the underside. The wet heat and the sight of her lips stretched around me are almost too much. I groan low in my throat, my hand gently threading through her hair.

“Fuck… Laurelle, slow down,” I rasp, already seconds from the edge. I tug her up before I lose control completely.

She straightens until her back is against the engine again. This time, I help her push her jeans and underwear all the way down and off one leg. I hook her thigh around my waist, lining myself up at her entrance.

I go slowly, pressing just the head inside her. She’s incredibly tight—hot, slick, and gripping me like a vise. I watch her face the whole time—the way her lips part, the flush on her cheeks, the way her eyes flutter when I nudge forward another inch.

“You’re doing so good,” I whisper against her ear, voice rough. “So fucking perfect.”

I keep my thumb on her clit, rubbing slow, soothing circles to help her body relax and take me. Every shallow thrust draws a tiny, breathy sound from her—soft gasps and whimpers she tries to swallow back. Our bodies make quiet, slick sounds with every movement, the wet glide of skin on skin echoing faintly in the big bay. I fight to stay quiet too, but a low groan escapes me when she clenches around me.