Page 10 of Framed By the Mountain Man Firefighter

I force my eyes open. The sight hits me like a fist to the chest. Levi on his knees in my gallery, station shirt stretched across his broad back, his mouth glistening with me as he devours my pussy like it’s the only thing he’s wanted all day.

Behind him, the east wall glows faintly under the track lights—his carvings keeping watch. The bull elk, the dawn ridge he made for me. All of it there while he sucks my clit between his lips and slides two thick fingers inside me, curling them just right.

Pleasure coils tight and fast. My hips rock against his face, chasing the heat of his tongue. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, fucking me with his fingers while his mouth works me higher until I come. Hard.

My cry echoes off the high ceilings as my whole body clenches around his fingers and jerks with the force of it. He keeps licking me through it, gentling but not leaving, drawing out every last pulse until I’m boneless and panting.

He rises then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wild. In one smooth motion, he pulls me off the counter and down onto the floor with him, laying me on the cool hardwood behind the counter. My back meets the polished wood as he strips my panties off completely and shoves his pants down just enough. His cock springs free—thick, heavy, flushed dark—and I reach for it, stroking the velvety length once before he catches my wrist.

“Not yet,” he growls, voice wrecked.

He settles between my thighs, notching the broad head of his cock at my entrance, and pushes in slowly, stretching me open in one long, perfect slide. We both groan at the feeling. He’s so deep like this, filling every inch of me, the weight of him pressing me into the floor.

We start moving together, unhurried at first—his hips rolling in deep, steady thrusts that drag against that sensitive spot inside me with every stroke. I wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging into his back, nails raking down it through his shirt.

The gallery spins around us in soft shadows—his carvings on the east wall, my portraits on the west, the whole room holding the two of us the way it has since that first morning he hung our work side by side. One hand braces beside my head. The other grips my thigh, spreading me wider so he can sink even deeper.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he breathes against my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point. “Always so fucking perfect for me.”

I arch up to meet him, our bodies moving together in the empty space. The pleasure builds again, sharper this time, fed by the sight of his face above me—jaw clenched, eyes locked on mine with that fierce, adoring intensity that still makes my heart stutter. I cup his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

“Come with me,” I whisper.

He nods, pace quickening, driving into me harder, grinding against my clit with every thrust. My second orgasm crashes over me without warning, pulling a raw moan from my throat as I clench tight around him.

Levi curses, burying himself to the hilt as he follows right after—his cock pulsing deep inside me, hips stuttering with the force of his release. We ride it out together, breaths mingling, until the waves finally ebb and we’re left trembling in each other’s arms.

We stay like that for a long moment, joined and breathing hard, the gallery quiet except for our slowing heartbeats. His carvings on one side. My portraits on the other. The charcoal drawing of his hands is still on the easel above us, half-finished, the way the first portrait of him was half-finished the night everything changed.

I don’t rush to finish my drawings anymore. He taught me that. Some things are better when they take their time.

His lips press against my hair. His thumb traces a slow circle on my hip.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

I smile. Five years, the same question every night he finds me here, the same answer every time.

“Same time tomorrow.”

The original carving is still in the window. The Trading Post courtyard from above, carved in beetle-kill pine, every cobblestone catching the streetlight at the angle he intended. Beside it, a small framed card in my handwriting. Levi Stone, Local Artist. He walks past it every morning on his way to the station. He told me once that he likes the way I framed it.

I framed it right. I frame everything right. I just needed someone to see that before I could.