Page 7 of Framed By the Mountain Man Firefighter

I close the distance between us and press my palms flat against his chest. The warmth of his skin jolts through me, real in a way the charcoal never was. I trace the ridges of muscle I just sketched, mapping the difference between what I drew and what I’m touching, and it’s not even close. The drawing got the shape. My hands are getting the heat, the tension held just under the surface, the way his breath catches when my fingers move lower.

Down his arms, feeling the restrained power there. Across the flat of his stomach where the cut of his hips draws my gaze lower.

When my fingers brush the hard length of him, thick and heavy against his thigh, I freeze. A flicker of uncertainty tightens in my chest. Iris, what are you doing? But the heat in his eyes, the way he watches me like I’m the only thing in the room, pushes me forward.

I wrap my hand around him, and his jaw flexes, a muscle twitching at the hinge. He’s so hard, so alive under my palm, and the reality of touching him steals my breath. I stroke him slowly, learning the shape of him the way I learn anything. By feel. By paying attention.

“Iris.” His voice is low, rough at the edges. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

The confession spills out before I can stop it. “I’m a virgin,” I whisper. “I’ve never even seen a man naked before. Not in person.”

His expression softens, but the hunger doesn’t fade. “Do you want to go back to my place?”

I shake my head. This moment, here in the dim gallery surrounded by other people’s art and the one honest thing I’ve ever drawn, feels inevitable. I step back, and my fingers find the buttons of my blouse before I can second-guess myself. It slips from my shoulders and falls behind me. I unfasten my pants and let them pool at my feet, stepping out of them along with my flats. Cool air hits my skin and I shiver, but not from the cold.

“Come here,” he says.

I rise on tiptoe and his head lowers, and his mouth finds mine in a deep, slow kiss. His hand presses warm and steady against the small of my back, pulling me into him until there’s no space left. I can feel every inch of him against me, and the size difference that should intimidate me just makes me feel held. Surrounded.

When he pulls away, his gaze moves through the shadowed space. I smile, take his hand, and lead him to the empty display pedestal near the back wall.

I sit on the edge and cross my legs, something bold moving through me that I don’t entirely recognize. He uncrosses them gently and steps between my thighs, kissing me again, deeper this time, his tongue stroking mine until I’m dizzy and gripping his shoulders to stay upright. His hands find the clasp of my bra, and then the last of the fabric between us, peeling everything away until I’m as bare as he is.

Then he kneels between my legs, and his broad shoulders spread me open. The artist in me thinks I should be memorizing this. The way the courtyard light catches the muscles in his back. The way he looks up at me before he lowers his mouth.

I don’t memorize anything.

The first stroke of his tongue draws a sharp gasp from me. He tastes me slowly, thoroughly, and my hands find his hair. Pleasure builds in hot, coiling waves, and I lose every thought I’ve ever had about composition and proportion and the distance that keeps a portrait honest. My hips rock against his mouth and I let them because I’m done being careful.

“Right there…don’t stop…”

He doesn’t stop. The orgasm crashes over me, sudden and bright, my whole body shaking as I cry out. He holds me through it, hands steady on my thighs, patient the way he’s patient with everything.

When I come back to myself, he’s standing, and I reach for him, wrapping my hand around his cock and stroking with a confidence I didn’t have five minutes ago. He groans, low and rough in his chest, and the sound does something to me. I want more of it.

“I want you,” I tell him. “I don’t care if it hurts.”

“I care.” He cups my face in one hand, tilting it up. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”

I help position him at my entrance, heart racing. He pushes forward, one slow inch at a time, and his thumb finds my clit, rubbing in gentle circles that ease the sharp stretch of him filling me. It burns, and I dig my nails into his shoulders, and he stops.

“Keep going,” I whisper.

He does, and after a while the pain softens into a deep, aching fullness that starts to feel good. Better than good. Every slow thrust sends sparks through me, turning the sting into slick, spreading heat.

“More,” I say, and the word surprises both of us.

He gives me more. Soon I’m holding onto him, legs wrapped around his waist, moaning with every thrust. He fucks me harder, the pedestal steady beneath us, and I’m past caring about the sounds I’m making or the way they echo off the gallery walls. He rasps my name against my neck, low and ragged. The friction inside me is exquisite now, dragging over places I didn’t know existed, building me up again until I shatter around him with a broken sound I’ve never made before.

He follows, a rough groan torn out of him as he buries himself to the hilt and pulses inside me.

The gallery is dark. The courtyard light has gone from gold to blue. We’re on the floor beside the pedestal, my head on his chest, his arm around me. I can feel his heartbeat under my ear, slow, steady, a rhythm that matches the patience in everything he does.

The sketchbook is on the floor where I left it. The portrait is half-finished. His body in charcoal, rendered by a hand that started out steady, didn’t stay that way. I’ll finish it tomorrow. Or I won’t. It doesn’t matter, because the drawing already told the truth. I looked at him and drew what I saw. Something gentle wearing something strong. I didn’t hide from it.

His fingers trace a slow line down my arm. Charcoal dust transfers from my skin to his.

“You’re extraordinary,” he says. “I want you to know that.”