Page 14 of Falling for the Single Dad Firefighter

I nod, understanding better now his fierce protectiveness, his careful approach to relationships. "Thank you for telling me."

"What about you?" he asks. "Any serious relationships in your past?"

"Nothing that lasted," I admit. "Studying and teaching took priority. I moved around for different positions, focused on building my career." I pause, considering how much to reveal. "There was someone in Chicago, but we wanted different things. He couldn't understand why I'd want to leave the city for a place like Fox Ridge."

"His loss," Samuel says simply.

Our eyes meet again, and something shifts in the air between us—the conversation moving beyond polite exchange into something more intimate, more honest. I'm suddenly very aware of his nearness, the way the lamplight catches the angles of his face, the subtle movement of his chest as he breathes.

Samuel sets his glass beside mine on the coffee table, his movements deliberate. When he turns back to me, there's a question in his eyes.

"Rebecca," he says softly, my name like a caress in his voice.

I don't hesitate. I move closer, eliminating the careful space between us. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, warm and slightly calloused against my skin. When our lips meet this time, there's nothing brief about it.

The kiss deepens slowly, as if we're both savoring each moment, each new sensation. His lips are firm but gentle against mine, asking rather than demanding. I slide my hands up to his shoulders, feeling the solid strength of him under my fingertips.

His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I open to him willingly, the taste of wine and something uniquely Samuel making me dizzy with want. A soft sound escapes me when histongue meets mine, and I feel him respond, his hand sliding from my cheek to the nape of my neck.

I shift closer until I'm nearly in his lap, my body acting on instinct and desire. His free arm wraps around my waist, pulling me against him until there's no space left between us.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing heavily. His eyes have darkened, pupils dilated with desire, but there's still a question there, a seeking of permission.

"We can stop," he murmurs, though his hand still cradles the back of my neck. "If you want to."

"I don't want to stop," I whisper back, the honesty of it surprising even me.

Something flares in his eyes—desire, relief, anticipation. He leans in again, and this time the kiss carries more urgency. My hands find their way into his hair, soft between my fingers.

His mouth leaves mine to trace a path along my jaw, down the sensitive column of my throat. When he reaches the pulse point at the base of my neck, he lingers there, lips and tongue working against my skin in a way that draws a gasp from me.

"Samuel," I breathe, tilting my head to give him better access.

His hands remain careful but more confident now, one sliding down my back to rest at the curve where it meets my hip, the other still tangled in my hair. Even as desire builds between us, there's a restraint to him—a careful control that both frustrates and touches me.

I pull back slightly, meeting his gaze. "Is there... somewhere more comfortable we could go?"

Understanding dawns in his expression, followed by a flash of heat that makes my pulse quicken. He stands, offering me his hand. "Are you sure about this?"

I take his hand, rising to meet him. "I'm very sure."

He leads me down a short hallway, past a room I glimpse is clearly Mia's—walls painted a soft green, a small bed with a colorful quilt—to the door at the end. His bedroom is simple and masculine—a large bed with navy blue covers, a dresser, a bedside table with a lamp casting a warm glow over the space.

We stand by the edge of the bed, suddenly shy despite the heat between us moments before. Samuel's hands find my waist, steadying rather than pulling.

"We can take this slow," he says quietly. "There's no rush."

My answer is to reach for the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it upward. He helps me, pulling it over his head and dropping it to the floor.

The sight of him takes my breath away—broad shoulders, defined chest, a scattering of dark hair that narrows as it trails down his abdomen and disappears beneath his jeans. A few scars mark his skin—one near his collarbone, another along his right side.

I reach out, tracing the larger scar with my fingertips. "What happened?"

"Fire in an old factory," he explains, his voice rougher now. "Four years ago."

I lean in to press my lips to the mark, a gesture that makes him inhale sharply. His hands come to my shoulders, steadying himself as much as me.

"Your turn," he murmurs, fingers finding the hem of my sweater.

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