Page 22 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
The goosebumps disappear, and her skin is soft under my calloused hands. Smooth, damp, and impossibly real. She’s trembling, but now I know it’s not just from the cold. She’s reacting to me as I am to her. Every part of her body is leaning closer, pulling me into her orbit, and I can’t stop it.
She inhales sharply when my thumbs graze the sensitive skin inside her arms. A soft, strangled sound escapes her throat…barely audible but incredibly erotic.
She bites her lip immediately, as though holding back any other sound from escaping.
I feel her shivering frame melt into mine like she doesn’t have the strength to hold herself up anymore. Her hair clings to her cheek in damp, dark tendrils.
Her breath ghosts against my collarbone, cool, uneven, laced with something minty and faintly sweet. She smells like rain, fabric softener, and the fading trace of that perfume she wore. She peeks up at me again through wet lashes. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes glassy.
There's a pink tinge to the tip of her nose, and I’m now certain it’s not entirely from the mad dash through the storm with nothing but bare legs and sheer fabric sticking to her like a second skin.
Jesus.
I should let go. Should give her space. But I don’t.
My palms splay wider and rub harder as if I can work the cold out of her blood. I hear the shift in her breathing, the way it catches when my hands slide down to her forearms, and I glance down just once. The candlelight doesn’t hide a damn thing.
Every line, every curve, every delicate inch of her is visible through soaked fabric. Her chest brushes mine when she exhales, and her nipples, already puckered, press firm through the lace and cotton.
And she’s not hiding.
She sits there, letting me have an eyeful. No arms crossed, no turning away. Her eyes hold mine, steady, unblinking as if daring me to do something. As if she wants me to. I feel the burn of it crawl up my spine, the tight ache low in my gut. My hands pause for a second, before I force them to keep moving.
ControlNoah.
I drag my gaze back to her face. “You’re still shivering.”
She gives me this soft, raw little laugh. “I am.”
The water clings to her like a second skin. I can feel it seeping through, saturating every inch of her, and still, she lets me hold her. I trace the backs of my fingers gently along her forearm, down to her wrist. The contact is light, instinctive, a quiet attempt to spark heat where the cold has settled deep.
I can feel her heart racing against me, and I tighten my hold, determined to chase the cold from her body.
It takes a while, but eventually, the shivering stops, and her body softens in my arms. Her muscles loosen as warmth begins to return. I keep rubbing her back, my hands moving slower now, my touch gentler. I don’t want to let her go, not yet.
The storm rages on outside, but here, at this moment, the world has narrowed to only the two of us, and I smell the unmistakable scent of musk as I see the other telltale signs of arousal.
The firmness of her breast against me, the hardness of her nipple pressing through the wet fabric. My hands still for a moment, my brain catching up to what my body had already noticed.She is aroused.
The realization hit me like a punch to the gut, and my heart begins to pound for a different reason entirely. Heat pools low in my belly, and my length swells against my jeans, a primal response that I can’t ignore.
This is another opportunity to step back, put some distance between us, and regain control of the situation. But I can’t move. My body feels rooted to the spot, my arms still wrapped around her, my hands now resting at her waist.
She fits against me like she’s always meant to be there.
Her forehead grazes my chest, and my hand slips to the nape of her neck, fingertips brushing damp skin, cold as marble. I cradle her there gently; I’m afraid she might shatter if I squeeze too tight. Her pulse beats fast under my thumb, a soft fluttering I can feel beneath the chill.
And I swear something inside me clenches around it. Around her.
She sniffles again, and I pull back enough to see her face. Her eyes lift slowly. They find mine in the dim flicker of candlelight. There’s a glassy shine to them, not from the cold, not from the rain. Something quieter. Something raw.
And damn me, but I can’t tear my eyes away.
A single drop of rain slips from her lashes, trailing down her cheek. I follow it with my eyes. Then, my hand. I brush it away with the back of my fingers, slow and soft. Touching her is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve walked through burning houses.
Her lips part like she’s about to say something, but no sound comes out. Only a breath. Her eyes, wide, questioning, letting me in.
My heart stutters.
