Page 23 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
Everything in me wants to protect her. Warm her. Keep her here where she’s pressed against me like she doesn’t want to be anywhere else.
But that’s not all I want.
The desire pulls taut beneath my ribs coiling low in my gut. It builds with every passing second. Every second, she doesn’t pull away. Every second, she stares at me like she’s daring me to move closer.
And I do.
Slow. Careful. My forehead dips until it brushes hers, a whisper of contact, barely there. Her breath catches. Her lips tremble. But she doesn’t flinch.
She just watches me.
That’s all the permission I need.
My mouth grazes hers, not a kiss, not yet. Just the softest brush. A question was asked without words. My lips skim overhers again, and this time, she exhales into me. A tiny sound, part sigh, part surrender.
And then we fall.
Her mouth meets mine like a spark hitting gasoline. The kiss is warm and damp and utterly electric. Her lips are soft, so soft I have to fight not to groan. I angle my head and kiss her deeper, and she answers with a need that knocks the air from my lungs.
My hand slides to her jaw, tilting her face toward me. Her fingers twist in the front of my shirt, pulling me closer like she can’t stand even an inch of space between us.
Every nerve in my body lights up. The world shrinks to just this: the quiet wet sounds of our mouths meeting, the hitch in her breath, the warmth of her pressed against me.
And something inside me knows that this changes everything.
Her lips are warm now, with no trace of that chill from before, soft and pliant and hungry against mine. She kisses me like she’s been waiting for this. Like she’s afraid I’ll stop.
Hell no. Not now.
I cup the side of her face, my palm soaking in the heat of her flushed cheek. Her hair clings to her skin, tangled and damp, but I don’t care. I’d thread my fingers through it anyway, even if it were drenched, just to hold her closer. To feel her melt into my hands like this.
She gasps when I angle my mouth deeper, and that sound does something reckless to me. I chase it. Swallow it. Let it stoke the slow, aching fire already spreading through me.
Her hands fist in my shirt as if she needs something to anchor her, something solid, and I let her tug me closer until there's nothing between us but soaked clothes and heat.
And god, the heat.
My thumb traces the delicate line beneath her jaw, and her breath hitches. I do it again, slower this time, dragging it down her throat, just to feel her pulse jump beneath my touch.
Her teeth part against mine like an invitation. I take it. Deepen the kiss. Let myself taste her fully. She tastes like peppermint and rain, but there's something else, too, her. Something I know I'll never get enough of.
She tilts her head and meets me with everything she’s got, no hesitation, no filter, just pure, aching want. Her tongue brushes mine, tentative at first, then bolder, and I swear my knees almost give out.
I groan into her mouth, low and rough and entirely involuntary.
She answers with a soft whimper, her body arching into mine like she needs more. Like this kiss isn’t enough, and god, she’s right. It’s not.
I need more.
I break the kiss for half a second, enough to see her. Her eyes are half-lidded, her lips swollen, and her breath ragged. Her hair’s a mess, rain-slick strands stuck to her cheek, and her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold and me.
She’s beautiful and breathtakingly so.
I run my hand down her spine, slow and deliberate, to feel the way she shivers for me. Not from cold anymore.
From want.
And that same need is pulsing through me like a drumbeat in my veins. I want to kiss her again. I want to back her against the couch and feel her sigh into my mouth. I want to press my hands under what remains of her clothes and feel the heat of her skin rising against mine.
