Page 60 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
He tries to pull me down, but I resist, teasing him with slow, deliberate rolls of my hips. I want to undo him the way he did me. I want him wrecked and begging.
I pull back enough to see his face, his eyes dark and wide, his jaw tight with restraint. I grind against him again, and he groans, the sound low and broken.
"Please, Kate," he rasps. "You’re driving me crazy. I need you."
It’s the second time he’s begged tonight, and somehow, it undoes me all over again. I shift, hear the sharp clink of his belt, and then feel him spring free—thick, hot, and throbbing against my stomach.
I guide him to my entrance, breath hitching as I sink down slowly, inch by inch. My hands stay pressed to his chest, grounding me as he fills me completely.
A sigh escapes me. Relief. Pleasure. Something deeper I don’t want to name.
"You feel so good," I whisper. "So perfect."
"Fuck, Katie," he groans, his hands locking around my hips. "Ride me. Slow. Just like that."
I obey, rolling my hips with purpose, each movement sending sparks up my spine. My breasts brush against his chest as I move, his hands skimming my thighs, setting every nerve alight.
He groans, thrusting up to meet me, our bodies finding a rhythm that feels inevitable. Like this was always going to happen.
He sits up, wrapping his arms around me, his mouth trailing heat along my neck as he moves inside me. I grip his shoulders, fingers threading through his damp hair, and we lose ourselves in the intensity building between us.
"I'm close," he groans, and his voice sounds wrecked, like he’s holding on by a thread.
"Me too," I gasp, and the wave crests fast.
He slams into me with a force that steals my breath, and my climax hits, blinding and sharp. My body arches, trembles, and I cry out, lost in the sensation.
"Don’t stop," I whisper, and he doesn’t.
His fingers dig into my hips as he drives into me, and I feel him swell and pulse inside me as he finds his own release, a raw sound tearing from his throat.
We collapse together, bodies tangled, skin damp, breathless and undone. He wraps his arms around me, holding me close as our heartbeats slow.
"Fuck, that was amazing," he murmurs.
It should feel perfect. But it isn't.
My uncertainty doesn’t fade. If anything, it sharpens.
Because I feel it—the shift. The moment he starts to retreat.
His hands still. His body goes rigid. The warmth between us fading and filling with silence.
Not this time.
I lean over and flick on the bedside lamp. The soft glow cuts through the dark, and he flinches, caught.
Our eyes meet.
"I’m not doing this," I say quietly. "I can’t pretend it’s just physical. If this is going to keep happening, I need to understand."
His jaw clenches. For a second, I think he’ll shut me out.
Then, softer—“No one told you anything...?”
I tilt my head, "What should they have told me?"
His lips part. Something flashes across his face. Pain. Grief. Then the walls slam shut.
