Page 10 of Wrong Number, Right Firefighter
“Jesus, Camille?—”
She stroked me, her touch firm but unhurried, her eyes locked on mine like she was memorizing every twitch of my expression. I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to close my eyes, to give in completely. But I couldn’t look away. Not when she was watching me like that—like she wanted to devour every sound I made.
She sank to her knees. My breath left me in a rush.
Her lips parted, and the first hot swipe of her tongue nearly sent me to my knees with her. I braced a hand against the doorframe, my fingers digging into the wood as she took me deeper, her mouth sinfully soft, unbearably wet.
“Fuck.” The word was ragged, torn from me.
Her mouth was pure heat, velvet and fire, and every slow, deliberate stroke of her tongue sent lightning down my spine. I tangled my fingers in her hair—not to guide her, just to hold on, because Christ, I was already close to losing it.
She hummed around my erection, the vibration making my knees weak, and when her hand joined, sliding in perfect rhythm with her lips, I had to bite back a groan. Her grip was firm, her thumb swiping over the head of my cock with every upward stroke, spreading the wetness from her mouth, from me.
I was drowning with every flick of her tongue, every soft suck. She was relentless, exploring me like she had all the time in the world. Like she wanted to learn exactly how to drive me over the edge. And she was damn good at it.
My hips jerked, my control fraying. “Camille—“ I gritted out, my voice rough. “If you keep doing that, I’m not going to last.”
She pulled back just enough to look up at me, her lips slick, her eyes dark with satisfaction. “Then don’t.”
Before I could respond, she took me deep again, her throat working around me, and I swore, my fingers tightening in her hair. The pressure built, white-hot and undeniable, and I knew I was done for.
But then she stopped.
She released me with a slow, wet slide of her lips, her breath coming fast as she rose to her feet. Without a word, she turned and walked to the bed, climbing onto the mattress with deliberate grace. She looked back at me over her shoulder—a silent, unmistakable invitation.
I hesitated for half a second. Then I followed.
I yanked my shirt over my head, kicked off my pants, and crossed the room in three strides, my body thrumming withneed. By the time I reached the bed, I was already pulling her toward me, my hands sliding over her bare skin, my mouth crashing against hers.
She tasted like me. Like heat and hunger.
And I was done holding back.
5
CAMILLE
Iwas naked, in the bed of a rental cabin, in the mountains. And I’d never felt more alive.
I’d blame it on the alcohol, this brave side of myself, but any effects it once had on me were now mostly worn off. This was something else. This was a lifetime of repression. This side of me had been here all along. I was just now exploring it.
Lightning lit up the room, highlighting his face as he looked down at me. He’d kissed me like I’d never been kissed before. Like nobody on earth had been kissed before, I was pretty sure. It was a kiss that sent heat through my body, leaving me breathless.
I wasn’t completely naked. I still wore panties, and they were soaked. I felt that when I moved. Just his kiss had done that to me. I couldn’t imagine what would happen when he touched my breasts…and other areas.
“Camille,” he whispered.
Hearing my name cross his lips made me sigh. I was pretty sure it also sent a fresh round of moisture to that ache between my legs.
Just when I felt like I might dissolve into a puddle, his hand moved over my shoulder, nudging the covers aside and finding my breast. He covered it with his palm, but he almost immediately shifted, moved his thumb over and around my nipple, circling gently.
My back arched at the contact, and my eyes slammed shut. Nothing had ever felt this good. Nothing.
As if that thought had been a dare, that same hand moved down over my stomach, and I knew things were about to get even more intense. Only when his hand nudged my thighs apart did I realize I had them clamped together. I spread them wide, symbolizing my liberation from a lifetime of hiding my needs. From believing that sexual desire was something to be ashamed of. From being made to feel like having naughty thoughts was evil. I’d had them, but I’d always felt guilty about them.
I didn’t have to feel guilty now, though. The tequila had shown me that. I’d spent far too much of my life doing what others said.
Now it was my turn to live.
