Page 11 of Controlled Burn
God help him. He hated how she haunted his thoughts once the sirens fell silent—hated how she was always the last one out and the first to laugh, as if every disaster was a dare she’d just conquered. Today she’d gone too far—charging through black smoke to drag a screaming child to safety, not once looking back—the kid’s burns—forty percent. The mother’s sobs echoed in hismind. Yet Cross had emerged with ash streaking her cheeks and that wild, defiant fire in her eyes.
Admiration was a match; temptation, the fire it lit.
He shoved open the locker room door and froze.
She stood at her open locker, shirtless in a black sports bra and sweat-dark shorts that clung like a second skin. The fluorescent lights caught the curve of her collarbone, the taut plane of her abs. She saw him, tilted her head, and smiled that dangerous smile—like she’d planned this moment.
“Didn’t peg you for a peeping Tom, Captain,” she teased, voice smooth as smoked silk.
He wrenched his gaze away, fists clenching at his sides. “Women’s locker time ended ten minutes ago.”
“Oops,” she said, peeling off the sports bra with the easy confidence of an athlete shedding armor.
Her breasts bounced free—D-cup confidence, no apology. Dean’s jaw locked. He pivoted, pressing his back to the lockers, cold steel biting through the heat in his skin.
“Put some clothes on, Cross,” he growled.
“You’re the one still watching,” she pointed out, slipping on a clean shirt like it was all a game.
“This isn’t a game,” he shot back, but his voice betrayed him.
She took a step closer, Chanel and sweat threading the air. Before he could react, she was behind him—breath warm against his neck.
“Am I bothering you, Captain?” she whispered.
He stayed silent, the tension thick as smoke.
“You get this tense with all your rookies?” she pressed, sly.
“None of my rookies strutted around with their tits out,” he snapped, voice ragged.
“Maybe they should’ve. You’d be easier to talk to if you weren’t so tightly wound,” she said, that wicked spark in her eye.
He spun, pinning her against the lockers, arm braced by her head, the other gripping her wrist. Her gaze held steady—daring him.
“Keep pushing me, Cross,” he warned, voice low.
“That’s the idea,” she purred.
Every rule she’d broken, every line she’d crossed—it all felt like foreplay. He was strung between duty and desire; she wanted to see him snap.
Her lower lip trembled, just enough to look innocent. “You’re not supposed to touch me.”
He leaned in, breath hot. “You think I care about rules right now?”
His hand slid to the hollow of her throat, thumb pressing lightly, possessively. Her pulse hammered under his palm.
“Do you want me to remind you who’s in charge?” he murmured.
“God, yes.” Her head tipped back, voice a shiver.
He dragged his thumb under her chin, memorizing the angle of her jaw. He didn’t kiss her—didn’t dare. Just hovered, burning.
“I should drag you in front of the chief for this,” he said, breathless.
“You won’t,” she replied, sure.
He exhaled, a tremor running through him. “Why not?”
