Page 30 of Controlled Burn
She nodded.
His thumb found her clit, circled slowly.
"You want to come on my fingers like a good little firefighter?"
Her nails raked his back. Her body trembled.
"I'll ruin you," he growled.
"Then ruin me."
He kissed her like a man possessed. Mouth hungry, teeth grazing, tongue devouring.
He fingered her harder, rougher, relentless now. Watching her unravel beneath him. Watching her lose the composure she wore like armor every shift.
His eyes locked on the tattoo on her upper arm—dahlias inked into pale flesh, vivid and bruised-looking under the emergency glow. A warning. An invitation. A fucking signature.
"Come on, Cross," he whispered, forehead against hers. "Come for me."
She came with a silent scream—shoulders shaking, thighs locking around his hips, mouth buried in his shoulder to muffle the sound. He held her through it, felt every wave pulse against his hand.
When she finally stilled, she looked up at him. Glazed eyes. Sweat-damp hair. Bruised lips.
"I didn't think you'd actually do it," he said hoarsely.
She smiled. Wrecked. Glorious.
"I don't bluff, Captain."
She kissed him once—slow, soft, deliberate—then slid out from beneath him. Pulled her shirt down. Fixed her pants.
Paused at the door.
"Night, Maddox."
Then she vanished, barefoot and silent, like a ghost that smelled like sweat, sex, and forbidden things.
Maddox – Morning After
Nobody said a word at shift change.
But he saw her across the bay.
Her walk. Her grin. The way she didn't bother hiding the fact that she still felt his fingers inside her.
He forced his eyes forward. Professional. Detached. Captain.
But the blood under his skin still burned. Still buzzed. Like something inside him had woken up after a long, suffocating sleep.
He tried to focus on the clipboard in his hand, the call sheets, the hum of the bay doors. But her scent still clung to him—Chanel and sweat and the ghost of her orgasm against his mouth.
He could still feel her—thighs clenching, nails digging into his skin, whispering that she was his like it meant something.
It wasn't supposed to mean anything. But it did. It meant everything.
He wasn't thinking about protocol. Or rules. Or the department's policy manual.
He was thinking about her lips wrapped around his name. The fucking smirk she gave him before slipping out of his bed like a dream that might've never happened—except it did. And it wrecked him.
