Page 66 of Controlled Burn
“I keep trying to let go,” he whispered. “But you’re in my blood now.”
She shivered, hands curling into his shirt. “Then stop trying.”
When he kissed her, it wasn’t rushed or frantic—it was all the ache and need and gratitude for the second chance they both thought was gone. It was slow, hungry, and devastating.
His forehead dropped to hers, breath ragged.
“It’s not enough,” he whispered. “It’ll never be enough.”
“But it’s real,” she said, voice trembling. “And right now, that’s all I can hold on to.”
Maddox
He didn’t sleep that night. Not because of guilt, but because of clarity—a vicious, white-hot clarity that cut away every excuse.
He lay in the dark, replaying every second with Talia—every word, every touch, every risk. If HR circled back, if Watts threw another grenade, if the brass pulled him in for questioning, he’d still choose her. He’d burn his career to the ground for the chance to feel alive with her, even if it destroyed them both.
Because it wasn’t about sex or forbidden thrills anymore.
It was the way she stood tall when everyone else shrank back. The way she refused to apologize for wanting, for fighting, for loving too hard. The way she looked at him and made him believe he wasn’t broken, not really.
She was a risk. She was the match.
And he was already ash.
This might be the moment he stopped pretending. The moment he let himself want—completely, shamelessly. The moment he finally stopped running from the fire and stepped straight into it. What he felt for Talia Cross was dangerous, reckless, and so real it hurt.
But it was his—all of it.
And for the first time in years, he wanted to see what would happen if he let it burn.
Chapter 24
Rooftop Sins
Maddox
“Follow me,” he said.
He didn’t wait for an answer. Didn’t check if the hallway was clear, didn’t pretend to care if someone saw. He just walked—no, stalked—through the firehouse like a man on borrowed time, boots pounding the linoleum, every stride fueled by the need clawing through his veins.
Two flights. A sharp right. Past the forgotten storage closet, past the peeling ‘Training Room’ sign, into the wing where the air was thick with dust, engine oil, and the metallic tang of old sweat. He found the ladder, shoved the rusted hatch open with asavage grunt, and hauled himself up, jaw clenched, not daring to look back.
The air outside was a wall—humid, thick, sticky with the city’s heat. It plastered his shirt to his skin, sweat running down his spine, mixing with the sweet burn of adrenaline. Every inch of him buzzed, angry and wild, alive in a way that was starting to feel dangerous.
She followed.
The hatch slammed. Her boots crunched on gravel. He didn’t turn, just gripped the parapet until his knuckles went white, heart hammering in his chest. Her scent—smoke, rich floral shampoo, sweat—hit him before her voice did. All of it messy, honest, and authentic.
Up here, there were no rules. No eyes. Just her. Just him. Just heat and history and that gnawing, hungry ache that nothing else could scratch.
She stopped behind him, so close he could feel the pulse of her heat, the brush of her breath.
“I tried,” he said, the words scraping raw at his throat.
“I know,” she whispered.
He turned. One look at her—hair wild, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide with want—and it was like a fuse snapped inside him.
