Page 11 of The Grumpy Firefighter
"Research is what I do."
His thumb traces my lower lip, and my breath catches audibly. "And your injury?"
In answer, I step forward, eliminating the last space between us, my body flush against his. "I promise to tell you if anything hurts."
Something shifts in his expression, restraint giving way to hunger, and then his mouth is on mine, firm and insistent. His hands cup my face, tilting it for better access as his tongue traces the seam of my lips.
I open to him with a soft sound of surrender, my hands finding purchase on his broad shoulders. The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that makes my knees weaken and my pulse quicken.
He walks me backward until I feel the cool metal of the engine behind me, never breaking the kiss. My hands slide under his shirt, palms flat against the warm skin of his back, feeling the play of muscles as he moves. Each ridge and plane of his body is a discovery beneath my fingertips, solid and real.
"This is a bad idea," he murmurs against my mouth, even as his hands span my waist, lifting me to sit on the engine's running board.
"The worst," I agree, wrapping my legs around his hips to draw him closer. "Terrible judgment on both our parts."
He laughs again, the sound rumbling through his chest where it's pressed against mine. "You're trouble, Natalie Wells."
"You have no idea," I whisper, nipping lightly at his lower lip.
The position puts us at perfect height, his body cradled between my thighs as his hands slide under my borrowed shirt to explore the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine. Each stroke of his fingers leaves a trail of heat, like he's painting fire across my skin.
I tug at his shirt, needing to feel more of him. He obliges, stepping back just long enough to pull it over his head in one fluid motion.
My breath catches at the sight of him, broad shoulders tapering to a trim waist, chest dusted with dark hair that narrows to a trail disappearing beneath his waistband. A long scar curves along his left ribs, silver-white against tanned skin. Without thinking, I reach out to trace it with my fingertips.
I lean forward, replacing my fingers with my lips, kissing along the length of the scar. His breathing changes, becoming deeper, less controlled. My tongue traces the raised edge, tasting salt and something uniquely him.
I cross my arms and pull the t-shirt up and off my body, letting it fall forgotten to the floor. The cool morning air raises goosebumps across my newly bared skin, my nipples tightening in response.
His eyes darken as they travel over me, taking in every curve and hollow with unhurried appreciation.
His thumbs trace slow arcs that send sparks of pleasure coursing through me. I arch into his touch, wordlessly asking for more.
He obliges, cupping the weight of my breasts in his palms, thumbs circling with deliberate pressure until I'm gasping, head falling back against the engine. The contrast of the cool metal against my shoulder blades and his warm hands on my skin creates a delicious counterpoint of sensation.
His mouth finds my throat, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses down to my collarbone, then lower. The scratch of his stubble followed by the soft heat of his lips makes me shiver. Each point of contact between us—his hands on my breasts, his hips between my thighs, his mouth on my skin—becomes a focal point of pleasure.
When his lips close around my nipple, I cry out, fingers threading through his short hair to hold him there. The wet heat of his tongue circling, flicking, then the gentle scrape of teeth has me squirming on the metal running board, seeking more contact.
"Paul," I breathe, rolling my hips against the hard length of him, feeling him even through the layers of fabric between us. "I need you to touch me."
His eyes, when they meet mine, are dark with desire but still watching, evaluating. "Here?" he asks, one hand sliding down my stomach to the waistband of my underwear.
"Yes," I nod, lifting my hips in invitation. "Please."
His fingers trace the edge of the fabric, teasing rather than yielding to my request. "What happened to the reserved girl who baked cookies for the fire station?"
I laugh breathlessly, rocking against his hand. "She's currently sitting half-naked on a fire truck, begging the chief to touch her. Any other questions?"
His smile is slow and devastating. "Just one." He leans close, lips brushing my ear. "How do you want to be touched? Show me."
Heat floods my face, but desire overrides any shyness. I take his hand in mine, guiding it beneath the fabric, pressing his fingers where I need them most. His breath catches audibly when he feels how ready I am for him.
"Like this," I whisper, showing him the rhythm, the pressure I crave.
He's a quick study, his touch firm yet gentle, exploring with the same methodical attention he gives to everything. When he slides one thick finger inside me, curling it just so, my head falls back with a moan that echoes through the cavernous apparatus bay.
"Shh," he murmurs, though his expression is pleased rather than concerned. "These walls echo."
