Page 12 of The Grumpy Firefighter
"Can't help it," I gasp as he adds a second finger, stretching deliciously. "You're too good at this."
"I'm thorough," he corrects, his free hand still working at my breast, pinching and rolling my nipple in time with the thrust of his fingers. "I like to be certain I'm doing things right."
My thighs begin to tremble, my breathing growing ragged as I chase the release he's building within me.
"Paul," I pant, nails digging into his shoulders. "I'm close—"
"I know," he says, never altering his perfect rhythm. "I can feel it."
Pleasure crashes through me in waves, my body clenching around his fingers as I cry out his name. He works me through it, drawing out every last tremor until I'm boneless and gasping.
Before I've fully recovered, he's lifting me again, arms secure beneath my thighs. "Hold onto me," he instructs, and I wrap my arms around his neck without hesitation.
He carries me across the apparatus bay, past the gleaming engines to the brass fire pole that connects to the upper floor. My back meets the cool metal, the pole pressing along my spine as he holds me against it.
"Always wondered about these poles," I murmur, still breathless from my climax. "Do they actually use them?"
"Not as often as the movies would have you believe," he says, lips trailing along my collarbone. "But they have their uses."
To demonstrate, he shifts his hold, allowing the pole to support some of my weight as he frees one hand to caress my breast again. The cool brass against my heated skin makes me gasp.
"Creative," I manage as his thumb and forefinger pinch lightly, sending aftershocks of pleasure through my still-sensitive body.
"You inspire improvisation," he admits, and there's something both playful and meaningful in his tone.
I reach between us, palming him through his uniform pants, gratified by his sharp intake of breath. "Speaking of improvisation..."
His kiss is consuming now, deep and hungry, as I work at his belt and zipper. When I finally wrap my hand around him, hot and hard against my palm, he groans into my mouth, hips jerking involuntarily, I guide him to where I'm slick and ready.
He searches my eyes for one more moment of confirmation, then presses forward in a slow, controlled movement that has me gasping against his shoulder.
His hands grip my thighs more firmly as he begins to move, slow, deep thrusts that use the pole for leverage. The brass is cool and smooth against my back, creating a delicious counterpoint to the heat of his body against my front.
Each thrust pushes me against the metal, then pulls me back to him, a rhythm as old as time but somehow entirely new in this context, with this man.
"You feel incredible," he murmurs, one hand sliding up to cup my breast, thumb circling my nipple in time with his thrusts. "So perfect around me."
I wrap my legs tighter around his waist, changing the angle slightly so that each thrust hits exactly where I need it.
The pole behind me gleams in the morning light, brass warmed now from my body heat. Paul's skin is flushed, a light sheen of sweat making his chest glisten as he moves.
When his hand slides between us, thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at my center, I nearly sob with pleasure. "Paul, I'm going to—"
"Yes," he encourages, circling firmly. "That's it, Natalie. Let go for me again."
This orgasm builds differently from the first, it’s slower, deeper, more all-encompassing. When it breaks, it's like being swept away by a tidal wave, every muscle tensing then releasing in rhythmic pulses that draw a matching groan from Paul.
He follows me over the edge, his rhythm faltering as he presses deep, I feel each pulse of his release, the slight twitch of him inside me as we both shudder through the aftermath.
For long moments, we stay connected, his forehead resting against mine, our breathing gradually slowing. The morning light has shifted, painting new patterns across the floor and our entwined bodies. The station is silent except for our breathing and the distant hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Slowly, he lowers my feet to the ground, keeping his arms around me until he's sure I'm steady. My ankle twinges slightly, but it's a distant concern compared to the pleasant ache between my thighs and the warm glow suffusing my entire body.
"We should clean up," he says, though he makes no move to step away. Instead, his hands continue to explore lazily, tracing the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine, the fullness of my breast. Each touch is appreciative rather than demanding, as if he's memorizing the landscape of my body.
"Mmm," I agree, equally reluctant to break the moment. My own hands map the broad planes of his chest, the defined muscles of his abdomen, the intriguing texture of hair narrowing to a trail below his navel. "But we have time."
His smile is slow and surprisingly playful. "Enough time for me to show you the shower upstairs?"
