Page 167 of Knot Baked Out For This
It’s not the same as being inside her, not even close, but the relief is instant and overwhelming. I can breathe again. My hips jerk reflexively, chasing her touch, and she laughs, bringing her other hand up to steady herself on my chest.
Her curls hang down in a wild halo, and her face is flushed and damp with sweat. She looks triumphant—a queen astride a conquered enemy— and the sight of her like this hits me harder than any orgasm ever could.
She strokes me, slow and deliberate, milking the slick from my tip and watching my face as if she’s cataloging every reaction, every twitch and gasp.
I can’t look away, can barely blink, my whole world narrowed to the perfect circle of her hand and the sensation of her skin gliding over mine.
She thumbs the ridge of my knot, rolls her wrist, and another wave of pleasure slams through me, so intense I have to bite my own fist to keep from howling.
“You’re so sensitive,” she teases, voice hoarse. “Didn’t realize firefighters had such delicate equipment.”
The comeback dies on my lips, replaced by a guttural moan as she pumps her fist faster, matching the frantic pulse of my blood.
I’m close, so close, balls tight with the kind of urgency that doesn’t care about dignity or restraint. All that matters is the finish, the ecstasy of release, the promise of her warmth and her scent tangled around me for hours to come.
She leans in again, lips at my jaw, and I can feel her smile as she whispers, “Let go, Rowan. I want to feel you lose control.”
That’s it.
The last sandbag breaks.
I buck up into her hand, groaning as the orgasm crashes through, knot swelling huge and throbbing in her grip as I spill over her fingers and my own stomach, hot and viscous and endless. She milks every pulse with that talented grasp of hers, giggling as the mess pools and drips, then brings her slick hand up to her mouth and licks it clean, eyes never leaving mine.
The sight alone would be enough to break me a second time.
This woman knows how to please her Alpha, one hundred percent.
We finally collapse on the mats, allowing ourselves to calm from the exhilarating high that delivered.
"Incredible," I finish, kissing her forehead. But as reality creeps back, I realize the risk—we're in the firehouse gym, door unlocked…still. "We should?—"
Too late.
Footsteps echo from the hall, leaving us to share a look of horror before we’re cursing. Panic hits, and we scramble, her grabbing clothes, me zipping up just as the door opens.
Jenkins pokes his head in.
"Captain? You still here? Ember's acting weird—oh."
He freezes, taking in our disheveled state, the yoga ball that I accidentally kicked in my scrambled rolling lazily in our frozen state.
"Uh, training ran long?" I say lamely.
Jenkins smirks.
"Sure. I'll... come back later." He backs out, chuckling.
Hazel buries her face in my chest, mortified laughter bubbling up.
"We're never living this down."
"Worth it," I say, holding her close.
Her scent calms me, the coziness returning despite the embarrassment.
After we've cleaned up and she's headed back to the bakery, I think about Korrin, about the security measures Nash helped set up. We haven't told her yet, but there’s a trap lingering for the Alpha who thinks we accept “give-backs”. A baited trap that will make it impossible for him to keep playing these reckless games.
All he has to do is fall right into it…
