Page 60 of The Night Belongs To Fireman

“How can you be sure?”

He kicked his pants aside and returned to the couch. “Communication. If something doesn’t feel good to you, we stop immediately.”

She swallowed hard. Communication was not one of her strengths, at least when it came to people. Dogs were one thing, but people had so many contradictions and secret hidden agendas. She had secrets of her own, so she always watched her words very carefully. But Fred was great at communication. If she just followed his lead, maybe it would all be okay.

When he made to sit down next to her on the couch, she stopped him.

“My turn to look at you,” she told him. She touched a tentative finger to the hot, velvety tip of his erection, then circled around the rigid flare of the head. Her finger seemed to take an insanely long time to travel its complete circumference. When she stole a glance at his face, she saw that he’d clamped his eyes shut. Knots of tension rippled his jaw muscles.

Pure female satisfaction made her want to purr. She’d never felt sexually powerful before, but the strained expression on his face made her confidence soar. “Does this feel good?”

“Yes,” he choked out. “But I think you’d better stop.”

“Not yet.” First, she wanted to run her fingers down his full length, appreciating each hard ridge and soft vein she discovered. His shaft grew even harder under her exploring strokes. Bending down, she touched her tongue to the very tip, tasting tender skin and a drop of salt.

“Okay, that’s it,” growled Fred. “There’s only so much I can take.”

Suddenly she found herself on her back, sprawled across the couch, her legs lifted so he could slide off her panties, which were already soaking wet. He stilled for a moment, holding her legs apart with firm hands on both of her thighs. The position felt exposing, vulnerable and erotic.

“You are so dang beautiful.” The rough edge in his voice was sweet music to her soul. He drew one finger down the center of the thatch of downy hair, right where the need crystallized into a throbbing point. It was as if he’d tugged on a string attached to her sex. Almost involuntarily, she pushed her hips against his finger, mutely begging for more. He gave it to her. Another finger. More pressure, more friction, more pleasure. He touched her with so much honest appreciation that tears sprang to her eyes. Under his strong hand, she felt beautiful and free.

Free to twist against him when he escalated the pace of his stroking. Free to moan and babble urgent things like “Faster, please, oh, don’t stop, oh my God.” Free to grab his erection and rub it against her mound. When he drew his hips away, she actually shouted at him. He just laughed, crawled between her legs, and lowered his mouth to her sex. She stopped shouting and started panting.

Her entire being homed in on the warm, fleshy tongue stroking intimately against her, dragging bursts of bright sensation from her core. His mouth covered the tender, slick tissues of her sex, delving, testing, savoring. And then … oh glory … he did something with his thumb, touched some spot that might as well have been the detonator on a bomb, because she exploded in shocking waves of bright heat. It went on and on, the spasms grabbing her body with brilliant cataclysms of pleasure. Bits of information filtered through the madness: her spine bent in a tight arch, her fists filled with couch upholstery, his hands a miracle from heaven.

And then, tragedy, his hands left her and he disappeared from the couch.

Panting, melting, she watched him move to the little pile of clothes on the floor and rummage for his pants. She stared at his young, tough body as he knelt. He moved with complete physical confidence, like one of the mountain lions at the Refuge. Quiet strength and smooth grace, each tendon and muscle flexing in perfect harmony with the others. He extracted his wallet from his back pocket, plucked out a condom, tore it open, and worked it over his massive hard-on.

Then he pounced on her, his knees on either side of her hips, surprising a laugh out of her.

She was so slippery, so drenched in satisfaction that his size barely registered. As he entered her she felt remade. Stretched and expanded, all hesitation and doubt chased from her body by his full-blooded, iron erection. He eased inside her, every new inch of progress making her more open and more wild. She reached down to put her hand on his powerful thigh, feeling the muscle flex as he fought to control his movements. He hung above her, breath ragged, steam practically rising off him.

“You feel so good,” he muttered, his face set in fierce lines. “I might lose my mind here.”

“So what?” She gasped as he claimed another inch. “I already lost mine, and I don’t miss it at all.”

He gave a ragged laugh. “Good point. Okay, then. You ready?”

“Bring it, fireman.” She grinned up at him with an unfamiliar feeling of sassiness. She never felt relaxed during sex, the few times she’d tried it. There was too much to worry about—expectations, the tabloids, consequences. But this felt so different, as if she and Fred were creating their own perfect, steamy world one caress at a time.

“Brace yourself, sweetheart.” He thrust his hips forward until he was seated entirely within her. She let out a squeak. She hadn’t known that anyone could go so deep inside her. She hadn’t known there was space. And who could have guessed it would feel so good? The slow friction of his shaft dragging across the hidden recesses of her flesh sent pleasure skipping through her system. She bent her legs so he could go even deeper. Oh my God. How could anything on earth feel so amazing?

---