Page 16 of Embers in Autumn

Mike drifted away again in search of a sports biography.

Carol examined a new poetry collection with an expression that suggested it had disappointed her in the second line.

The mother at the back laughed softly as her toddler discovered a flap that hid a cat.

The whole shop loosened into a bright tangle of small pleasures.

Dean tapped the counter once with a knuckle.

He reached for the cup lid and pressed it more firmly into place for me, a small unnecessary gesture that made something inside me unfurl. His fingers brushed mine, light as breath. The contact raced up my arm and set up camp somewhere below my collarbone.

“I should get him back to the station,” Dean said, tilting his head toward Mike, who was now reading a chapter aloud in a terrible accent to no one at all. “We have drills.”

“Try not to cause more chaos,” I said.

“I make no guarantees,” he said, and then he hesitated, eyes dipping to my mouth for a fraction of a second before he pulled them back to my eyes. “Text me if you need anything. I can swing by after lunch.”

“I will be fine,” I said. “Go teach the town about not lighting tea lights under curtains.”

He laughed. “Do not joke. Someone did that once.”

“I believe you,” I said.

He pushed off the counter. Mike reappeared to pay, made two terrible puns about offsides that even he did not seem proud of, and then clapped Dean on the shoulder.

As they turned to go, Carol adjusted her pearls and spoke in the same tone one might use to discuss weather. “Young man, if you insist on doing dramatic readings, I recommend you start with chapter twelve. Much more… vigorous.”

Dean stopped in his tracks. His ears actually turned red. Mike made the sign of the cross and muttered something about being scarred for life. I pressed my knuckles to my mouth so I wouldn’t laugh loud enough to scare the customers.

Dean cleared his throat, voice rough. “Yes, ma’am.”

Carol collected her bag of books with elegant precision, then looked at me with a sweet smile. “Amber, do you have anything with firemen for next time? Strictly for research, of course.”

I nearly dropped my latte. Dean groaned. Mike doubled over, wheezing.

Carol, utterly unbothered, swept toward the door like she hadn’t just set the entire shop on fire without striking a single match.

The bell chimed as the door opened. Dean paused with his hand on the frame, looked back at me, and let the smile that was just for me reach his eyes. Then he was gone, boots thudding down the steps, jacket catching the sun.

I stood there holding my latte and watched the light sway across the floor where he had stood.

For a whole minute I did not move. The shop hummed on, and my heart hummed with it, slowly returning to its usual rhythm.

A mother coaxed her toddler into putting down a pop-up book, the poetry browser hummed under her breath, the college couple whispered over paperbacks.

But my pulse was still running fast, echoing with Carol’s parting words.

Do you have anything with firemen?

Of course she had meant it as a joke, but once the shop quieted again, the thought rooted itself in the back of my mind.

I found myself wandering toward the romance section, scanning spines with a half-smile I couldn’t quite stop.

Sure enough, tucked between a paramedic love story and a small-town baker series, there it was: a firefighter romance.

The cover was tamer than what Carol would have gone for—shirtless hero, yes, but there was something more about the way the heroine clung to him, something that whispered devotion instead of just desire.

I pulled it from the shelf, hesitated, then slipped it onto the counter like I was trying to get away with something.

By the time I closed up, the memory of Dean in that uniform hadn’t let me go. God, he had looked good. Not just handsome—commanding. Strong. Like he could carry the weight of the world and still look at me with softness. I shook my head, muttering to myself as I carried the book upstairs.

My apartment glowed warm in lamplight as I kicked off my shoes, reheated some soup, and curled up in bed with the book.

The first few chapters were exactly what I wanted: the heroine overwhelmed by life, the firefighter steady and kind, showing up when no one else did.

I was halfway through a scene involving a suspiciously convenient fire alarm when my phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Dean: Sorry, I disappeared. Call came in. Everyone’s safe.

Relief washed over me, followed immediately by curiosity. I typed back quickly.

Amber: You don’t need to apologize for doing your job. Glad everyone’s okay.

Dean: Still. I didn’t like the idea of you wondering.

I smiled at the screen, my stomach flipping.

Amber: I kept busy.

Dean: What’s keeping you company tonight?

I bit my lip, staring at the book in my lap. Should I? No, that was ridiculous. But my fingers betrayed me anyway.

Amber: A book.

Dean: Dangerous answer, considering that now I know what you sell.

Amber: It’s… a firefighter romance.

The dots blinked almost instantly.

Dean: You’re kidding.

Amber: Pure coincidence.

Dean: Pure coincidence my ass. Let me guess… he’s tall, broad shoulders, saves kittens out of trees and women out of burning buildings?

Amber: …he may have saved a cat. And possibly a bakery.

Dean: Am I at least better looking than this guy?

I laughed out loud, burying my face in the pillow.

Amber: Hard to say. The cover model is very committed to baby oil.

Dean: I’ll take that as a yes.

Amber: Don’t get cocky.

Dean: Too late. Now I’m picturing you in bed, biting your lip, reading about some guy in suspenders with a hose over his shoulder.

Heat flooded my cheeks. He had nailed it too perfectly.

Amber: Suspenders have not appeared yet.

Dean: Yet? That’s the word you went with. You’re enjoying this way too much.

Amber: Maybe.

Dean: I should be offended. But honestly? I like the idea of you reading about me.

I set the phone down for a moment, heart racing. God, what was he doing to me? The teasing was harmless, but the undercurrent hummed through every line, warm and electric.

The phone buzzed again.

Dean: Just don’t fall in love with fictional me before I get a chance to make a real impression.

I hugged the pillow to my chest, smiling like an idiot.

Amber: Too late. Fictional you has already promised to fix the heroine’s leaky roof and bring her donuts.

Dean: Not a problem. I make great pancakes.

I laughed so hard I had to wipe my eyes.

Lying there in the glow of the lamp, with a silly book in my lap and Dean’s words lighting up my screen, I realized how long it had been since I’d felt this way. Light. Giddy. Like anything was possible.

And God help me, I didn’t want it to stop.

The phone buzzed again in my hand, the screen lighting up my dim bedroom.

Dean: Tell me, Amber. Which part are you at?

I stared at the firefighter on the book’s cover, then back at my phone. My heart was already racing. I typed slowly, almost trembling.

Amber: …The scene where he corners her against the wall. He tells her she smells like smoke and sugar.

A pause. Then another buzz.

Dean: Christ. You’re going to ruin me.

Dean: I can picture it. You in bed, book on your lap, hair messy, biting your lip.

I swallowed hard, heat pooling low in my belly.

Amber: Maybe.

Dean: Don’t tease me. I’m hard just thinking about you. Do you get wet picturing me in that uniform?

The words hit me like a slap of heat. My thighs clenched, my breath uneven.

Amber: Dean… maybe.

Dean: No, don’t stop there. Do you have your hand between your legs yet?

A shocked gasp left me. My free hand slid lower before I could think. Damn it, he was right. That image of him was enough to get me all fired up.

Amber: Not yet.

Dean: Then do it. Put the book aside and slide your hand down. I want you wet for me.

I swallowed hard. My thighs pressed together, heat blooming, a coil tightening in my stomach. My fingers hovered over the keys.

Amber: What else do you want me o do for you?

Dean: Do it. Slide those pretty fingers under and feel how wet you are for me.

My breath caught. I set the phone down beside me, the words still burning against the screen. My hand slid under the blanket, slow, almost shy, until my fingers grazed the damp fabric of my panties. The jolt made me gasp.

Dean: That’s it. Stroke yourself for me. Slow. Pretend it’s my hand between your thighs.

I obeyed, slipping past the cotton, finding the slick heat waiting. My hips arched off the bed, the shock of contact stealing my breath.

My eyelids fluttered shut. I couldn’t text back. Couldn’t do anything but move my fingers the way he told me, slow circles that pulled soft sounds from my throat.

Dean: I wish I could see you. Bet your cheeks are pink. Bet your nipples are hard under that top.

My free hand dragged over my chest, tugging at the hem of my sweater until I could pinch one aching peak. The sensation shot straight down, making me whimper.

The phone buzzed again, sharp in the quiet.

Dean: Rub your clit faster. Don’t stop until you’re dripping.

I obeyed, my hips rolling into my hand, the tension winding higher with every rough circle. My body was his, commanded by words alone.

Dean: You like this, don’t you? Being told what to do.

I moaned, biting down on the pillow. My hand was slick now, every stroke a spark. My eyes watching the screen of my phone for his instructions.

Dean: Fuck, I’d spread those thighs and eat you until you were begging. I wouldn’t stop until you screamed my name.

I arched, breath breaking into ragged gasps. The phone buzzed again, faster, relentless.

Dean: Slide a finger inside. Stretch yourself. Pretend it’s my cock.

A helpless sound tore out of me. I pushed my fingers in, tight heat gripping me. My hips jerked. The ache turned sharp, delicious.

Dean: Add another. Stretch yourself for me. Imagine it’s my cock filling you up. That’s it. Pump them deeper. Fuck yourself while you think about me.

My phone buzzed again and again, his filthy voice written out in rough texts, every word setting me aflame.

Moaning into the pillow, I sliding in a second finger, my slick making it easy.

The stretch made me shudder. I couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t stop grinding against my own hand, each thrust sharper, wetter.

Dean: You’d look so pretty under me. Hair all over the pillow, tits bouncing while I split you open. Christ, I’d fuck you until you couldn’t walk straight.

The room spun, my body too tight, too close. I stared at the phone through half-closed eyes, his words flashing like sparks.

Dean: Rub your clit while you fuck yourself. Hard. I want you screaming for me.

I obeyed, pressing my thumb to the aching bud, circling hard and fast as I pumped my fingers deeper. Pleasure crashed over me, brutal and hot, my whole body locking up as release tore through me. I bit down on the pillow to muffle the cry, my thighs trembling, my chest heaving.

The phone buzzed again, relentless.

Dean: That’s it. Come for me. Soak your sheets.

Dean: Wish it was my tongue. My cock. Someday soon it will be.

I collapsed back into the mattress, slick and shaking, my breath ragged, the phone slipping from my hand to the blankets. My panties clung damp between my thighs. My body hummed like I’d been struck through with lightning.

The last message blinked up at me when I finally found the courage to look.

Dean: Sweet dreams, Amber. Next time, I’m not stopping at just your imagination.

I buried my face in the pillow, heart pounding, body still pulsing with aftershocks. God help me, I had no idea how I was supposed to sleep after that.