Page 20 of Embers in Autumn

Amber

God. I really needed that.

My whole body still hummed, every nerve buzzing, every breath catching like my lungs couldn’t keep up. Dean’s weight was solid against me, his lips hot on my temple, and I couldn’t stop myself from kissing him again. Slow this time, softer, like gratitude poured into a kiss.

“Dean,” I whispered against his mouth, tasting him and myself all at once. “I need a shower now.”

He kissed me back, a low rumble escaping his chest. “Mind if I join?”

I pulled back just far enough to see the glint in his eyes, the curve of his smile. The cocky firefighter, but there was warmth under it—always warmth.

I smiled, breathless, my face still flushed. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He chuckled, kissing me once more before easing me off the counter. My legs wobbled when my boots hit the floor, and his hands tightened at my waist to steady me. Strong hands, capable hands, the kind that could fight fire one moment and cradle me the next.

I brushed hair from my face, still shaky, still flushed, and laughed under my breath. “I’m blaming you when the counter creaks every time I set a book down.”

Dean smirked, leaning close. “Worth it.”

And as he laced his fingers with mine, guiding me toward the stairs to my apartment above, I realized just how dangerous this had become—because my heart, not just my body, was already falling for him.

The narrow staircase creaked beneath our steps as Dean followed me up, his hand warm at the small of my back.

My apartment door clicked shut behind us, the quiet inside louder than the drizzle tapping at the windows.

I didn’t let myself think. Thinking was what always slowed me down, what always wrapped me in fear. But now, I just wanted to feel.

I tugged at his sweater, pulling it over his head in one swift move, and his laugh rumbled through the air. His chest was solid, warm, still damp with sweat from what we’d just done, and I pressed my palms against him, needing more.

“Bossy,” he teased, his hands finding my hips again.

“Get used to it,” I shot back, walking him backward toward the bathroom.

The light flicked on with a soft hum, I turned the water on hot, steam filling the small space instantly, then turned to him. For a heartbeat, I just looked. The firefighter, the father, the man who kissed me like I mattered. And God, I wanted him.

I reached for his belt, unbuckling it without hesitation, pushing his jeans down. He hissed when I brushed against him, hard and ready again. My lips curved.

“Still have energy for me?”

His jaw flexed. “Try me.”

I stripped my own dress and shirt in quick movements, boots and tights kicked aside, until I stood before him in nothing but my bra and panties. His eyes darkened, trailing every inch, but when his hands lifted to help, I stopped him with a shake of my head.

“My turn,” I whispered, sliding my straps down slow, watching his chest rise faster.

The bra hit the tile, followed by my panties, and the look in his eyes nearly undid me—but I stepped into the shower first, the water cascading hot down my skin. I held out a hand, raising a brow. “Coming?”

He was in seconds later, the spray plastering his hair to his forehead, water rushing over the hard lines of his shoulders. He reached for me, but I pressed him back against the wall.

“Amber—”

“Shh,” I hushed, kissing him hard, my hands splayed across his chest as the water poured over us. I kissed down his throat, biting gently, then lower, until I dropped to my knees on the slick tile. His groan echoed off the walls when I wrapped my hand around him, stroking slow.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, his head thudding back.

I smiled up at him, then leaned forward and took him into my mouth, the water streaming down both of us.

He cursed, his hand tangling in my wet hair, not guiding, just holding on.

I set the pace, slow, then faster, until his breath came ragged and his thighs tensed under my grip, muscles straining, and I knew he was close.

The sound that tore from his throat when I slid my mouth off him made my body clench with want.

I rose slowly, water cascading down both of us, his cock standing thick and hard between us.

His chest heaved, his eyes burning into mine, but before he could say a word, I kissed him.

Deep, wet, desperate. His groan vibrated through my lips as I pressed him back against the tile, taking control of the kiss until his hands shook against my hips.

“Not yet,” I murmured, biting lightly at his jaw. “I’m not done with you.”

I turned, bracing my hands against the wall, water rushing over my back, slicking my hair down my spine. I looked over my shoulder, breathless but steady. “Fuck me, Dean.”

His answer was a guttural curse. Then his hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, and in one smooth thrust he slid inside me, filling me so deep I cried out, the sound echoing off the wet tile.

“Christ, Amber,” he growled, his chest flush to my back now, his mouth at my ear. “So tight, so wet. I could live inside you.”

The words made me shudder, my palms flattening harder against the wall as he drove into me again. The pace was brutal, water splashing, steam fogging everything, the world narrowing to the thick thrust of his cock, the heat building sharp and fast inside me.

Every time his hips slammed into mine, I gasped, the rhythm relentless, delicious. He reached around, fingers finding my clit, rubbing hard and fast in perfect time with his thrusts. My knees buckled, my moans spilling unrestrained into the hot air.

“You like that, baby?” he rasped. “Like being fucked against the wall?”

“Yes—yes, God—don’t stop,” I gasped, my body on fire, every nerve sparking under his touch.

He bit my shoulder, his pace wild now, slamming deep, each thrust making me cry out louder. My climax tore through me like lightning, sudden and violent, my body clenching around him, dragging him down with me.

“Amber—fuck—” His groan was rough, guttural, as he buried himself to the hilt and spilled into me, his hips jerking, his breath hot against my neck.

The shower pounded down on us, washing away everything but the tremors still wracking my body. I sagged against the wall, my forehead pressed to the tile, Dean’s weight solid and heavy behind me, his chest heaving with each ragged breath.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. Just the sound of water, our gasps, our hearts were still hammering in sync when Dean finally eased back, the water cascading between us.

My legs wobbled, but his arms were already there, steady, guiding me out of the stream.

He reached for a towel, wrapping me in it gently, his hands careful on my shoulders and back.

It was almost disarming, the way the same man who’d just whispered the filthiest things in my ear now dried me off with such quiet tenderness.

I smiled at him, cheeks still flushed, hair damp and wild around my face. He kissed my temple, then handed me another towel for my hair.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“Always,” he said simply, pulling on his jeans while I slipped into fresh clothes.

As I fastened the buttons on my dress, I glanced out the window. The rain had stopped, though the sky was still thick with gray. Drops clung to the glass, catching what little light broke through the clouds.

“I should get back downstairs. Maybe the weather clearing will bring in a few customers. Can’t afford another slow day.”

He leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching me with that steady gaze that made my stomach flip. “Have you eaten anything today?”

I blinked, caught off guard. “I haven’t even had my coffee properly,” I admitted, giving him a mock stern look. “I’m going to file a complaint with the fire department about that.”

His mouth twitched into a grin. “You should. The fire department takes those complaints very seriously.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” I teased, brushing past him with a laugh.

Downstairs, the shop still smelled faintly of rain and fresh wood. I flipped the sign back to open , the familiar little bell chiming above us. Dean followed, his presence filling the quiet space, grounding me.

“I’ll go down the street,” he said, already reaching for his jacket. “There’s a bakery. They’ve got the best croissants in town. I’ll bring us back a couple.”

Warmth spread through me, unexpected but fierce. Something about his simple concern—the thought of him walking through drizzle just to bring me pastry—made my chest ache in the best way.

“That’s… really nice of you,” I said softly.

He winked, already at the door. “Don’t thank me yet. Wait until you taste them.”

He winked as he stepped out, leaving me with a smile I couldn’t wipe away. And for the first time in a long time, the shop didn’t feel quite so quiet.

The bell chimed, and in came a pair of older women wrapped in scarves, shaking drizzle off their umbrellas. I greeted them with a warm smile and pointed them toward the new arrivals. They were easy, friendly, drifting off with quiet chatter.

The next customer, however, was a man in his fifties who knew exactly what he wanted but apparently needed me to read his mind.

“Do you have any real mysteries?” he asked, brows drawn together.

“Real…?” I echoed.

“Not the cozy ones with cats and tea shops,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “Something with grit. Blood. Something that doesn’t waste my time.”

I bit back a sigh, pulling out a few titles and giving him my most professional smile. “These are darker, more classic detective style. No cats, I promise.”

He frowned at each one like they’d personally offended him. I kept my voice polite, patient—really trying, the way one does when customer service requires sainthood.

The bell chimed again, and over his shoulder I saw Dean come in, drizzle still on his shoulders, a brown paper bag in hand. He moved to the counter, set it down—then caught my look.

I raised one brow pointedly.

His gaze flicked from the bag to the countertop, then back to me.

His eyes narrowed, then widened in sudden realization.

A flicker of memory passed between us—skin against skin, whispered filth, the creak of the wood—and his ears went pink.

Without a word, he scooped the bag back up and held it sheepishly at his side.

I nearly laughed, biting my lip hard to keep it in as I turned back to the mystery man. Eventually, he picked one of the titles with a gruff “I suppose this’ll do,” and left me with the distinct impression I’d failed a test I never signed up for.

Once the shop was quiet again, I turned to Dean, who was smirking at me now. “You didn’t think,” I teased, “about where you were setting that bag down?”

He leaned against the counter, lowering his voice. “I thought about it plenty. Just forgot for a second that this particular piece of furniture has… history now.”

Heat flushed my cheeks, but I couldn’t stop my grin.

We settled at the small table by the window, the bag between us. He pulled out two croissants, golden and flaky, then produced a cinnamon bun wrapped in wax paper. “Got this too. Thought you might like to share.”

We split it between us, the sugar and spice lingering on our fingers. Finally, finally, I had my coffee with him, the warmth seeping through me in a way that wasn’t just from the mug.

Between bites, I asked, “So, do you know what you’re dressing up as for Halloween?”

Dean shook his head. “No idea. I’m working the night before, so if I don’t get much sleep I’ll just smear some green paint on and go as Frankenstein.”

“Frankenstein’s monster ,” I corrected automatically.

“What?”

“Frankenstein was the doctor. The creature doesn’t actually have a name.”

Dean stared at me for a second, then leaned in and kissed me right across the table, cinnamon-sugar sweet. “I love how smart you are, book girl.”

When Dean finally stood to leave, the drizzle had thinned to mist, sunlight breaking shyly through the gray.

He kissed me once more at the counter, quick but lingering enough to keep my cheeks warm long after the bell above the door chimed his exit.

Alone again in the shop, coffee still sweet on my tongue and the scent of cinnamon in the air, I pressed my fingers to my lips and let myself smile, a secret one meant only for me—the kind that promised something new was just beginning.