Page 11 of Her Fire Master (Master Me #5)

L ia

We’ve been out on three calls already and I’m starving. We all hit the pasta like we’re carbing up for a marathon and then head to our respective rooms to rest. My phone buzzes with a text.

My heart picks up speed when I see it’s from Blaze. I need you in my office immediately.

Oh, hell yes.

I forget my exhaustion and post-meal sluggishness and swing my legs to the floor to stand.

I open my door silently, but it seems Rocket and Scott never made it into their rooms, or they came back out.

They’re in the lounge, watching the Mateo Vega—aka The Matador—fight on television.

He’s a local favorite because the guy literally never gets hit.

Not that I watch boxing, but I’m around guys who do all the time.

Anyway, their presence makes a visit to Blaze’s office awkward.

His door is open, though, and I step inside it. His gaze shifts to behind me, and I hear footfalls but don’t turn.

My brain clamors for something to say. “Uh, can I talk to you about the schedule?”

He pulls it out and slaps it on the desk. “Sure.”

I walk toward him. As soon as I’m close enough, he murmurs, “Panty-check.”

I sneak a glance over my shoulder. No one is there. I reach into my department-issued pants and pull up on the waistband of my new polka-dot panties to stretch the fabric. “One hundred percent cotton.”

He eyes it like he wants to touch, but seems to hold himself back. “Good girl. You’re dismissed.”

I don’t particularly like being dismissed. I don’t know what else he could do—there are people in the lounge who saw me come in. But he’s got me hot and bothered now, a slow pulse aching between my legs and no way to relieve it.

Plus, I can’t stand the sting of rejection at being told I’m dismissed.

He did the same thing at his house the morning after my punishment session and I wasn’t sure I liked it then, either. I guess he’s making it clear we’re not hanging out. We’re not boyfriend-girlfriend. We’re master and slave. Or daddy and doll. Or whatever name fits this kinky relationship.

And as much as I love what we’re doing, how incredible the sex is, I’m not sure I can do sex without an emotional attachment.

I mean, is such thing even possible?

Maybe just for guys, I don’t know.

I don’t think it’s me.

So I guess I need to talk to him.

Except do I want to break this thing off?

He suggested three punishments. It was a defined, finite thing. When those are over, are we through? Should I at least get my three before I bail?

It’s tempting. The last one was so incredible, I don’t want to miss out on the rest.

I go back to my room and text him, There are punishments for daddies who tease, too.

His text comes through immediately. Don’t even think about it or you’ll spend all day tomorrow sucking my cock.

Then a second text follows. Please say you’ll delete both my texts right now.

I laugh softly, but do as he asks. I know this forbidden relationship is dangerous for us both and I would never want to risk either of our careers. I text back, done.

Good girl, he texts back.

I’m starting to wonder about myself. About why those two words have such an effect on me. It seems supremely ironic after spending my entire life defying sexism to prove I’m capable of doing a man’s job, I’d get off on being treated like a little girl.

At least four times since Tuesday night I’ve panicked, wondering what all this means about me. Am I flawed? How could I, of all people, want to be some guy’s babygirl? How could I want to be disciplined and told what to do?

And yet I do. I just keep trying to remember this is sex. It’s not real life. It doesn’t mean I can’t be a firefighter or that he doesn’t respect me on the job… at least I hope it doesn’t.

What if it does? What if I’m ruining my career because I couldn’t help but get kinky with my captain? Because I sure as hell can’t quit—I was lucky enough to get this position.

I jiggle my phone in my palm, staring at Blaze’s name. Finally, I text something real, something bothering me. Why does James hate me? Because I’m a woman?

As soon as I do, I’m sorry. What’s he going to say? You can’t tell people how to make friends. They have to figure it out on their own. He’s going to text not to worry about it, and I’m going to feel stupid for asking.

His reply comes after a moment. You’re replacing his cousin. He’s still mourning that loss. Give him time.

Oh. I suddenly feel like the biggest ass for not guessing it might be about the guy I’m replacing. I knew he’d been badly hurt on the job. I just was so caught up in trying to prove myself I forgot people might resent anyone who took his place—male or female.

I text back, shit. I’m sorry.

No, don’t be. It’s not your fault. He’ll come around. They all will.

They all will. Does that mean the rest still haven’t? I was kinda thinking I was part of the crew. I mean, I have a nickname and everything.

I hit the side of my phone to turn the screen off.

Fatigue is making all this seem way more daunting than it should be.

I reach for a book of matches. I thought about throwing them away after my first date with Blaze.

I haven’t lit one since. But now I’m glad I didn’t. An addict never gets rid of their drug.

I need the flame. It will calm me down. Give me focus.

I rip off a match and hold it against the striking strip, but something won’t let me flick it.

If you need to burn something, you come to me and ask for a punishment.

I want to, I really do. It actually sounds far more satisfying than lighting a match. Except we’re at work. He can’t give me what I need.

Still, I don’t light it.

Instead, I flop back on the small bed and stare at the ceiling. After a minute, I stand up and grab the book of matches. I open my door and pad back out to Blaze’s office.

He looks up at me, his blue eyes scanning my face like he knows something’s wrong. I toss the book of matches on his desk.

“I need help.” It nearly kills me to say it.

There’s no smile on Blaze’s face when he stands. He’s dead serious, like I’m a fire he’s going to put out.

And then the alarm sounds. Neither of us moves for a full three seconds.

I guess I’m not the fire.

“I’ll get you after.” His deep voice holds promise, rings like a vow.

I nod and we both move, running for our gear and the truck and the emergency we’re trained to attack.

Blaze

It’s another arson fire. This time an abandoned building, a few blocks from the high school they burned last week.

Once again, Lia finds the evidence. She discovers three bottles of lighter fluid near an open window. I rode her ass last time for poking around after the fire is out, and I should’ve taken a bite out of her again, but I don’t.

Mostly because a thought occurs to me.

Lia’s good at this shit.

Why wouldn’t she be? She’s a pyro. She was the kid who played with fire. I’m almost certain she set the fire that burned her parents’ house down, whether by accident or on purpose. So she knows how a pyro thinks. And, as if that wasn’t enough, she’s a cop’s kid. All her family’s in the NYPD.

It’s like she was born to be a fire investigator.

It’s a perfect profession for her.

I file that away for later, something to talk to her about—maybe research when the next training will be.

It’s not part of our department—fire marshals and fire inspectors are county positions, and we’re city, but I know some inspectors.

They usually come from our ranks—guys who have been injured or are getting too old for firefighting.

We climb back in the fire truck. It’s two hours past our shift and we’re all tired as shit, but I told Lia I’d take care of her, and I’m going to.

The crew gets back to the station, and we strip off our turnouts and hit the showers.

Lia’s nowhere to be found when I come out, and I have to fight back a little panic.

She needed me and now she’s gone off on her own.

But Lia’s a big girl. She doesn’t set fires or cause destruction anymore. She’s not going to hurt herself or anyone else.

I could call or text her, but I’m too tired to navigate what to say. I don’t even know if she still needs a release after the night we’ve had. I take the subway straight to her neighborhood and buzz her apartment.

She doesn’t answer at first, so I buzz again in the ‘shave and a haircut’ rhythm so she knows it’s a friendly 2 a.m. visitor. After a few more beats, her voice comes through the intercom. “Yeah?”

“It’s me. Let me up.”

She releases the lock on the door, and I go stomping up the steps. The door to her apartment is open a crack and I push right in.

Damn.

She’s in her PJs, which consist of a tiny red cami and soft shorts that only cover half her ass.

I don’t say a word. I don’t know, I guess I’ve used my up my speaking quotient for the day. I wrap my fist in her hair and pull her head back. She blinks up at me, need and longing there, burning behind her eyes. My concern she no longer wants this evaporates.

I stamp my mouth over hers for a quick but brutal kiss, then walk her backward to her bedroom.

I release her and unbuckle my belt. Her eyes track the movement, pupils dilating.

I’m not going to use it on her—at least not the way she’s thinking, but I love the flutter of her pulse in her neck.

I pull her wrists behind her back and fasten my belt around them a few times before, pulling the end through the buckle.

I fold her over the edge of the bed, my dick getting chubby from manhandling her.

The first swat is hard, but I rub the sting away, massaging as I relearn the curves of her ass.

Her scent fills my nostrils, and a sense of satisfaction—of rightness pours through my veins.

I slap her ass and once more rub it out.

The sting of my palm brings my purpose into focus.

Nothing matters but satisfying my little girl.

Giving her everything she needs and more.

I pull her miniscule shorts off—time to get down to business.