Page 3 of Her Silver Fox Firefighters

Myblood turns to ice.

Because at that exact moment, the back door swings open.

Three men step onto the porch in fire department uniforms, coffee mugs steaming in their hands.

And instantly, I understand what Chloe’s mom meant.

They’re not just attractive.

They’re the kind of devastating that makes your pulse forget how to pulse.

The first one is tall with shoulders that look built to carry a house, a jawline sharp enough to slice my self-control, and steel-gray eyes that immediately lock onto mine like a predator spotting prey.

My breath catches and, God help me, my thighs actually clench.

The second has intricate tattoos snaking up both arms, peeking from beneath his department T-shirt. His salt-and-pepper beard frames a smile that’s pure sin, and when he spots me, that smile widens.

My stomach flips and a ridiculous part of me wonders if that mouth comes with a warning label.

The third is dark-skinned with close-cropped curls threaded with silver, and eyes like whiskey in firelight. He moves with a quiet, commanding presence that makes my knees forget how to function.

My pulse trips over itself; heat skims low in my belly even as my brain screams at me to stop looking.

I’ve never been this close to men like this outside of a movie screen. Not in real life. Not with their scent of coffee and soap drifting over.

And then they all freeze, staring down at the vibrator.

It's still going. Twisting. Rumbling across their pristine lawn until it bumps into a garden gnome and just… sits there.

Purring.

Spinning.

"God…I need lightning to strike me right now," I whisper in horror.

The tattooed one sets down his mug first, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.

The gray-eyed one looks like he's personally offended on behalf of the gnome.

And the third man calmly walks over and picks up the vibrator with two fingers like it's a piece of crime scene evidence.

He examines it, finds the button, and mercifully shuts it off.

The silence is deafening.

"Well." The tattooed one grins at me, wicked and knowing. "You've got excellent taste."

"I… am so… sorry." My voice comes out strangled.

Even through my mortification, my body betrays me.

The gray-eyed one’s gaze has darkened, the tattooed one’s grin makes something hot and reckless unfurl in my chest, and the third man’s steady stare feels like a slow drag across my skin.

My palms are damp, my pulse a runaway drum.

He approaches the low fence separating our properties and reaches over.

I force my legs to move, meeting him there on trembling knees.