Page 8 of His Big Holiday Firefighter (Bigger Is Best #2)

CHAPTER EIGHT

“You really don’t have to walk me home,” Noah said, his voice still rough from smoke as we made our way through the increasingly heavy snowfall. “I’m fine.”

“I know I don’t have to.” My grip tightened on his gloved hand. “I want to.”

The streets of Pine Ridge were eerily quiet, muffled by the thick blanket of snow that continued to fall in fat, lazy flakes.

Streetlights created halos in the white air, casting everything in a soft, dreamlike glow.

Or maybe that was just how I was seeing the world now—everything transformed by the simple act of finally choosing to stay.

Noah led me down Main Street toward Sullivan’s Hardware, his uncle’s business that had been a fixture in Pine Ridge for decades.

I’d walked past it countless times since returning, but had never really looked up at the second floor.

Now, Noah guided me to a narrow staircase on the building’s side, snow crunching beneath our boots.

“It’s nothing fancy.” He fumbled slightly with his keys. There was a hint of nervousness in his voice that made something warm unfurl in my chest.

He pushed the door open and ushered me inside. We took off our coats and hung them on a rack by the door.

The apartment was spacious, with high ceilings and windows that looked out over the snowy town square. It wasn’t what I’d expected—certainly not a sparsely decorated stereotypical bachelor pad, but something warmer, more lived-in.

Practical furniture was arranged facing a flat screen TV in the open living area. I imagined Noah inviting over his friends from the fire station on game day, and cooking up a small feast for them.

A bookshelf stood against one wall, and from what I could see was filled with firefighting manuals, cookbooks, and well-worn novels. The kitchen was small but clearly well-used, with professional-grade baking equipment sitting proudly alongside more everyday items.

Noah switched on the lights of a cute little artificial Christmas tree that sat on the kitchen island. “Home sweet home.” He watched my face carefully as I took it all in.

I wandered to a collection of framed photos on a side table. My breath caught when I spotted one of Noah and my grandmother, both covered in flour and laughing at something off-camera.

She looked so alive, so joyful.

“That was from last Christmas.” Noah came to stand beside me. “We were trying to perfect a croquembouche. It, uh, didn’t go well.”

“She looks happy,” I said, my voice thick.

“She was.” Noah’s hand found the small of my back, warm and steady. “She talked about you all the time, you know. She was so proud of you.”

I swallowed hard, setting the photo down carefully. When I turned, Noah’s face was still smudged with soot, dark shadows under his eyes betraying his exhaustion. His movements, usually so fluid and confident, were stiff, like every muscle ached.

“You need a shower.”

Noah’s lips quirked. “I’m fine, really. Just a normal day.”

“You just ran into a burning building. Multiple times.” I crossed my arms, channeling my grandmother’s no-nonsense tone. “Shower. I’m not negotiating.”

“Yes, chef,” he said with a small smile, offering a mock salute. “Make yourself at home. There’s tea in the cabinet by the fridge if you want.”

While the shower ran, I explored some more.

Noah’s array of baking equipment was impressive—not the latest models like I had in Seattle, but quality pieces, well-maintained and clearly cherished.

I found more evidence of his dedication in a kitchen drawer filled with recipe cards—some in his handwriting, some in my grandmother’s, all annotated with notes and adjustments.

I located the tea and set the kettle to boil. I was setting out mugs and pouring when I heard the bathroom door open.

The sight of Noah in just a pair of low-hanging gray sweatpants stopped me in my tracks. His broad chest was still slightly damp, droplets of water clinging to the light dusting of reddish hair that narrowed down to a trail disappearing beneath his waistband.

The firefighter’s physique I’d been dreaming about was on full display—powerful shoulders, defined abs, and muscular arms.

“You made tea,” he said, seemingly unaware of my sudden inability to form coherent thoughts.

I cleared my throat. “Seemed like the least I could do.”

Noah approached, and, as it was whenever he stood near, the kitchen suddenly felt much smaller. He accepted the mug I handed him, our fingers brushing. “Thank you. For this. For being there tonight. For...” He trailed off, eyes searching mine.

“I meant what I said.” I set my mug down. “Earlier. About falling for you. I know it sounds crazy.”

“Sometimes a week is all it takes. When you know, you know.”

“I’ve never been good at this part. If you hadn’t already noticed, I prefer things when they’re controlled, measured, perfect.”

“Like your baking,” Noah said, understanding in his eyes.

I took a breath. “But tonight, watching you run into that building, not knowing if you’d come back out... I realized I was more afraid of losing the chance to know you than I was of staying.”

Noah set his mug down, stepping closer. “Every time I go into a fire, I think about what I’m coming back to.” His voice was low and serious. “Today, I was thinking about coming back to you.”

Noah reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my face with a gentleness that belied his size. His hand lingered, cupping my cheek, and I leaned into the touch without thinking.

“James,” he whispered. My name had never sounded so sweet.

When he kissed me this time, it was as if the culmination of our flirtation was now cemented by the undeniable desire we shared.

Our kisses by the tree and after the fire, those had been questions, possibilities. This was certainty.

His lips were warm and confident against mine, his hand sliding from my cheek to tangle in my hair. I pressed closer, my hands finding the warm skin of his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath my palm.

The kiss deepened, grew hungrier. Noah’s arms encircled me, strong and secure, as he backed me against the counter. I gasped when he lifted me effortlessly to sit on the edge, stepping between my legs.

His display of casual, effortless strength sent heat pooling low in my belly. I’d never been so hard in my life.

Noah pulled back slightly, his breathing ragged. “Are you sure about this? About us?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” I meant it with a certainty that should have frightened me, but somehow didn’t.

“Then let me take care of you.” He recaptured my mouth in a kiss that made my toes curl.

We moved to the bedroom in a tangle of limbs and half-removed clothing. Noah was impossibly gentle when he laid me on his bed. I felt none of my usual need for control.

There was only Noah—his eyes dark with desire, his body powerful above mine, his touch careful but confident.

“You’re amazing,” he whispered, his gaze traveling the length of my now-naked body with such open appreciation that I couldn’t feel self-conscious.

Noah lowered himself beside me, tracing a line of kisses from my neck to my chest. His large hand splayed across my stomach, fingers teasing lower with each pass. I shivered as his mouth followed his hands, tongue tracing patterns on my skin.

“I’ve been thinking about this since I first saw you,” Noah said, lips pressed against my hip. “Even covered in coffee, you were the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.”

Any response I might have had dissolved into a gasp as he took my cock into his mouth. The wet heat was overwhelming, his tongue swirling around the head before he sank down, taking me deeper than I thought possible. My hips jerked upward involuntarily.

“God, Noah,” I panted, my fingers finding their way into his hair.

He hummed, a low thrum against my skin that vibrated straight through me, and any thought of maintaining control evaporated.

His technique was meticulous, a devastating combination of skill and intuition that left me breathless.

He alternated between long, deep, engulfing strokes that had my back arching off the mattress and the targeted flick of his tongue against the most sensitive spots until I nearly came undone.

One of his large, warm hands splayed across my hip, his grip firm and grounding.

An anchor in the storm he was creating. His other hand traced a slow path up my inner thigh, the calloused pads of his fingers raising goosebumps on my skin before he cupped me, his thumb stroking gently, weighing my balls in his palm with a possessiveness that made my head swim.

He slid his mouth down me again, slowly this time, until he took me all the way to the base. His throat constricted, swallowing me down. My hands fisted in his soft hair as my body shuddered with the overwhelming pleasure of it all.

“Don’t stop,” I begged, my voice barely recognizable. “Please don’t stop.”

Noah pulled back just enough to look up at me. “I’m not stopping until you feel how much I want you.” He flicked his tongue over my cock head. “All of you.”

Each movement was deliberate, a slow, perfect stroke of his tongue that unraveled another tightly wound piece of me. The sight of him—this strong, steady man, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the world as he focused entirely on me.

Just when I thought I would break apart under the intensity, Noah shifted.

His large hands slid up my inner thighs, parting them with a gentle but undeniable strength.

He moved lower, and the first press of his hot, wet mouth against my entrance made me gasp.

Every defense I had dissolved in that single touch.

“Noah,” I gasped, my head thrown back against the pillows.

His response wasn’t a word, but the hot, wet press of his tongue against my hole. A jolt went through me, sharp and electric. He didn’t just taste me, he claimed me. His tongue stroking over the sensitive skin in a way that had my hips bucking on instinct.