Page 137 of Knotting the Firefighters

Absolutely inappropriate location for what I'm about to do.

Don't care.

Don't care even slightly.

Her eyes widen as understanding dawns—realization of exactly where this is heading, what I'm offering, how thoroughly I intend to demonstrate my appreciation for her body.

"Just a taste?" The question seeks permission, confirms consent, and ensures we're both acknowledging the line we're about to cross.

Color floods her cheeks—a genuine blush that makes her even more beautiful, vulnerability mixing with anticipation in expression that makes my cock strain painfully against my jeans.

Her response comes in a whisper, barely audible but absolutely clear:

"Just a taste."

SANCTUARY BEHIND THE CURTAIN

~BECKETT~

Kneeling here before her, the confined space of this changing room transforms into a private sanctuary, my world narrowing to the exquisite sight of Wendolyn's thighs parted just enough to invite devotion.

Her scent envelops me, a heady blend of wild vanilla orchids blooming under summer rain, laced with the unmistakable tang of her burgeoning desire.

I draw in a deep breath, savoring the essence that clings to the air, exhaling slowly as if committing it to memory, a ritual of reverence before indulgence. A low groan escapes my throat, unbidden, and I murmur with mock solemnity, "Lord, bless this feast before me, for it is surely divine," my voice roughened by the hunger coiling tight in my gut.

Her laughter rings out, light and breathless, cutting through the tension like sunlight piercing fog, her fingers threading tentatively into my hair as she steadies herself against the mirror.

The sound fuels me, a reward sweeter than any praise, and I hook my thumbs into the delicate lace of her panties, easing them down with deliberate slowness, revealing her inch by tantalizing inch. The fabric whispers against her skin, poolingat her ankles, and there she stands, exposed and glistening, her core a vision of flushed petals slick with invitation. The full force of her arousal hits me then, a wave crashing over my senses, making my mouth water and my pulse thunder in my ears.

I lean in, unable to resist any longer, my tongue tracing the tender folds with a first, exploratory stroke that has her gasping above me.

The flavor explodes across my palate—nectar and salt, honeyed warmth that speaks of her essence, unique and intoxicating.

I take my time, savoring each pass, lapping at her with languid precision, circling the sensitive bud of her clit without mercy, teasing it into swelling under my attention. Her thighs quiver, a subtle tremor that betrays how deeply she's affected, and I press closer, my hands gripping her hips to anchor her as I delve deeper, my tongue thrusting in rhythmic insistence, mimicking what my body aches to claim fully.

She moans my name, "Beckett," a whispered invocation that spurs me on, her fingers tightening in my hair, urging me without words to continue this worship.

I oblige, building the cadence gradually, alternating between broad, flat strokes that coat my chin in her slick and pointed flicks that make her hips buck involuntarily.

The mirrors multiply our image, reflecting endless versions of this intimate tableau—me on my knees, devoted; her arched against the glass, surrendering.

Her breaths come in ragged bursts, her body trembling now in earnest, waves of pleasure rippling through her as I slide my tongue deeper, thrusting with insistent pressure, curling to find that hidden spot that draws forth cries she struggles to muffle.

The build is exquisite torture for us both, her arousal coating my lips, my chin, marking me as hers in this moment. I feel her climbing, the tension coiling tighter, her moans escalatinginto soft cries of "Beckett, please," until finally, she shatters, her release crashing over her in trembling waves, her core pulsing against my mouth as she cums with a muffled sob, her entire frame quaking in my hold.

But we don't progress further—no joining of bodies, no fulfillment of the ache hardening me painfully against my jeans—because a polite knock echoes from the door, followed by the attendant's concerned voice.

"Everything alright in there, dear? I heard some noises."

Wendolyn freezes, her post-orgasm haze fracturing as she composes herself with remarkable speed, her voice emerging steady despite the flush painting her cheeks.

"I'm fine, thank you—just getting my Alpha's opinion on a few pieces." She clears her throat, adding with a forced casualness, "You know how it is."

The attendant chuckles, a warm, knowing sound that carries through the wood. "Aww, that's wonderful. How amazing to be so lively, young, and part of a pack. The good life, indeed." There's a pause, then, "I'll be back shortly—heading out to water the remaining flowers in the outdoor garden space. Take your time."

We wait in suspended silence, my ears attuned to the retreating footsteps, the faint jingle of keys, until certainty settles that we're alone once more. Only then do our gazes lock, steam, and promise crackling between us like embers in dry tinder.

I rise slowly, deliberately, licking my lips to capture the lingering slick that cloaks them, the taste of her addictiveness a brand I'll carry gladly.