Page 152 of Knotting the Firefighters

"Proceeding too swiftly?"

I shake my head, fervent.

"This rhythm suits our bond—no evasion, no ambiguity. I detest the uncertainty, the constant speculation about affectionor value. You render it effortless, loving, and coupling in apt instants."

His kiss descends then, tender and profound, a vow etched in the gentle press, affirming my place as their axis.

"You're our universe now," he breathes against my mouth. "We'll demonstrate the solace of welcoming an Omega like you into our fold."

"What do you imply?" I manage, only to dissolve into a moan as he eases inside, inch by deliberate inch, our shared gasps amplifying the intimacy until he's fully sheathed, locked in my heat.

He stills, savoring the union, then whispers, "We believed Omegas superfluous, our choice resolute. Yet your presence reunites us seamlessly, the binding element rendering this natural."

Thrusts commence, measured at first, building to a cadence that spirals our ecstasy.

"This sensation—exquisite," Silas groans, his hips driving forward with a new, urgent rhythm, every thrust measured to maximize the friction, the fullness, the raw connection between us. He shudders, grasping my hips, and the involuntary tremor that ripples through him is so honest, so unguarded, it sends an answering pulse straight through my core. "Haven't claimed an Omega, anyone, in ages," he chokes out, forehead dropping to rest against mine. "Maybe that's why I'm this impatient, why I can't stop, but fuck, you fit me—" he thrusts again, the motion deep and deliberate, "—like you were made for me. For us."

I clutch his shoulders, nails digging in, every sense keyed up to the brink of overload. Silas's scent—honey and eucalyptus, sweet and sharp—fills my every breath, mingling with the ozone tang of sex and the lingering vanilla from our baking disaster. The air's thick with it. He captures my mouth, tongue plunging in tandem with his hips, his growl resonating into my chest,vibrating us both to pieces. I arch against him, breasts swaying, nipples aching for friction, and he doesn’t hesitate —his hand slides up, palm rough and warm, kneading me through the dress, pinching just enough to make me see stars behind my eyelids.

He breaks the kiss, panting. "You're incredible," he says, voice ragged with disbelief and reverence, like I'm some myth come to life. "I could do this forever. Fuck, Wendy. Let me?—"

"Don't you dare stop," I gasp, winding my legs around his waist and pulling him deeper—harder. The sound that tears out of him is pure, unfiltered Alpha, animal, and helpless at once. I grin, delighting in how easy it is to unravel someone so composed. The pleasure is relentless—he's relentless—never giving me time to surface before the next wave crashes over me, higher and harder than the last.

And then it’s cresting, building, a seismic shudder winding up from my toes. My vision whites out as I lock around him, muscles rippling, the orgasm so intense I'm nearly deafened by my own scream.

Silas groans, the sound raw, triumphant, and as I clamp down, he pulls out fast, spraying heat across my mound and belly. The sensation is obscene, primal, the sight of him painting me reigniting the pleasure until I collapse, boneless, barely aware of the mess or the way the table sags under our combined weight.

But he’s not done.

Silas gathers himself in a heartbeat, stroking himself, and then presses his cock—still huge, still iron-hard—against my swollen folds again, dragging the head up and down as if re-memorizing the contours he just conquered. He watches, the blue in his eyes nearly eclipsed by black, utterly fixated on every twitch and gasp that escapes me.

“You could take more,” he murmurs, almost to himself, and I shiver at the promise in it. He dips down, mouth sealing over my nipple through the dress, sucking and biting until I buck into him, then moves to the other, leaving wet, dark marks that’ll linger for hours.

He glances up, lips slick.

"I want you every way you’ll let me," he says. The words, so possessive and naked, send another pulse of need through me. I reach for him, guide his cock to my entrance, and he slides back in—slow this time, tender, as if he’s savoring the feeling of me around him.

The words ignite me further, our bodies syncing in a dance of escalating bliss. I clench around him, drawing guttural sounds from his throat, my nails raking his back as release beckons.

We crest together, his withdrawal spilling warmth across my mound, and I sit up, fingers encircling his knot, kneading with practiced care until his breaths steady, ragged.

My breath still races in shallow bursts, chest heaving as the aftershocks of ecstasy ripple through me, leaving my limbs heavy and my skin flushed with residual fire.

Silas's knot pulses under my fingertips, firm and insistent, and I knead it with deliberate pressure, feeling the tension ease from his massive frame as he leans into the table for support.

His eyes, those piercing light blue depths, lock onto mine with a mix of satiation and lingering hunger, his sandy hair tousled from where my hands had gripped it moments ago.

The air in this vintage shop's backroom kitchen hangs thick with our mingled scents—his honeyed eucalyptus blending with my wild vanilla, creating an intoxicating haze that clings to everything, including the scattered baking ingredients we'd barely touched.

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest, and straightens slightly, though he doesn't pull away from my touch.

"So, I suppose we ought to bake those cookies now, if we're aiming for a plausible excuse for this glorious mess."

I can't help the laughter that bubbles up from deep within, light and freeing, as I glance at the countertop smeared with flour, stray dollops of whipped cream, and the unmistakable evidence of our passion.

"And the whipped cream? Consider that the indulgent extra."

His grin widens, playful and wolfish, as he finally steps back, adjusting his jeans with a wince that speaks to the sensitivity of his still-swelling knot.