Page 153 of Knotting the Firefighters

I slide off the table's edge, my legs wobbling like a foal's first steps, the rumpled fabric of my dress—now thoroughly marked with flour handprints and cream smudges—clinging to my curves in a way that feels both scandalous and empowering.

The cool air kisses my overheated skin, raising gooseflesh along my arms, but it's the lingering warmth between my thighs, slick and spent, that grounds me in this moment. Silas's release decorates me there, a sticky reminder of how he'd pulled out at the last instant, painting my most intimate places with his essence before I'd taken charge of his knot.

"We'll need to hurry," I murmur, though the words lack any real urgency.

My voice emerges husky, still laced with the raw edge of satisfaction, as I reach for the abandoned mixing bowl.

"Margaret could return any minute, and the others might finish that fence repair sooner than expected."

Silas nods, his light blue gaze sweeping over me with appreciative heat, but he moves to assist, with the clean up first, his movements efficient despite the post-coital languor.

He grabs a wooden spoon from the array of utensils, his toned runner's build flexing subtly under his shirt as he stirs the dry ingredients I'd measured earlier. Flour puffs up in delicate clouds, settling on his scar-flecked jawline like fresh snow, and I find myself transfixed by the sight.

This Alpha, so calm and intuitive, who kneels rather than looms, has just unraveled me completely on a baking table, and now he's helping craft sweets as if it's the most natural progression.

I crack eggs into a separate bowl, the sharp snap of shells punctuating the quiet intimacy of the room. The yolks gleam golden, and as I whisk them, incorporating sugar and vanilla extract, memories flood in unbidden—flashes of solitary kitchens in my past, where baking served as solace amid Gregory's indifferent pack.

Those nights, I'd knead dough with furious precision, channeling frustration into edible art, but it never filled the void. Now, with Silas here, the act transforms;it's collaborative, charged with the electricity of our recent joining, every brush of our arms igniting sparks.

"Tell me more about this glue analogy," I say, pouring the wet mixture into the dry, watching as Silas folds them together with patient strokes. My curiosity simmers, born from his whispered confessions mid-thrust, when he'd admitted how my presence mends their fractured dynamic. "You mentioned the pack hasn't united like this in ages. What fractured you all originally?"

He pauses, spoon hovering mid-stir, his expression turning contemplative, the faint scar on his jaw tightening as if the memory pulls at old wounds.

"It's layered, like these cookies will be once we add the chocolate chips." He resumes mixing, his voice steady but laced with undercurrents of past pain. "Aidric and Calder's history is the core…intense connection that imploded spectacularly,leaving scars we all bear. Bear and I mediated, but it exhausted us, turned us inward. We convinced ourselves independence suited us better than seeking an Omega to balance the scales."

I add a handful of chocolate chunks, the bittersweet aroma rising to mingle with our scents, and press the dough together with my palms, feeling its yielding texture mirror my own softening reservations.

"And now? With me here, do you regret the shift?"

His hand covers mine on the dough, warm and reassuring, guiding our joint kneading.

"Regret? Never. You've ignited cohesion we forgot was possible. Laughter in the air, cooperation without coercion. Even Aidric's grumbling holds less bite." He leans closer, his breath feathering my ear. "And personally? Feeling you clench around me, hearing your moans…it's awakened hungers I buried deep."

Heat surges anew in my core, a phantom echo of his thickness filling me, stretching me until I feel whole.

I shape the dough into balls, placing them on the baking sheet, my fingers trembling slightly from the renewed ache. The oven preheats with a soft hum, its warmth seeping into the room, but it's Silas's proximity that truly heats my blood.

As we slide the tray in, setting the timer, the fifteen-minute wait stretches before us like an invitation.

He turns me gently, backing me against the counter once more, his body a solid wall of muscle and intent.

"We have time," he whispers, lips brushing my temple. "Let me savor you properly now."

My pulse quickens, arousal coiling tight again despite the recent release.

I nod, breathless, as his hands skim my sides, bunching the dress's fabric higher, exposing the marks Bear left earlier and the fresh evidence of Silas's blissful moment. His fingers tracethem reverently, mapping the bruises and slick trails, his touch igniting fresh flames.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, dropping to his knees once more, his position an echo of Bear's earlier devotion but infused with his unique tenderness.

His tongue delves in, lapping at the mingled remnants of our passion, cleaning me with meticulous care that borders on worship.

I grip the counter's edge, knuckles whitening, as pleasure builds in languid waves, his mouth working me toward another peak.

The timer ticks in the background, a relentless countdown, but time blurs under his ministrations. When the oven dings, I'm teetering on the edge, moans spilling freely, but he rises, kissing me deeply, sharing the taste of us on his lips.

It’s another round of cleaning up and catching our breath when the ting of the timer goes off, confirming that our baked sweets were ready.

We pull the cookies out, golden and fragrant, their chocolate melted into gooey pools. As they cool, Silas feeds me a piece, the warmth exploding on my tongue—crisp edges yielding to soft centers, sweetness tempered by salt.