Page 8 of Knotting the Firefighters

"And?"

His grip tightens, pulling me flush against him where I can feel exactly how affected he is through his worn jeans.

"It turns me on. Makes me want to put you on that island counter and fuck you hard and fast until you forget every reason we shouldn't."

Well…fuck…

Heat pools low in my belly at his words, at the raw want in his voice that matches the ache I've been trying to ignore since he walked in. I pull him down further, my lips brushing his ear as I whisper, "Then what's stopping you, cowboy?"

The growl that rumbles through his chest is pure Alpha—possessive, hungry, barely controlled.

"Morals," he grits out, though his hands are already sliding under my skirt, fingertips tracing the lace edge of my panties.

"Morals have never stopped Rookie Hayes before." I deliberately emphasize the nickname, knowing it'll rile him. He hates when I remind him that I made captain before he did at our old station, that technically I outranked him even though we were in different cities, departments, and realistically environments.

His eyes narrow, jaw clenching in that way that makes the muscle tick—a tell I've memorized along with all his others.

"You're playing with fire, Chief."

"Wouldn't be the first time." I lean up, catching his bottom lip between my teeth, tugging gently while maintaining eye contact. The taste of him—coffee and mint that’s uniquely Calder—floods my senses.

When I finally released his lip, his eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide so there was hardly any brown left at all. He looked truly unhinged, like I’d taken his mind and wrung it out. His breathing came ragged and uneven, each inhale scraping against my cheek. If I’d wanted to be cruel, I could have said something about how easy it was to unravel him, but I just liked watching him try to gather up the pieces of himself.

He opened his mouth, probably to say something filthy or clever, but all that came out was, “Wendy—” like my name was a prayer.

I savored the hell out of it.

I didn’t let him finish. Instead, I angled his jaw higher and pressed my lips to his pulse point, right where the stubble on his throat met the barely salty skin. I could feel his heart thundering beneath my lips, and I smiled because I knew I’d done that. I licked a stripe up to his ear and bit the lobe, whispering, “Still think you’re in charge, Hayes?”

His hands seized my hips, fingers digging in. I could feel his cock, hot and insistent against my belly, and I loved knowing how close he was to snapping.

“Jesus, Wendy,” he managed, voice strangled. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

“Not before breakfast,” I said, and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his mouth. This time, he kissed back like he was trying to memorize me, tongue hungry and hands sliding down to cup mybare thighs. I let him take, let him devour, and when he finally broke away he looked half-wrecked.

We stared at each other, both of us breathing like we’d just run a race.

The kitchen felt charged, every speck of dust and sunlight vibrating with leftover tension. I could see the war in his head — he wanted to toss me on the counter and fuck me until we both forgot our names, but the other part of him didn’t want to be the asshole who took advantage of a broken Omega.

Even if I’d been the one to start it all.

I grinned, relishing the power I had over a man who could bench-press a horse and throw a hay bale one-handed.

“What’s the matter, cowboy? Cat got your tongue?”

He didn’t answer in words.

He just groaned, tipping his head back and slapping his palm over his face like that would hide the obscene state of his desire. It didn’t. The way his body vibrated with need was proof enough.

"Well," I interrupted, stepping back and smoothing my skirt with deliberate nonchalance, "I'm in a baking mood now. So if you're not going to saddle up, I've got pies to make."

The whimper would be hilarious if I wasn't fighting my own desperate need to climb him like a tree. The bulge in his jeans is impossible to ignore, straining against the denim in a way that makes my mouth water.

"You're evil," he accuses, though his hands are already reaching for me again. "Pure, vindictive evil wrapped in vintage cotton and sexual frustration."

"Mmm." I give him a wink, already knowing he won't last five minutes watching me work in the kitchen before he breaks. It's a game we've been playing for months—this push and pull, advance and retreat, pretending we're just friends who occasionally help each other through heat and rut cycles.

Such bullshit.