Page 6 of Let it Burn (Playing with Fire #1)

Lena

I wake to the faint snap of a tape measure and the rich scent of coffee curling through the air.

For a second, my body stiffens, heart thudding—until memory slips back in.

The storm. The couch. Zeke sleeping on my couch.

My body’s still warm from where I curled against him.

I wrap the blanket around me and get up.

I find him crouched near the door, tool belt strapped around his hips, shirt tight over that broad chest, sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

He looks good. Too good. And dangerously domestic.

Like he belongs here. My pulse skitters at the thought.

He glances up when he hears me, and that grin—low and slow—blooms across his face. “Morning.”

“Morning,” I murmur, pulling the blanket tighter around me. My gaze dips before I can stop it. That stupid tool belt. The way it sits low, hugging his hips. He should come with a warning label.

“You sleep okay?” he asks, standing and wiping his hands on a rag. I nod.

“Figured I’d get started early. Got Maddox to drop everything off. Didn’t want to leave you alone.”

“You didn’t have to do all this,” I say quietly, my heart stupidly fluttering at the care in his voice.

“I wanted to,” he says simply, and something about the way he says it makes my stomach flip.

He heads to the little table by the kitchen, starts unboxing the smart camera and sensors.

I follow him, fingers brushing the edge of the counter for support, trying not to be obvious about how much I’m watching him.

But it’s hard not to. He moves with this calm, capable energy—like no matter what happens, he’s already got a plan.

That kind of confidence is rare. And stupidly hot.

“You always this handy?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

He glances up, his brow raised. “You saying you’re impressed?”

I shrug, but there’s a smile tugging at my lips. “A little.”

He steps closer, holding up the smart lock and flipping it around to show me the app interface. “This one’s good. Easy to use. You’ll get alerts on your phone anytime it senses movement or someone rings the doorbell.”

“Fancy,” I tease, leaning in.

“So are you,” he murmurs before he can stop himself.

My heart stutters. “What?”

He clears his throat, smirking. “I said it’s fancy. But you are, too.”

That blush again. God. I haven’t blushed in years. But here I am, pushing hair behind my ear, red as a tomato like a shy teenager. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

His grin turns cocky. “Only if you want me to be.”

I laugh. I actually laugh. And it feels foreign and a little dangerous. But damn if I care.

“Check this.”

He passes me his phone so I can see the app up close. Our fingers brush. Again. It’s electric, that tiny flicker of skin against skin. I look up, and his eyes are already on me—dark, intense, warm.

“Zeke,” I whisper, suddenly breathless.

“Yeah?”

“Why are you really doing this?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he steps back, gives me room to breathe. “Because you shouldn’t have to handle this alone. Because I want you safe. Because I... like being around you, Lena. A lot.”

My pulse hammers in my throat. I don’t know what to say. So instead, I just nod and look back down at the phone, pretending to study the app even though my hands are shaking.

He leans in again, his shoulder brushing mine, voice low and teasing in my ear. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.”

He chuckles. “You’re absolutely flustered.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Maybe. But I like what I’m imagining.”

That right there? That slow, teasing burn in his tone? It lights a fire low in my belly that I haven’t felt in a long, long time. And for the first time in years, I don’t feel fear. I feel wanted. I feel warm. I feel seen.

And that might be even scarier.

I grip his phone tighter, pretending to focus, but all I can feel is the heat coming off him, the way he smells like sawdust and coffee and safety.

“You’re not making this easy,” I murmur, my voice barely steady.

“Not trying to,” he replies, that lazy, low voice curling around me like smoke. I lift my gaze and he’s already looking—at me, through me, like he knows every reason I should walk away but is daring me to stay.

A slow, burning heat ripples through me not just desire, but something deeper.

A stirring. An awakening. For so long, I’ve been numb, playing it safe, living small.

But now? Now my gorgeous-as-fuck firefighter neighbor is looking at me like I’m the only woman on the planet.

Like I’m not broken. Like I’m worth every second of his attention.

And for once, I don’t want to shrink away from it.

I want to lean in. I want to be reckless.

I want to live. Maybe it’s foolish. Maybe it’s messy.

But maybe it’s time Lena stops surviving—and starts feeling alive again.

“Zeke,” I whisper, heart thudding.

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to do something really stupid now.”

His lips twitch. “I hope so.”

I set the phone down, reach up with shaking fingers to touch the scruff on his jaw, and when he doesn’t pull away, I lean in and kiss him.

Soft at first, hesitant, but the moment our mouths meet, it’s like I’ve been starved and didn’t know until now.

His hand settles at my hip, warm and sure, not demanding, just there—and my fingers curl into the front of his shirt like I need something to hold onto because I’m falling fast. The kiss deepens, slow and consuming, his lips moving over mine like he’s savoring every breath, every part of me I thought I’d lost.

When I finally pull back, breathless and stunned, he’s just as wrecked, his voice thick when he murmurs, “Told you I liked what I was imagining.” He hardly finishes his sentence before I claim his lips again.

The kiss deepens. He groans into my mouth, low and rough, and suddenly I’m not the only one shaking. His hand tightens on my waist, then slides lower, anchoring me against him—and God, he’s solid everywhere. Hard muscle pressed against every soft curve I’ve tried to hide for years.

Zeke pulls back just enough to whisper, “Tell me to stop, and I will. Just say the words.” But I don’t. I can’t. I’m already arching toward him, my fingers curling into his shirt like I’ll come undone if I let go.

“Don’t stop.” That’s all it takes.

And then it’s all heat. Hands everywhere. Breaths that aren’t mine.

Zeke lifts me onto the kitchen counter like he’s been dreaming about doing it since the moment we met.

The cool stone kisses the backs of my thighs, but he’s already there, stepping between them, swallowing my gasp with a kiss that turns rougher by the second.

His hands grip my waist like I’m something precious and breakable—but he’s not treating me like glass.

No. He’s handling me like he owns every curve, every soft place, like he knows I need this—need him—to forget the fear, the loneliness, the years of being unseen. I need this so badly.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he growls against my mouth, dragging his lips along my jaw, down to my neck where he sucks, slow and deep, until my knees go weak and I’m clawing at his shirt. “You let me in, Lena. That’s all it took. And now I’m wrecked.”

My fingers slip under the hem of his T-shirt, desperate to touch him.

I drag it up and over his head, and sweet God—he’s all muscle and heat and restraint barely held together.

Broad chest, dusted with dark hair that narrows into the waistband of his jeans.

Defined arms with thick veins that make my thighs clench.

Shoulders built to carry weight—mine, the world’s, doesn’t matter.

And that deep cut of muscle down his abdomen?

Sin incarnate. I can see his manhood bulging with desire.

He stands still for a beat, letting me look. Letting me devour. His chest rises and falls, slow and heavy, and his eyes—dark, molten, locked on mine—are wild with want.

And in that moment, I know: this man could break me apart. And I’d let him.

Because it’s not just lust flooding my system—it’s need. Need for his touch. For his strength. For the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted.

“Take this off,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint as he tugs at the edge of my sleep shirt. My breath catches, but I nod, lifting my arms. He peels the fabric away slowly—deliberately—like he’s unwrapping something sacred. Like he’s been dreaming of this moment and doesn’t want to rush it.

Underneath, I’m just in my bra and panties. Simple. Soft cotton. Nothing sexy. And suddenly I feel exposed, shy. My arms instinctively twitch like I might cover myself, but then his gaze drops—and everything inside me stills.

His eyes scorch down my body, lingering at the curve of my breasts, the swell of my hips, the softness I’ve always tried to hide. And then his jaw tightens. His hands fist at his sides like he’s barely keeping control.

“Fuck,” he grits out, low and reverent. “You’re perfect.”

Not pretty. Not nice. Perfect.

And the way he says it? Like it’s fact, like it’s not even up for debate? That shyness dissolves into heat that pulses between my legs. Because this isn’t just sex. This is him worshipping me. Claiming me. Wanting every single inch of me.

His hands slide under my thighs, spreading them wider around his hips. “I want you so bad it hurts,” he growls, voice thick with hunger. “But I’m not gonna rush this, Lena. I’m going to make you feel everything. Every single thing I’ve been dying to do to you.”

His mouth crashes into mine again—slower now, deeper—his tongue coaxing mine into a rhythm that’s all heat and promise. His hands trace down my back, fingers splayed, memorizing every curve. When he reaches the clasp of my bra, he pauses, his lips brushing my ear. “Tell me if I need to stop.”

“You better not,” I whisper, breathless.

He gives a low, dirty chuckle, full of male satisfaction. “Didn’t think so.”