Page 7 of Let it Burn (Playing with Fire #1)

With practiced ease, he unhooks my bra and peels it away, his eyes darkening as he takes me in. His hands cup my breasts, thumbs teasing my nipples until I’m arching into him, a soft moan slipping free. “So fucking perfect,” he murmurs. “I could spend all day right here.”

Then his fingers trail lower, grazing over the thin waistband of my panties. I’m soaked. Trembling. Completely at his mercy. He presses a kiss to the hollow of my throat, then looks up at me through dark lashes, all heat and dominance. “You’re shaking.”

“I want you,” I whisper, voice barely a sound.

He groans, then slides one hand between my thighs, cupping me through the thin cotton. I cry out, hips jerking against his palm.

“Look at you,” he rasps. “So wet. So fucking sweet.”

He pushes my panties aside and sinks his fingers into me—slow, deep, relentless.

His mouth finds mine again, kissing me with the kind of hunger that leaves no doubt—he wants every part of me.

I cry out against his lips, louder than I mean to, but I can’t help it.

The moan rips from my throat, raw and aching, as he curls his fingers just right, hitting that perfect spot that makes my legs shake.

He groans, low and rough, like he loves hearing the sounds he’s pulling from me.

And still, he doesn’t stop. Every stroke is deliberate, teasing, worshipful, like he’s mapping my body by memory.

The kitchen fades away—the morning light, the scent of coffee, everything except his hand between my thighs and his voice in my ear whispering filthy, perfect things.

“That’s it, Lena,” he rasps, lips trailing down my neck.

“Let me hear you. I like my woman loud. Don’t hold back.

” And I don’t. I moan again—louder this time, shameless and wanting—because I’m unraveling fast and hard, coming apart right there on the counter, with Zeke holding me through every second of it.

My orgasm rips through my body. A powerful release.

His fingers are still inside me when I whisper, breathless, “I’m on the pill. ”

His eyes flash—dark and feral, like I just gave him permission to completely lose control. But then he stills, hand splayed over my thigh, eyes locked on mine.

“I’m clean,” he rasps, voice thick with need. “And I swear to God, Lena… I’ve never wanted anyone like this.”

He pulls his fingers out slow—slick, deliberate—and brings them to his mouth, tasting me like I’m his favorite obsession. My breath catches. His jaw clenches as he groans, low and guttural.

“I need to feel you,” he says. He kicks his shoes off, then reaches for the button of his pants, fingers working fast, impatient.

My breath stutters as he tugs them down his hips and steps free, his briefs doing nothing to hide how hard he is.

And when those come off too—God help me—I can’t look away.

He’s big. Thick and hard.

Every inch of him screams power and pleasure, and for a second, I just stare, wide-eyed and aching. I want him inside of me more than anything.

Zeke sees it—the way I’m looking at him—and his mouth curves into a dark, wicked smile. “You gonna keep staring, baby,” he murmurs, stepping between my thighs again, “or are you gonna let me ruin you for real now?”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

I’m too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

He steps between my thighs and grips my hips, dragging me closer to the edge of the counter. His cock is hot and thick against my inner thigh, and when he teases the tip along my entrance—just barely brushing—I nearly come undone again.

“Zeke…” My voice is already breaking.

He strokes along my slit, slow and sinful. Just the tip. In. Out. Barely.

But he doesn’t give in. Not yet. He does it again—rubbing himself against me, letting the head of his cock catch and press right where I’m dripping. I buck against him, desperate, already panting, already losing my mind.

“You feel that?” he growls, voice wrecked. “That’s how soaked you are for me. You’re so fucking ready, Lena.”

And then—he pushes in. Just the tip.

I cry out.

And he pulls back.

Then pushes in again. Just the tip. Out. Again.

Slow, torturous and addictive.

“Zeke—”

“Shhh.” He kisses the corner of my mouth. “I’m not done seeing the way you fall apart for me. I want to feel every second of you breaking wide open.”

My head falls back, a desperate moan clawing out of my throat as he teases me over and over, sliding in just enough to make me ache and sob for more.

“You’re dripping, baby,” he whispers. “All over my cock, and I haven’t even started yet.”

His voice is low and rough, like he’s barely holding it together.

Like he’s savoring the tension, the hunger, the promise of what comes next.

I brace my hands against his chest, and he’s solid heat and muscle—hard everywhere.

His pulse beats wildly under my palms, matching my own.

He slides the tip against my slit again and again, teasing, circling, coating himself in the proof of just how ready I am.

My hips move on their own, chasing the friction, desperate for more. It feels like my pussy wants to suck him in, it’s throbbing so hard.

“Zeke…” I moan.

That one word cracks something open in him. He groans, hand tightening on my waist, guiding me exactly where he wants me—where we both want this to go. His mouth drops to my neck, grazing the skin there, and I feel him smile against me. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

And then—finally, finally—he starts to push forward.

Not fast. Not all at once. Just enough to make my head fall back and my breath stutter. Enough to make me feel every glorious inch of him, stretching me, claiming me, making good on every dirty promise in his eyes.

His thrusts deepen, slow and devastating, like he’s carving himself into me one inch at a time.

Each movement is firm, controlled, and maddeningly perfect—like he’s set on making me feel every single stroke.

My hands slide into his hair, gripping tight as I pant his name, needing him closer, deeper.

He groans, the sound feral and desperate, his mouth dragging down my neck, over my collarbone, like he can’t get enough.

“You feel like heaven wrapped in sin,” he rasps, his pace picking up, slamming into me just a little harder, making the countertop creak beneath us.

“So damn tight, baby. So wet. You were made for this. For me.”

And I am. I feel it in every thrust. Every moan. Every needy whimper he pulls from me.

His hand comes up to grip my jaw, tilting my face so he can kiss me hard, deep, filthy—like he’s claiming my mouth the same way he’s claiming the rest of me.

His other hand grips my hip, holding me right where he wants me, guiding me against every stroke until the pressure coils tight in my belly, building to something wicked.

“Zeke,” I cry out, nails digging into his shoulders. “I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby,” he growls. “Let go. Come for me. Soak my cock. Let me feel how much you need this.”

And when I do—when the orgasm crashes over me like a wave of heat and light—he’s right there with me, holding me together while I come completely undone. He thrusts through it, losing himself seconds later with a deep, guttural groan, his arms wrapped around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.

When it’s over, we’re both gasping. Sweating. Clinging to each other in the quiet hum of morning, tangled on the counter with the scent of coffee still in the air and the sun painting gold across our skin.

His forehead presses to mine. His hand never leaves my waist.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs. “You’re safe now, Lena. You’re mine.”

And this time, I believe him.

I don’t know how long we stay like that—wrapped around each other on the counter, breathless and dazed.

His hands stroke up and down my back in slow, soothing passes, like he’s trying to ease the storm he just set off in my body.

His mouth brushes over my temple, then the corner of my lips, then lower, like he can’t stop touching, holding, being here .

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, the rasp in his voice now soft instead of wild. “You okay?”

I nod against his chest. “More than okay.”

He smiles, and I feel it against my hair. He helps me down gently, lifting me off the counter like I’m something precious.

But when I reach for a kitchen towel, he stops me gently with a hand on my wrist.

“Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough with emotion.

Before I can say anything, he grabs the towel from me Then he kneels— kneels —in front of me. The air shifts. My heart lurches. No one’s ever done this before. No one’s ever looked at me like I’m worth this kind of reverence.

His big hands are gentle as he lifts my leg slightly, steadying me with a hand on my thigh, then carefully wipes between them.

Cleaning me up. Slow and tender in a way that makes my eyes sting.

His brows furrow with focus, like this is sacred.

Like I’m sacred. He doesn’t speak, but his actions say everything.

You matter. You deserve care. You’re mine now.

He finishes and presses a kiss to my inner thigh, then stands and cups my face like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. “No one ever took care of you, did they?” he asks quietly.

I shake my head, throat too tight to speak.

His thumb brushes under my eye. “Well, they fucking should have. But I will. Every time. Every way.”

And just like that, I know I’ll never be the same again.

My phone vibrates violently on the counter. Once. Twice. Then it won’t stop. Beep after beep, like it’s panicking for me. Only work has my number. No one else. My stomach knots. I reach for it with a shaky hand.

Ten new messages. All from UNKNOWN .

The first one opens and my blood turns to ice.

UNKNOWN : You let him touch you. After everything I did for you. I trusted you, Lena. You said you needed space. You lied. You belong to me. And now you’ve betrayed me. I don’t like it when people betray me.

It’s the same message—over and over. Ten times. Like a threat wrapped in obsession.

My phone slips from my hand and hits the floor with a loud crack . I don’t even flinch. I just stare at it like it might keep bleeding.

“He’s watching me,” I whisper, my voice hollow.

Zeke’s already at my side. “What is it, baby? You okay?”

I can’t speak. I just shake my head as a chill rushes through me. My skin crawls. My heart pounds in my ears. Zeke sees it— feels it—and pulls me into his arms without hesitation.

His body is all strength and warmth, his arms wrapping tight around me like a shield. I press my face to his chest, drinking in the scent of him—soap, skin, safety.

“He’s watching us,” I choke out. “He knows. Zeke, he knows.”

Zeke’s voice is low, controlled, lethal. “He’s not going to touch you. Not while I’m here. Not ever again.”

And in my heart of hearts I believe him.