Page 8 of Let it Burn (Playing with Fire #1)

Zeke

It’s been three days since Lena started staying with me.

Three days of waking up to her sleepy smile and bedhead.

Of finding her curled up on my couch with a throw blanket and my old firehouse hoodie, pretending not to be waiting for me to bring her coffee.

Of brushing past her in the kitchen, the touch of her bare skin sending heat straight to my gut, even when she’s just reaching for the sugar.

We’ve both taken off work. She needs time to breathe. And I need to be close—need to know she’s safe, where I can see her, touch her, hear her laugh when I finally coax one out of her.

It’s domestic in a way I didn’t know I wanted.

Mornings with eggs and French press coffee.

Afternoons with her reading by the window while I replace the last of her apartment’s security gear.

Evenings where we talk about nothing and everything.

And nights where I lie awake just to listen to her breathing beside me.

But I’m still on edge. I check the locks three times before bed. Keep my two way radio on high. Sleep with my hand inches from my phone. Because she hasn’t heard from him since those messages, and that silence? It’s too damn loud.

She’s barefoot in my kitchen, wearing one of my T-shirts and humming off-key while she pulls the last batch of cupcakes from the oven. Her hair’s a little messy, flour dusts her cheek, and she’s never looked hotter.

The whole place smells like vanilla and warm sugar and her.

I come up behind her, wrap my arms around her waist, and press a kiss just behind her ear. “You trying to kill me, woman?”

She laughs, wiggling out of my hold just enough to set the tray on the counter. “They need to cool, Zeke.”

“They need to be in my mouth,” I murmur, already reaching for one.

She slaps my hand away, grinning like she loves every second of this. “Touch that frostingless cupcake and I swear—”

“What?” I crowd closer again, nuzzling into her neck, “You gonna punish me?”

Her breath catches, but she doesn’t move. Just leans back into me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’ll hide your coffee beans.”

I groan dramatically. “You’re evil.”

Her laugh bubbles up, soft and sweet. “You’re impatient.”

I slide my hands under the hem of my shirt—her shirt now—and brush my palms along the curve of her hips. “I’ve got a good reason. You, in my shirt. This smell in my kitchen. These hands,” I lace my fingers with hers, lifting them, “baking me cupcakes like we’ve been doing this forever.”

And for a moment, we just stand there. Her in my arms. My kitchen full of sugar and safety.

Yeah, I could get used to this.

She lingers against me for a beat longer, then tilts her head up, lips still curved. “I need to shower,” she says, voice light but thick with something else.

My fingers flex at her waist. “Need help?”

She gives me a mock-scandalized look, eyes sparkling. “Zeke McCoy, are you trying to corrupt a woman mid-frosting prep?”

I lean down, brushing my mouth just below her jaw. “Sweetheart, you already look good enough to lick clean.”

She shivers, her breath hitching in that way that drives me insane. “That’s not an answer.”

“I’ll take that shower with you,” I murmur, nipping at her earlobe. “And I’ll still make it back in time for frosting.”

Her cheeks flush, her hands sliding up my chest as she tries to suppress a smile—and fails. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

She tosses a wicked little smile over her shoulder, as she saunters toward the bathroom.

Her hips sway as she walks away, her bare skin gleaming under my T-shirt, and my cock is already rock-fucking-hard before I even follow her in. I step into the steam-filled room like a man walking into a fantasy, because that’s exactly what this is. She’s a goddamn dream. And she’s all mine.

At first, I try to keep it innocent—if only to prolong the torture. I take the sponge and run it slowly over her back, dragging it down the curve of her spine, around her waist, across her perfect ass. She moans softly, leaning into my touch, like she’s waiting for me to take it further. And I do.

I move in front of her and drag the sponge across her chest, watching the soap slide over her nipples, watching them peak under the heat and the slickness.

My breath hitches. My cock pulses. I’m already aching to be inside her, but I force myself to go slow, to savor.

She watches me with hooded eyes, biting her bottom lip as I glide the sponge over her breasts, then toss it aside and take over with my hands.

I cup her, massage her, roll her nipples between my thumbs until she whimpers.

Her hands trail down my stomach, and then I feel her wrap her fingers around my cock like she owns it. And fuck me, maybe she does.

She strokes me slowly, deliberately, like she’s enjoying watching me unravel.

Her thumb circles the head, her grip tightens, and I can barely breathe.

“Do that again and I’m going to pin you against this wall and fuck you so hard the neighbors will call in a goddamn noise complaint,” I growl, but my voice is already breaking.

She keeps going, rubbing her palm along every ridge, every vein, watching me like she wants to see just how far she can push me.

That’s all I need.

I grab her by the hips, lift her up, and slam her back against the tile. She gasps, her legs wrapping around me, her arms locking around my shoulders as I slam into her without warning. She’s already soaked, already dripping for me, and I slide in to the hilt on the first thrust.

“Fuck, Zeke,” she moans, her head falling back, her voice trembling. “You feel so good inside me.”

I pound into her, relentless now, no more patience, no more teasing—just the brutal sound of wet skin slapping against skin as I fuck her hard against the shower wall.

Her moans turn to cries, high and breathless, echoing off the tiles as water pours over us, soaking everything but putting out none of the fire consuming both of us.

She claws at my back, her lips brushing against my ear as she gasps, “Harder, Zeke… don’t stop… oh my God, don’t stop—fuck me harder.”

Her pussy grips me like a vice, soaking wet, squeezing around me so tight I feel like I’m losing my fucking mind.

I slam into her again and again, the rhythm rough and punishing, her body jerking up the wall with every thrust. My name’s a broken chant on her tongue.

Her head rolls back, mouth falling open, and I know she’s close.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” I growl, siding my hand against clit just to make her scream. “You gonna come all over my cock like a good girl?”

She tries to answer, but all that comes out is a whimper. Her whole body tenses and then she shatters. She convulses around me, eyes rolling back as she screams my name, her orgasm crashing through her like a goddamn tidal wave.

That tight, spasming grip of hers is all it takes to finish me.

I slam into her one last time, holding her flush against me as I explode deep inside her. I roar her name like a fucking animal, emptying every drop into her while she trembles against me, still riding the aftershocks.

We’re a mess—wet skin, steam, sweat, water dripping down our bodies, my cum leaking out of her and mixing with the spray—but I don’t move. I keep her pinned to the wall, my cock still buried inside her, our bodies locked like we’ve just survived a goddamn war.

“Those cupcakes should be cooled off now.” She says and I burst out laughing.

We get dressed quickly and head to the kitchen, when her phone rings. The sound cuts through the room like a blade, and we both freeze. She glances at the screen, and I see it—the tightness in her shoulders, the way her smile falters.

“It’s the clinic,” she says quietly, answering the call. “Yeah… okay. I can come now.”

She hangs up, already moving toward the bedroom to change. “There’s been an emergency. They need me.”

“No,” I say instantly, standing up, heart pounding. “You’re not going alone.”

“Zeke—”

“I’m serious. What if he follows you to work again? You know what he’s capable of.”

“I know,” she says, softer this time, grabbing her shoes. “But it’s been days. He hasn’t said anything. Maybe he finally got the message. Maybe he knows I’m not going anywhere. That I’m staying. With you.”

She doesn’t say his name. She never does. It’s like even letting the word slip would give him power again. And I hate that. I hate that she still feels the weight of him. Still feels the need to explain herself.

“You shouldn’t have to pretend you’re okay just to show up to work,” I say, grabbing my keys. “You know I’ll take you. I’ll wait for you. I’ll sit in the lobby if I have to.”

She shakes her head, slipping into her scrubs. “I need to do this on my own. Just today. I’ll be quick, in and out. You can’t hover over me forever.”

“Watch me,” I mutter.

“Zeke, I can’t show up at work with you shadowing me like I’m about to fall apart. I need this job. And I need to feel like I can do this on my own, just for a little while. Please.”

I can hear the strain beneath her words—the years of always watching her back, never quite breathing easy.

I want to argue, to tell her I don’t care what anyone at that clinic thinks, that I’d stand guard outside her office if it meant she’d be safe.

But I also know this isn’t just about protection.

It’s about dignity. About her reclaiming some kind of normal.

I nod, even though everything in me resists it. “Alright. But promise me one thing—the second you’re inside, you’ll let me know. Just so I know you’re okay.”

“Promise,” she says softly, stepping in close.

She rises onto her tiptoes and brushes her lips against mine, a kiss so tender and full of trust it makes my chest tighten.

I wrap my arms around her and hold her close, anchoring her there for a second longer, not ready to let go but knowing I have to.

“Okay,” I say, voice low as I release her. “Let’s go. I’ll walk you to the car, make sure you’re in safe.”

She gives a small smile and threads her fingers through mine as we head out the door together, like we’ve been doing it for years. I press a kiss to her mouth, slow and certain. “Text or call me the second you get there.”

She nods and climbs in, adjusting the mirror like she’s pretending not to be shaken. I step back, let her drive out of the lot—but I don’t move. Not until she’s gone.

The truth is, something feels off. It seems too easy.

So I grab my keys, jump in my truck, and follow her.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about men like him—they never let go easy. And Lena? She’s not facing this alone. Not ever again.