Page 2 of Let it Ignite (Playing with Fire #2)

Cassie

I’m sitting in the passenger seat of a firefighter’s truck, my legs bare, my dress clinging to my skin, and my heart doing this strange fluttery thing I can’t get under control. I’ve never been around a man like this. Truth be told, I haven’t really been around men at all.

Mama kept them away—said they were a distraction, said they only ever wanted one thing and it wasn’t your mind or your heart. So I grew up learning to keep my head down, my legs crossed, and my dreams bigger than any boy who looked my way.

But nothing in those lessons prepared me for Byron Summers.

He didn’t just look at me—he stormed through smoke and flame and dragged me into his arms like I was his to protect.

Like the idea of not getting to me wasn’t an option.

That kind of power, that kind of male certainty—it did something to me.

It woke something up. Something deep and dark and feral inside me that had been sleeping for years, untouched.

A craving to be wanted. To be handled. To be claimed.

Not gently, not carefully—but fully. Without apology.

The man didn’t just look at me—he carried me out of a fire like some kind of storybook hero, all smoke and brawn and fierce, unyielding purpose.

And it wasn’t just the way he held me, like I weighed nothing, like getting to me was the only thing that mattered.

It was what it did to me. What it unlocked.

Even his name sounds like a leading man from one of those vintage movies my mom used to love. The kind of man who’d carry you out of a burning building and not break a sweat.

Which, yeah, he literally just did.

I sneak a glance at him. His jaw is tense, his hands gripping the steering wheel like it owes him money.

Every time he shifts, his forearms flex, tendons tight beneath tanned skin.

He’s still in his bunker pants and a tight black shirt, muscles on full display, chest rising and falling with the slow comedown from the adrenaline rush.

I should be scared. I just got in a truck with a man I met less than half an hour ago—a man who looks like he could bend steel with his bare hands.

But I’m not scared. I’m hyper-aware.

Every nerve is lit up like a switchboard. The way his thigh is just a few inches from mine. The faint scent of leather and smoke clinging to him. The way his jaw clenches every time my teeth chatter from the cold.

He keeps sneaking glances at me like he’s trying not to.

And I can’t stop noticing the way his eyes drop to my legs every time we stop at a red light.

I shouldn’t want him. Not after everything that just happened.

But God help me, I do.

“Cold?” he asks, voice low and rough, like it’s coming from deep inside his chest.

“No,” I say, voice unsteady. “Just trying to figure out if getting in your truck was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “Too late to back out now.”

“Right,” I mutter, cheeks heating. “It’s just… been a weird night.”

He huffs out a laugh, all dry and gravel. “If you’re worried, you can call the chief. He knows I brought you.” He hands me his phone.

I shake my head, fingers trembling in my lap.

Silence stretches. Heavy. Charged.

“You said you’re an actress?” he says finally.

“Trying to be,” I reply.

He nods slowly, eyes still on the road. “That outfit… you were getting into character?”

“Yeah, I have an audition in a few days. ‘Hooker with a heart of gold’ type of character,” I say, my voice flat. “Thought I’d really try to feel the part.”

He glances over. “Well, you nailed it.”

The way he says it makes my skin prickle. He’s not talking about acting.

“Thanks,” I breathe, my voice too soft, too raw.

Another long stretch of silence.

“Lucky I found you when I did,” he mutters.

But he’s not looking at the road anymore. He’s looking at my legs again.

And my brain should be screaming, should be warning me about trauma or impulse control, but all I can think is: I want him to touch me.

And then the truck hits a pothole.

My hand shoots out—lands right on his thigh. Hard muscle. Heat. My fingers twitch against him. I freeze. So does he.

His eyes dart to me. Something dark flashes behind them. I move to pull away.

He grabs my hand in his own. Big. Rough. Possessive. His grip is tight, his body rigid.

And then slowly, deliberately, he drags my hand higher. Up his thigh. To the thick, swollen length straining behind his fly.

My breath hitches. He’s hard. So hard.

I glance down. The outline is unmistakable. Thick. Long. My clit throbs.

He presses my hand down, and the heat of him blazes through the fabric.

I should pull back. I don’t. I tighten my grip, just slightly. Testing him. Testing myself. His nostrils flare. His free hand leaves the wheel, catching my wrist, his fingers wrapping tight around it, guiding me to him again.

And something inside me—reckless, hot, bold—breaks loose.

I grab his hand. Drag it onto my thigh.

His palm is calloused and rough, and it scorches a trail across my bare skin.

I guide him higher. Over the curve of my hip. Up to my chest.

He doesn’t resist.

When I press his hand to my breast, my nipple hardens instantly against his palm.

He groans. A low, guttural sound that makes my core clench. His fingers flex, gripping me, kneading me, and my back arches instinctively.

Then—just as fast—I let go. Drop his wrist. Pull away.

The truck slows for a stoplight, and I can feel his eyes on me, heavy and burning.

I stare straight ahead, breath tight in my chest, but the air between us is a thick coil of heat and unsaid things.

I can feel the heat of him where he touched me, the way my skin still tingles where his palm cupped my breast. I shift slightly in my seat, thighs rubbing together, seeking any kind of friction to ease the ache.

It's useless. That ache is embedded now—deep, pulsing, needy.

I steal a glance at him. He's not breathing easy either. His chest rises and falls like he's run a damn mile. One hand white-knuckled on the wheel. The other twitching in his lap like he doesn't know what to do with it now that it’s touched me.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline. Maybe it’s trauma. But maybe it’s something more twisted. Something more real. Because right now, with my whole world reduced to ash, I feel more alive than I have in months.

“I’ve never done that before,” I whisper, needing to fill the silence. “Touched someone like that. Not even close.”

His head turns slowly, eyes like flint, locking on mine. "Yeah?"

I nod. “Mama kept me on a short leash. No boys. No kissing. No touching. Said men would eat me alive.”

His jaw flexes. Hard. "They would’ve. Because you’re sweet. Easy to ruin.”

He says it like a warning. Like a promise. Like he’s not sure which side of that line he’s standing on.

“Would you?” I ask. “Ruin me?”

His knuckles whiten. He doesn’t answer. Not with words. But the look he gives me—feral, hungry, possessive—says everything.

The light turns green. The truck rolls forward.

And I sit there trembling, knowing something just shifted between us. Knowing he’s not just thinking about touching me again. He’s deciding when. His hand lingers for a second. Then it falls away too. I sit there, flushed, panting, my heart thudding against my ribs.

Neither of us say anything.

But the air between us is charged, heavy with something dangerous. And when his eyes flick back to me at the next light, they’re darker. Hotter. Like he’s already imagined what it would be like to strip that dress from my body.

And now?

Now he’s just deciding how soon he’s going to make it happen.

I look out the window, not knowing where we’re headed, not even caring.

I should probably ask. I should be more cautious.

But something in me already trusts him, already believes that wherever he's taking me, I’ll be safe.

Or maybe not safe exactly—maybe the opposite of safe.

Maybe I want danger, just this once. Maybe I want to know what it feels like to be undone by a man who looks like he’s been forged in fire.

I wonder what his place looks like. Is it neat? Messy? Does he live alone? Will he offer me the couch—or pin me to his mattress before I can blink? The thoughts twist inside me, hot and wild, tangling with the low throb between my legs.

Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’ve lost it somewhere in the smoke and sirens and ruined dreams. But right now, I’m not scared of him. I’m scared of how much I want him.

Because he didn’t just rescue me from a fire.

He might’ve started a new one inside me.