Page 5 of Let it Ignite (Playing with Fire #2)

Cassie

Two Days Later

I stir the sauce, and the rich, garlicky steam curls up around me, filling the small kitchen with warmth.

"You know what I was thinking about today?" I call out, raising my voice just enough for it to carry down the hall where Byron’s hammering away.

He grunts back, the sound warm and amused. "That I’m the only man you’ve ever met who hates pineapple on pizza as much as you do?"

I laugh. "Okay, yes. But also... the fact that we both know all the lines from Twister and cry at the same scene in Notting Hill . It’s kind of ridiculous."

"It's not ridiculous," he says, stepping into the doorway, leaning against the frame with a crooked smile. "It means we were doomed from the start. You, me, cheesy disaster flicks, and inappropriate movie quotes at the worst possible times."

"And don’t forget the competitive Scrabble matches."

"That’s foreplay and you know it."

I roll my eyes, laughing as I toss in a pinch of oregano, the dried leaves crackling as they hit the bubbling surface, and give it another slow stir.

We found we had more in common than I ever expected—old movies we both quote by heart, a love for cheesy disaster flicks, and an intense hatred for pineapple on pizza.

Byron claims it’s a fire hazard. I say it’s just disrespectful to cheese.

We both like quiet mornings and thunderstorms, and we both know what it’s like to fight for something with your whole heart.

I used to think I’d only ever find that kind of connection in a script. But then came him.

From down the hall, I hear the low thud of Byron’s hammer, the steady, reassuring sound of his putting up shelves in his bedroom. I wonder if it’s to make room for my things, even though he knows I’m not staying. I don’t want to ask him, don’t want to break his heart.

I glance toward the doorway, my heart doing a slow, unfamiliar flip.

I’m getting used to this. Him. The scuffed-up boots by the door, his deep, gravelly voice muttering to himself when he thinks I can’t hear, the quiet satisfaction in his eyes when he catches me watching him.

I hate to think this but this feels more like home than any other place I’ve lived in.

I’m getting used to him leaving for work, his jaw set with that single-minded determination, and coming back to me, his strong arms wrapping around my waist, his mouth finding mine like it’s the only thing he’s thought about all day.

I’m getting used to the way he makes me feel—cherished, wanted, needed.

The way he pulls me against his chest at night, his rough hands tracing lazy circles on my bare back as we drift off together.

I lean into the counter, biting my lip as I stir the sauce, my mind wandering to the nights we’ve spent tangled in his sheets, his rough, calloused hands sliding over my skin, his voice a low, possessive growl in my ear.

The way he holds me like I’m the only thing keeping him from coming apart at the seams.

I’m not just getting used to it. I feel comfortable here.

And I shouldn’t because I’m so close to my dreams being a reality.

I can’t help but smile when I hear the clink of a glass, the sound of the fridge door opening, the low, satisfied grunt as he takes a long drink of water. It’s domestic in a way I never imagined for myself. Cozy. Safe.

I smile when I feel his presence come up behind me.

“Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”

“I’m hungry now.” He growls.

He steps up behind me, his heat pressing close, chest to my back, hands firm and possessive on my hips. The kitchen suddenly feels small, filled entirely with him and the frantic rhythm of my pulse.

“Cooking for me like this?” he rumbles, voice low and rough against my ear. "Wearing nothing but my shirt and this flimsy little apron? You know what that does to me."

His fingers grip the hem of the shirt, pulling it up my thighs slowly, teasingly. I shudder, my breath hitching sharply.

“Take it off,” he commands softly, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.

I swallow hard, my hands trembling slightly as I reach down, untying the apron and then grasping the t-shirt and pulling it over my head, feeling vulnerable yet wildly exhilarated as the air kisses my bare skin. My chest rises and falls rapidly, breasts exposed, nipples peaking in anticipation.

“Hands on the counter,” he instructs, turning me around with gentle dominance, positioning me exactly how he wants me. “Spread your legs.”

I obey without question, my heart hammering as I feel his gaze sweep down my body, lingering on the curves and hollows. He ties the apron back around my waist, pulling the strings tight, the thin fabric barely covering anything at all, accentuating rather than concealing.

"Stay right there," he growls, voice thick with raw need.

I nod weakly, heart hammering as I hear him reach across the counter, grabbing the honey jar.

A shiver rolls down my spine when he pops the lid open, and a sharp gasp escapes me as he slowly drizzles the thick, golden liquid onto my exposed skin, the coolness causing goosebumps to break out across my flesh.

He hums deep in his throat, clearly appreciating the view. "You look fucking delicious," he murmurs, sinking to his knees behind me.

My muscles clench with anticipation, every nerve ending suddenly on fire as his tongue traces the sticky, sweet trail he's just created.

His hands grip my hips tightly, holding me still as his mouth works its way slowly, torturously upward, licking and sucking until I'm trembling uncontrollably, my knees almost buckling beneath me.

"Please," I beg, breathless and needy, pushing myself back against him shamelessly. "I can't take it anymore."

He rises to his feet, pressing his broad chest against my back, his lips brushing my ear. "You're going to take all of me, Cassie," he whispers harshly, gripping my hips even tighter as he positions himself at my slick entrance. "Every fucking inch."

And then he's thrusting inside me, hard and deep, stretching me in the most delicious way. My scream echoes through the kitchen, hands gripping the countertop for dear life as he takes me fast, hips slamming into mine with a punishing rhythm.

"That's it," he growls, voice rough and ragged. "Let me hear you."

I surrender to the wild, overwhelming pleasure, my cries growing louder with each forceful thrust. Just as I'm spiraling higher, on the brink of a shattering orgasm, a sharp, insistent ring pierces the air.

He curses, movements faltering as he reaches for his phone. "Fuck," he rasps, still buried deep within me. “I have to answer it babe, it’s the station.” He takes his dick out of me.

I glance over my shoulder, breathing erratic as I watch him answer the call, jaw tight with frustration.

"Yeah," he says sharply, voice clipped. A pause, then a grim nod. "I'm on my way."

Dread twists in my stomach as he ends the call, slowly pulling out of me, leaving me achingly empty.

"Is it a fire?" I ask anxiously, straightening and turning to face him, suddenly very aware of my vulnerability.

His expression softens as he cups my face gently, thumb stroking my flushed cheek. "Yeah, I’m sorry, but I have to go. Chief needs all on hands on deck. Even though it was my night off. You eat and warm my bed I’ll be back later."

Fear tightens my throat. "Will you be okay?" I whisper urgently, gripping his forearm.

"I'll be fine," he promises, brushing a quick, fierce kiss against my lips. "Don't worry about me."

But as he strides out the door, adrenaline and duty etched into every line of his body, worry is all I can feel.

An hour later, my anxiety hasn't eased. I attempt to busy myself, trying to eat, but every bite tastes like ash.

Rusty can clearly sense my anxiety, and makes himself scarce under the bed.

I move to the sink, thinking that doing the dishes will help.

My hands shake as I reach for a glass in the soapy water.

My mind is so tangled with thoughts of him—his smile, his hands, his laugh—that the glass slips from my grasp, shattering loudly against the tiles.

The sharp sound jolts through me, and as I pick up all the broken pieces glittering on the floor, realization hits me like a punch to the chest.

I've fallen for him. Hard.

Deeply. Dangerously. Yet all I can think about is the night my mother died, ripped away from me without warning. I can't survive another loss like that. My chest aches, panic clawing through me, stealing my breath.

I can't do this. Not again. Not every single time he gets called on an emergency.

My throat closes tightly, choking back a sob. I can't face another loss like that. I won't survive it. The fear clamps around my heart, mercilessly tight.

Fueled by desperation and dread, I grab a bag, stuffing it with essentials.

My hands tremble violently as I scribble a shaky note, tears streaming down my face, blurring the ink.

Each step away from him feels like ripping open fresh wounds, but I keep going, stumbling blindly into the cold, indifferent night.

I check my bank balance I should have enough for a taxi and cheap motel.

I’ll figure out the rest when I get there.

I find a cheap motel on the edge of town.

The motel room is dingy, the bed stiff beneath me as I curl onto the faded sheets.

I clutch the thin pillow to my chest, my body wracked by silent sobs.

But beneath the pain, a fierce determination builds.

I remind myself of the dream I've held onto through every heartbreak, every struggle—I'm meant for greatness. I can’t let myself lose focus now, not even for him. My dreams can't wait.

Yet, even as I cling desperately to my resolve, the emptiness of being without him gnaws at me, relentless and cruel. I close my eyes, tears seeping into the pillow, and whisper to the darkness:

“I have to do this. For me. For us.”