Page 6 of The Smokejumper’s Lady (Praise Me Like Fire #1)

His chest is broad, sculpted with years of labor, his skin tan and marked with a few scars that hint at stories I’m dying to hear. His dog tags rest against his collarbone, and his golden brown hair, damp and curling slightly at the ends, makes him look younger. More real.

More mine , even if he’s not.

He drops onto the couch beside me, our thighs touching. His warmth sinks into me immediately.

We don’t talk at first. We just sit there, staring at the last rays of sunlight through the dusty window, listening to the crickets and the occasional crackle of embers somewhere far away.

Eventually, I speak. Quietly. “My parents own a chain of hotels.”

I don’t know why I say it. It just feels right telling him something about me, even if it’s something I don’t care about much. It feels…intimate.

He glances at me, brows raised. “Fancy.”

I shrug. “More like exhausting. They’ve been grooming me to take over since I could walk. I had to take business classes all through high school. They mapped out my college track before I turned sixteen.”

“You didn’t want that?”

“I wanted to breathe.” I lean my head against the back of the couch. “They think being successful means being in control of every little thing. But that’s not me. I like people. I like language. I like feeling things, not just…managing spreadsheets and holding conference calls.”

Ryan is quiet for a moment. Then he reaches over and gently tugs a strand of my damp hair between his fingers.

“I like that you’re doing your own thing,” he murmurs. “Takes guts.”

I glance over at him. “You don’t think it’s irresponsible?”

“No.” He wraps the strand of hair around his finger, studying it. “I think it’s brave. Letting go of something expected to chase something unknown? That’s not weakness, Clea. That’s bravery.”

Something twists in my chest. His voice is low, steady, full of conviction. Like he means every word.

I lean into him, nestling closer until my shoulder rests against his bare chest. He lets go of my hair and slips his arm around my back, pulling me closer, and I close my eyes, breathing him in.

“What about you?” I ask softly. “Why smoke jumping? You could’ve been anything. A gym god. A wilderness survival TV host. Something less…life-risky.”

He breathes in slowly, eyes scanning the low ceiling for a beat before answering. “Lost my little brother in a house fire when I was eighteen.”

Oh.

My chest tightens, my heart aching for him.

“We were supposed to be home together,” he says quietly. His voice is even, but there’s something raw beneath it. “I left to hang with some friends. He fell asleep watching cartoons. A faulty wire sparked. He didn’t make it.”

“Ryan…” I reach for his hand, threading my fingers with his instinctively. “I’m so sorry.”

He nods once, like he’s heard that a million times. Maybe he has.

“I wanted to fight back,” he says. “Against something. Anything. It felt like if I couldn’t save him, I could at least save someone else. I didn’t care how dangerous it was.”

My throat tightens. I see him so differently now…more than just brawn and sex and adrenaline. He’s grief and purpose. He’s loss transformed into fire.

“You did save someone else,” I whisper, looking into his eyes, hoping he believes every word I say, because I mean them. “You saved me.”

He meets my eyes, and something shifts. Something hungry and unspoken.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I did.”

A moment passes. He reaches up, fingers brushing through my hair again. It’s soft now, almost dry, and I lean into the touch like a cat begging to be petted. His hand slides around to the back of my neck, warm and sure, and I close my eyes.

I shouldn’t feel this safe. This seen. Not this fast.

But I do.

I shift closer, my cheek resting against his bare chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart under my ear. His skin is warm, rough with faint stubble where his collarbone dips.

“You’re different from what I expected,” I whisper.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “You expected a caveman.”

“I mean…” I grin against his chest. “You did almost maul me on a medical cot earlier.”

His hand finds my hair again, stroking through the damp strands. “You didn’t exactly say no.”

I hum. “No. I didn’t.”

He pauses his strokes, then shifts slightly, pulling away just enough to reach for something on the nearby table. I don’t see what it is at first, until I hear the clink of ice in the tin cup we used earlier. He plucks out a single cube and gently places it on my collarbone.

I jolt slightly, a gasp slipping free. “What the—?”

“Just trying something,” he says, his voice husky with something that tugs at the strings in my core.

“Is that so?”

The chill is already spiking through me, a stark contrast to the way my blood simmers underneath. After the heat of the fires, the sharp cold sensation is lighting up my body in ways I never would have expected.

Ryan runs the ice down, slow and unhurried, tracing a path from my collarbone to the curve of my shoulder that’s exposed by the wide collar of my shirt. My skin pebbles in its wake, and every nerve lights up like it’s been plugged into a generator.

I don’t look away.

I can’t.

The cube circles my neck, trailing under my jaw, and then he leans in, his mouth following the path he’s carved, his warm lips grazing over my chilled skin. The contrast is almost unbearable.

“Ryan…”

“Mm?”

“Are you trying to drive me crazy?”

He chuckles against my throat. “Maybe.”

The cube slips lower, beneath the fabric of my shirt. I gasp again, this time with more breath and less sound, as he lets it melt between the valley of my breasts. The cold makes me arch toward him instinctively.

He reaches for the hem of my T-shirt and pulls it up, off over my head. And then he takes a moment to admire me, slouched against the back of the couch, breasts fully exposed to him, before he reaches for another ice cube.

As he begins to move the ice torturously around each nipple, I gasp and arch into him. He grins, leaning forward to capture a gasp with his mouth. I sink into the kiss eagerly, ready to surrender myself to this cacophony of sensations.

“I want to know everything about you,” he murmurs against my lips. “What makes you melt. What makes you moan. What makes you beg.”

I’m trembling now, not from cold, but from the storm brewing under my skin.

“I think you already know,” I whisper.

His eyes find mine, dark and full of heat. “Not even close.”

He trails the cube further down, between my breasts and then lower, his mouth following to drag his warm tongue through the cold water left behind. Down over my belly and to the waistband of my pants. Ryan slides to the floor now, pulling away my pants and kneeling between my legs.

This is the first time I’ve ever been completely naked with a man. I’ve never felt so exposed, so overwhelmed, but so safe at the same time.

The ice cube is small now, and he slides the last cold piece over my upper thigh.

It melts to a sliver, and he tosses the last bit aside.

I’m breathing hard, skin damp and tingling, blood pounding in every intimate place.

And then—slowly, deliberately—he leans in and lowers his warm mouth between my thighs, sliding his tongue from my entrance up to my clit, like he’s savoring the way I taste.

I’m shivering, shaking against him, cold everywhere except where his hot tongue is making me feel things I’ve never felt before. His hands wrap around my thighs and grip firmly, pinning me in place as he continues to devour me.

I moan, gripping his hair at the back of head.

The gesture only seems to spur him on, and after a few more intense strokes of his tongue against my sensitive bud, I’m falling apart, pleasure crashing over me like a tidal wave.

He holds me through my orgasm, his mouth continuing to work me until I’m fully spent.

Grinning, Ryan rises to his feet. I have just enough time to notice the huge bulge in his sweatpants before he’s sweeping me into his arms and carrying me the few feet to the bed.

Setting me down gently, he leans over my body and presses a firm kiss to my lips, his tongue sliding into my mouth and tangling with mine. It’s not wild or desperate this time, but slow and aching, like he’s claiming me. Permanently. Like this moment is meant to last.

And maybe it is.

Because I don’t want to run. Not tonight.

Not from him.