Page 15 of Wrong Number, Right Firefighter

I didn’t hesitate. I stood, gripping her hips and pulling her to the very edge of the table before sliding into her in one smooth, deep thrust. She gasped, her head falling back, her breasts bouncing as I set a relentless pace.

The table rocked beneath us, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the kitchen, mingling with her moans and my ragged breaths. I couldn’t take my eyes off her—the way her nipples tightened with each thrust, the flush spreading across her chest, the way her lips parted every time I drove into her just right.

“You feel so fucking good,” I growled, gripping her hips harder, my rhythm turning rougher, deeper.

She met me thrust for thrust, her legs locking around my waist, her fingers digging into my shoulders. “Harder. Please…”

I gave her what she wanted, slamming into her until her cries turned high and desperate, until her body clenched around me, pulling me right over the edge with her. I came with a groan, burying myself deep, my forehead pressed to hers as we both shuddered through the aftershocks.

For a long moment, the only sound was our ragged breathing. Then Camille laughed, breathless and bright, and I kissed her—this kiss much slower and sweeter than my earlier, more passionate ones.

“Best homecoming ever,” I murmured against her lips.

She grinned. “Just the start of the weekend.”

And it was. Because after years of chaos, of stolen moments and sleepless nights, of balancing love and life and two wild little boys, we’d found our rhythm. Our happily ever after.

And damn, was it sweet.