Ignited by Three Firemen (Firehouse Fantasies #4)

Chapter One Brielle

“Last night of freedom for our boy!” hollers my fiancé’s childhood friend and best man in the background of the video playing on a loop on my phone’s screen.

I squint my eyes against the flashing glow, piercing against the darkness of the bedroom.

Richard insisted that tonight was the best night for his bachelor party. Never mind that he’s basically been having an extended bachelor party since our engagement was announced in the papers a year ago.

“Yeah, right,” I grumble. “Freedom.”

Freedom must mean that he gets to have his hands all over a rail-thin blonde in the VIP booth of a club in Midtown. But that won’t end after tonight. I know better than that.

It’s my own fault for sticking my nose where it shouldn’t be.

I’ve had notifications turned on for a gossip account on Instagram for a while now, which is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but I couldn’t help myself.

It’s been the most reputable source of information regarding my soon-to-be husband’s liaisons, and if he won’t be honest about it, then I figure there are other ways to monitor the details.

Honestly, I don’t know why I’m suddenly so bitter about it. It’s not like I have been blind to the truth all along. It’s not like I haven’t spent the past several months willingly helping my mother and mother-in-law make decisions on napkin colors and centerpieces.

The point is, in less than twelve hours, I will no longer be myself. Everything will change for me, while Richard will have the freedom to stay the same.

The satin sheets are cool against my bare skin. I toss my phone aside and stare up through the shadows at the hazy expanse of the ceiling that I will share with my husband starting tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I will no longer be Brielle Marianne Hayes, the spoiled daughter of my spoiled parents, the representative of yet another generation of coddled individuals whose only usefulness comes from the unending wealth they bleed into New York City.

Instead, I will be Mrs. Richard Harrison Montgomery III. The wife of the heir to the Montgomery Enterprises empire. The soon-to-be mother of his future heir.

It’s a future that’s been waiting for me since I was sixteen years old.

A future that was brokered when my mother happened to become friends with his mother during a meeting of the Parents Association at the prep school we both attended.

Before then, Richard was just some guy in the year above me who played on the lacrosse team and messed around with whatever girls he wanted.

After, however, he was the boy that magically started showing up at all my family’s events. Dinner parties and fundraisers and everything in between. When he went off to Yale, my parents suddenly thought it was the most important thing in the world for me to follow suit the next year.

So, I did. I majored in Art. I studied abroad in Europe for a year. I even had a couple of boyfriends. I knew that I would always eventually fold to my mother’s wishes, because that is the creature she made me to be.

My parents gave me a good life, after all. How could I ever dare to disappoint them?

Plus, Richard is handsome. He’s not rude to me. He dresses well. He doesn’t snore. We’ve only had sex once so far, but it was fine enough.

It could be worse, right? Deep down, however, I know that I have always wanted more. I am greedy, constantly craving things when I already have so much.

The truth is that I’ve always dreamed of love.

Mind-numbing, heart-pounding love. I want to be sick with, want to know what it is that makes romantic heroines risk everything for their true desires.

I won’t have anything like that with Richard. Maybe if things were different, I’d be willing to give up everything for a chance at real love. What is money and influence when you’re chained to someone who can barely offer you a morsel of his heart?

“Stupid,” I whisper to myself.

Love is a fantasy, my mother might say if she knew what was going through my mind. To her, what matters most is that I contribute to the Hayes legacy by marrying well and continuing the glorious bloodline. It should matter to me, too.’

I roll onto my side, hugging a pillow that smells like Richard’s ridiculous French cologne.

A distant wail slices through my thoughts, becoming louder as flashes of red and blue battle the shadows of this bedroom. I’ve been able to sleep through sirens since I was a baby, but I’m wide awake and restless.

I slip out of bed, padding to window. Across the street down by the corner of the block, a fire engine has pulled up to the curb.

Nothing looks amiss from my vantage point, except that the door to the townhouse flings open to reveal a somewhat frantic neighbor that I haven’t had the chance to meet yet.

A kitchen fire, perhaps? A toppled candlestick? A faulty appliance sparking up without warning?

I press my forehead against the glass, watching as firefighters leap from the truck, moving with purpose and efficiency. Even from all the way up here, I can see the strength in their shoulders and the powerful confidence in their strides.

One of them lingers outside, handling some kind of equipment I can’t make out, but then suddenly lifts his head and glances in the general direction of my darkened window.

Stupidly, I gasp. He can’t see me. The look lasts half a second before he’s turning his attention back to the emergency.

But, like a fool, I can’t help imagining that maybe his eyes really did meet mine through all this darkness.

And maybe, when he’s done saving the day, he’ll come jogging across the street to knock on Richard’s door. He’ll find a lonely bride-to-be with cold feet in a lace nightgown, and I would only pretend to hesitate before inviting him inside.

If my life has never been mine to determine, at least I am safe here in my own imagination.

Because that’s the thing. Those men are my type.

Not Richard with his manicured nails and tailored suits, but bold and brawny builds.

A certain degree of ruggedness. Men who devote their lives to helping others instead of to fattening their wallets.

Men who actually have a sense of loyalty and duty.

Tough and sturdy, but with integrity and kindness fueling their every move.

I stare across the street for a few more minutes, but whatever the firefighters were called for doesn’t seem to be a big deal. Selfishly, and maybe cruelly, I almost wish that there was a bit more melodrama, just so that I could watch them in action for a while longer.

Shaking my head at myself, I return to bed.

When I close my eyes, I try to picture how beautiful tomorrow is supposed to be, but all I can think about is a curious face tilting up to my window in the dark and hands rough with calluses even as they deliver gentle touches on my skin.

I close my eyes, begging my mind to behave.

And it does, finally allowing me to drift off into sleep…

Is that someone ringing the doorbell?

I roll onto my back, brow furrowing as I listen to the pleasant chime of the sophisticated security system announcing that someone is waiting at the door. Fumbling for my phone in the sheets, I squint at the glow as it informs me it’s about half past two in the morning.

Who could possibly be knocking on the door at this hour? Richard is staying at the hotel near our venue tonight, so he wouldn’t be stumbling home. Plus, even if he forgot his keys, his thumbprint would get him past the locks.

And my mother isn’t supposed to arrive until seven-thirty, another five hours from now, when she’ll drag me into a chauffeured town car and bring me to the bridal suite where I’ll be primed and polished to perfection.

So, really, whoever it is… I should ignore it.

But when the doorbell rings again, I find myself slipping out of bed and tip-toeing out into the hallway.

On the landing, I peer down at the dark foyer.

Two rectangles of yellowish illumination from the streetlights is cast across the marble tiles through the frosted glass on either side of the front door.

As I watch, one of the rectangles wavers at the edges, warped by half the shadow of a large, masculine figure.

My stomach flips, but not with fear.

Somehow, I understand what’s waiting for me on the other side of that door.

I scamper down the stairs and stumble to a halt as my hand closes around the doorknob.

I shouldn’t.

But I do it anyway.

I twist open the deadbolt and then pull the door open.

A man stands on the other side of the threshold, so tall that I have to tilt my head back considerably to meet his twinkling dark eyes. He’s all hard muscle and sculpted beauty, with a jawline fit for a Greek statue and a playful smirk that makes my blood simmer with fascination.

He’s wearing a fireman’s uniform.

Or, at least, most of it. The pants and the boots are on, but the bulky jacket has been abandoned to reveal a tight-fitting t-shirt. I swear I can see the muscles of his abdomen ripple through the thin cotton.

“Hi,” I whisper.

I expect a “hello” in response. Or maybe a charming explanation for why he’s standing on my doorstep in the middle of the night. Did I call 9-1-1 in my sleep? Did the neighbors smell smoke and raise the alarm?

Am I the one on fire?

Instead of explaining himself, the gorgeous man lifts his hands and braces his palms on either side of the doorway, leaning forward to murmur, “You shouldn’t be marrying him.”

“Oh,” is all I manage.

My heart thunders.

A cool breeze wafts inside, reminding me that I’m wearing nothing but a flimsy scrap of silk that barely passes for a nightgown.

The fireman cocks his head to the side. “He doesn’t deserve you, Brielle.”

How does he know my name?

Honestly, I’m not sure I care.

“I know,” I answer before I’m even aware that I’m thinking it. “But I don’t know what else to do.”

The fireman’s eyes roam down the length of my body, snagging on the way my hard nipples protrude. I squeeze my thighs together at the rush of heat I feel when his gaze darkens and takes on a predatory focus.

“Let me show you,” he offers in a silk-soft voice.

What I should do is slam the door in his face, right? I should tell him to fuck off and stop being a creep, shouldn’t I? I should ask him why the hell he’s standing here, speaking to me like this, distracting me from sleep on the eve of my wedding?

Instead, I nod my head and retreat into the foyer behind me, beckoning him inside with a curl of my lips.

He prowls inside without hesitation, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Large, callused hands settle on my hips, pulling me against him. I grab for his shoulders, marveling at how firm and massive the muscles feel under my palms.

He kisses me like I’ve never been kissed before. Like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted, like he lives for it. Like his one true purpose is to collide with me, to taste me on his tongue, to swallow my breathy whimpers as he slides my nightgown up and over my head.

“Let’s take this upstairs,” I whisper.

Somehow, I’m even more turned on now that I’m completely naked and he’s still fully dressed.

The fireman’s lips curve into a smile as he kisses me again.

“Are you sure? I could take you right here in front of your fiancé’s fancy little security camera and show him what he’s stupid enough to be missing.”

I gasp as he slips a knee between my thighs. How does he…?

Oh, who cares?

I moan in response, unsure if it’s an agreement or a surrender. I just want him to touch. Just want to feel his hands all over me, want to feel him inside me.

He lifts me off the floor. Automatically, I wrap my legs around his waist, whimpering at the friction of the rough material of his waistband pressing into my damp core.

“You could have so much more, Brielle,” he groans. “You could have everything you’ve ever fantasized about…”

I melt into him, ready and willing to accept whatever it is he’s willing to offer me, but then a piercing wail breaks the tension.

Sirens…

I wake with a gulping inhale of breath, my body thrumming with a buzzing desire.

I am alone again. In Richard’s bed.

There is no beautiful, hunky fireman. Nobody knocking on the door. The room is dark and still, the fire engines across the street now long gone.

But that dream… it had felt so real.

I raise up onto my elbows and glance down at the hem of my nightgown, which is now bunched up around my waist. I’m a little surprised by how slick I am between the thighs.

Without allowing myself to think too hard about it, my hand glides down my stomach, fingertips finding the sensitive flesh that pulses with unfinished wanting.

I close my eyes, summoning the image of the fireman to my mind again. His strong arms and glittering gaze and capable hands. My fingers circle my clit, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out, more out of habit than worry that I’ll be overheard.

It doesn’t take long. I feel like the tension within me has been building for months, or maybe even years, rather than just a handful of hours. When the orgasm hits, it’s overwhelming and intense and a little humiliating. I’m climaxing to the thought of another man.

Not even a real man either, but one who is far more kind and compassionate than the man I’m marrying tomorrow.

A man who doesn’t put his hands on another woman the night before his wedding.

A man who only exists in my dreams. Nothing but a fantasy, a symbol of everything I wish I could take for myself.

With a defeated sigh, I flop back onto the pillow and squeeze my eyes shut tight.

I’m determined not to open them again until the sun rises. The shadows have witnessed too much tonight.