Chapter 5
five
. . .
Connie
I wake up wrapped in heat and muscle, momentarily disoriented.
The weight across my waist is an arm—massive, tattooed, distinctly male.
Dagger's arm. The events of yesterday crash back into my consciousness: the fire, the rescue, the hospital, and then.
.. this. His bed. His body. His possession.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was a kindergarten teacher who lived alone and slept in flannel pajamas.
Now I'm naked in a firefighter's bed, my body pleasantly sore from activities that make me blush to remember.
Sunlight streams through industrial windows, illuminating the unfamiliar room.
Dagger's bedroom is spartanly masculine—dark wood furniture, gray bedding, minimal decoration.
The only personal touch is a framed photograph on the dresser of Dagger with his firefighting crew.
No family photos. No evidence of past relationships. Just the essentials and nothing more.
Like the man himself, I suppose. Direct. Uncompromising. Focused.
His breathing is deep and even against my neck, his chest a wall of warmth at my back. I should feel trapped, pinned by his heavy arm and the leg he's thrown over mine. Instead, I feel secure. Protected.
Is this real? The question loops through my mind. People don't fall into... whatever this is... after one day. That happens in movies, not real life. Especially not to women like me.
I've spent most of my life being the "good girl"—sensible, reliable Connie who wears modest clothes and always has tissues in her purse.
The girl who's "got such a pretty face" but whose body has never matched society's ideal.
I'd made peace with my curves, mostly. Stopped hoping for the kind of passionate romance that seems reserved for women with flat stomachs and thigh gaps.
Then Dagger Wolfe kicked down my door and looked at me like I was the answer to questions he'd never thought to ask.
It has to be the trauma, right? The shared adrenaline of the fire, the life-or-death situation. I've read about this—how intense circumstances can create false intimacy, trick the brain into thinking there's a deeper connection than actually exists.
Or maybe it's just gratitude on my part, lust on his. A temporary thing that will burn itself out once reality reasserts itself.
Behind me, Dagger stirs, his arm tightening around my waist, pulling me closer against his hard body. I feel the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressing against my backside.
"Morning," he rumbles, voice sleep-rough and impossibly sexy. His lips find the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss that sends shivers cascading down my spine.
"Morning," I whisper back, suddenly hyperaware of my nakedness, my bed hair, my morning breath.
None of which seems to deter him. His hand slides up from my waist to cup my breast, thumb brushing over the nipple until it pebbles beneath his touch. A small, embarrassing whimper escapes me.
"Sleep okay?" he asks, continuing his gentle assault on my senses, his teeth now grazing my earlobe.
"Yes," I manage, though sleep is the furthest thing from my mind right now.
"Good." His other arm slides beneath me, his hand finding my other breast, now cradling both in his large palms. "Because I need you again."
The raw honesty in his voice makes me tremble. Need. Not want. Need. Like I'm essential to him, as necessary as oxygen.
"Dagger, I... We should talk about—"
"Later," he growls, rolling me onto my back and hovering over me. His blue eyes are dark with desire, his hair mussed from sleep. He looks dangerous and beautiful, like something wild barely contained in human form. "Need to taste you first."
Before I can formulate a response, he's moving down my body, pushing my thighs apart with gentle but insistent hands. His mouth finds my center without preamble, his tongue making one long, deliberate stroke that has me arching off the bed.
Any protest I might have made dissolves into incoherent moans.
He devours me like a starving man, alternating between teasing flicks of his tongue and deep, penetrating thrusts that leave me gasping.
My hands find his hair, fingers tangling in the short strands, not sure if I'm trying to pull him closer or push him away from the overwhelming sensation.
"So sweet," he murmurs against me, the vibration of his voice adding to the pleasure. "Could do this for hours. Make you come over and over until you're begging me to stop."
The image his words paint is too much. Combined with the skilled ministrations of his tongue, it sends me careening over the edge. I come with a cry, my body bowing, thighs clamping around his head as pleasure washes through me in pulsing waves.
He doesn't stop, working me through the orgasm and building me toward another with ruthless determination. I'm still trembling from the first when I feel him slide two thick fingers inside me, curling to hit a spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
"Dagger, please," I gasp, not sure what I'm begging for.
He seems to know, though. In one fluid movement, he rises above me, positioning himself at my entrance. Our eyes lock, and something in his gaze makes my breath catch—a tenderness at odds with the raw desire etched on his features.
"Say yes," he demands softly. "Need to hear it."
The fact that he's asking, despite the obvious evidence of my arousal, melts something inside me. "Yes," I whisper. "Please, yes."
He enters me in one smooth thrust, filling me completely. The stretch is exquisite, my body still sensitive from the night before and my recent orgasm. He gives me a moment to adjust, his jaw clenched with the effort of restraint.
"Okay?" he checks, his voice strained.
In answer, I wrap my legs around his waist, drawing him deeper. His control snaps. He begins to move, setting a rhythm that's both demanding and attentive, hitting spots inside me that send pleasure spiraling through my nervous system.
"Mine," he growls, the word punched out of him with each thrust. "My girl. So perfect. Made for me."
His praise washes over me, as intoxicating as his touch. I've never felt desirable like this—never had a man look at me with such naked hunger, such unrestrained appreciation. It's heady, addictive.
We move together like we've been doing this for years instead of hours, my body responding to his as if choreographed.
When he slides a hand between us to circle my clit, I shatter again, crying out his name.
He follows moments later, his release triggering aftershocks of pleasure that leave me boneless and breathless.
He collapses beside me, immediately pulling me against his chest. The tenderness of the gesture, contrasted with the primal intensity of our coupling, makes my throat tight with emotion.
We lie in silence for several minutes, our breathing gradually slowing. His hand traces lazy patterns on my back, occasionally dipping lower to possessively cup my ass.
"Now we can talk," he says finally, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
Reality rushes back in, momentarily banished by pleasure but now insistent. I have no clothes. No home. No toiletries. No way to get to work on Monday. The practical concerns I've been avoiding crash over me in a wave.
"I need to figure out what to do," I say, pulling slightly away so I can see his face. "My apartment, my job, my stuff... my life is kind of in shambles right now."
His expression darkens. "Your apartment building's going to be uninhabitable for months. Maybe longer."
The news shouldn't surprise me, given the intensity of the fire, but it still lands like a punch to the gut. "I need to find a place to stay. And clothes. And contact my principal about—"
"You're staying here," he interrupts, the statement brooking no argument.
"Dagger, I can't just—"
"You can. You are." His arm tightens around me. "We'll get you clothes today. Whatever else you need."
The ease with which he assumes responsibility for me is both comforting and alarming. "This is moving really fast," I say carefully. "We barely know each other. What happened between us is... incredible. But maybe we need to slow down a bit. Set some boundaries."
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. "Boundaries?"
"Yes, boundaries. Like... maybe I should find my own place. We could date like normal people. Get to know each other without all the..." I gesture vaguely between our naked bodies.
In one swift movement, he rolls on top of me, caging me beneath him, his weight supported on his forearms. "You don't need walls anymore," he says, his voice low and intent. "I'm your shelter now."
The declaration should sound ridiculous, melodramatic. Instead, it resonates somewhere deep inside me, speaking to a part that's always longed to be safe, to be cherished, to be claimed.
"This isn't normal," I whisper, making one last stand for rationality. "People don't just fall into... whatever this is... overnight."
"Fuck normal," he growls, grinding his hips against mine, his renewed arousal evident. "This is real. You feel it too. Don't lie to yourself."
He's right. Despite every logical objection, despite the voice of caution screaming in my head, I do feel it. This pull between us that defies explanation. This sense that I've found something—someone—I didn't even know I was looking for.
"I'm scared," I admit, the confession slipping out before I can stop it.
His expression softens. "Of me?"
"No. Of this. Of how much I already feel. It doesn't make sense."
He lowers his head, pressing his forehead to mine. "Some things don't need to make sense. They just are."
His simplicity cuts through my complications. Maybe he's right. Maybe I'm overthinking this, trying to rationalize something that exists beyond reason.
His lips find mine in a kiss that's surprisingly gentle given the hunger I feel radiating from him. "Stay," he murmurs against my mouth. "Stay with me."
It's possibly the most reckless decision I've ever made. Certainly the most unlike the careful, practical Connie Evans who plans lessons weeks in advance and always carries an umbrella just in case.
But as his hands begin to wander again, as his mouth trails fire down my neck, I find myself surrendering to the inevitability of us.
"Yes," I whisper, the word half consent, half surrender. "I'll stay."
The smile that breaks across his face is transformative, softening the hard planes of his features, making him look younger, almost boyish. It's gone in an instant, replaced by heated intent as he begins to work his way down my body again.
"Dagger, again? Already?"
He glances up from where he's kissing the underside of my breast, his eyes dark with mischief and desire. "Got a lot of lost time to make up for."
As his mouth closes around my nipple, as pleasure begins to build again, I wonder if perhaps I'm not falling. Maybe I've already fallen, plummeting headlong into something I never expected to find, especially not in the midst of losing everything else.
And maybe, just maybe, that's exactly where I'm meant to be.