Chapter 9
nine
. . .
Connie
I watch him move around the kitchen, all controlled power and unconscious grace.
Three weeks since the fire, since he carried me from the flames and into his life.
Three weeks of learning his habits, his preferences, his body.
Three weeks of falling deeper into something I never expected to find.
He's making Sunday breakfast—shirtless, because he knows what the sight of his bare torso does to me.
The muscles in his back flex as he flips pancakes, and desire pools low in my stomach, familiar now but no less potent than the first time.
"You're staring," he says without turning around, a smile in his voice.
"Can you blame me?" I reply, not bothering to deny it. Why should I? The man is gorgeous, and he's mine.
Mine. The possessive thought no longer startles me. I've grown comfortable with it, with the idea that this powerful, beautiful man belongs to me as completely as I belong to him.
He turns, catching me mid-ogle, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "Like what you see, baby?"
"Always." The word comes easily now, this simple honesty between us.
He plates the pancakes, slides one in front of me, then leans across the counter to kiss me—a quick press of lips that carries the promise of more. Domestic. Comfortable. Perfect.
My key to the apartment sits on the counter, still attached to the new keyring he gave me yesterday. I've been carrying it everywhere, touching it in my pocket like a talisman. Not just a key to an apartment, but a key to a future I'm finally ready to embrace.
I've started moving what little I own into his space—our space. My clothes hang beside his in the closet. My toothbrush stands next to his in the bathroom. My favorite mug (a gift from the kindergarten class, painted with wobbly handprints) has a permanent place in the cabinet.
He's made room for me in ways both literal and figurative.
Cleared dresser drawers, pantry shelves, space on his bookshelves.
But more importantly, he's made room in his life—adjusted his schedule to match mine, introduced me to his friends at the fire station, listened with genuine interest when I talk about my students.
Last night, I overheard him on the phone with his captain, discussing shift changes that would align with my teaching schedule. "Need to be home when she's home," he'd said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to reorganize his life around mine.
I take a bite of pancake, watching him as he sits across from me, his own breakfast forgotten as he checks his phone for weather updates. Always the protector, always thinking ahead to potential dangers.
I used to find his overprotectiveness overwhelming. Now I understand it's simply how he expresses love—by anticipating threats, by creating safety, by standing between me and anything that might cause harm.
"Supposed to rain later," he says, glancing up from his phone. "Want to go for a walk before it starts? Could use some fresh air."
What he really means is that I could use fresh air. That he's noticed I've been cooped up, grading papers and preparing lesson plans all weekend. That he worries about my well-being in ways both large and small.
"I'd like that," I tell him, warmth spreading through my chest at his thoughtfulness.
He smiles—that rare, full smile that transforms his usually serious face into something breathtaking—and returns to his breakfast. I watch him eat, marveling at how comfortable this has become. How right.
I've stopped questioning whether what we have is real.
Stopped worrying that it's too fast, too intense, too unlikely.
The evidence is in every moment we share—in the way his eyes track me across a room, in the way my body responds to his slightest touch, in the way we move around each other with the synchronicity of dancers who've spent years learning each other's rhythms.
I love him. The realization isn't sudden—it's been building since the moment he carried me from the fire—but the certainty of it washes over me like a wave.
I love this man. Not because he saved me.
Not because he provides for me. Not because of the pleasure he brings my body.
But because of who he is—strong yet gentle, fierce yet tender, protective yet respectful of my independence.
I love him, and I want him to know it. Not just in words whispered during passion, but in deliberate declaration. In certainty.
"Dagger," I say, interrupting his perusal of the weather forecast.
He looks up immediately, attuned as always to the nuances in my voice. "What is it, baby?"
I abandon my half-eaten breakfast, circling the counter to where he sits. His eyes track my movement, darkening as I step between his spread knees. Without hesitation, I take his face in my hands, tilting it up to mine.
"I love you," I tell him, my voice steady and sure. "I'm in love with you."
His hands come to my waist, large and warm through the thin fabric of my—his—t-shirt. "I know," he says, but the vulnerability in his eyes tells me he needed to hear it again. Will always need to hear it.
"I'm sure," I continue, needing him to understand. "Not confused or grateful or caught up in the moment. I'm sure. About you. About us."
He pulls me closer, until I'm pressed against his bare chest, feeling his heart beat against mine. "Say it again," he whispers, a rare moment of naked need from my usually confident protector.
"I love you," I repeat, pressing a kiss to his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. "I love you, and I choose you, and I'm staying. Forever."
A shudder runs through his powerful frame. His hands slide down to cup my ass, lifting me effortlessly until I'm straddling his lap on the barstool. "Mine," he growls, his mouth finding my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot that makes me gasp.
"Yours," I agree, threading my fingers through his hair, guiding his mouth back to mine. "And you're mine."
The kiss turns hungry instantly, his tongue demanding entrance, which I grant without hesitation.
His hands roam my body, slipping beneath my shirt to find bare skin.
I rock against him, feeling his arousal straining against his sweatpants, the thin barriers of our clothing doing little to disguise how much we want each other.
"Need you," he murmurs against my lips. "Always need you."
But today, I want to be the one in control. Want to show him through actions what I've just declared in words. I pull back slightly, meeting his heated gaze.
"Let me," I say, sliding from his lap to stand between his knees again. I tug at the waistband of his sweatpants. "Lift up."
His eyebrows rise in surprise, but he complies, allowing me to pull his sweatpants down and off. He sits before me now, gloriously naked, his erection standing proud against his stomach.
I drop to my knees, looking up to maintain eye contact as I take him in my hand. His breath hisses between his teeth, his pupils dilating until only a thin ring of blue remains.
"Connie," he groans as I lean forward, taking the tip of him into my mouth. "Fuck."
I've done this before, but always following his lead, responding to his directions. Now I set the pace, exploring what makes his thighs tense, what draws those deep groans from his chest, what makes his fingers tangle in my hair.
His reactions fuel my confidence. I take him deeper, using my hand to supplement what my mouth can't accommodate. The taste of him, the scent of him, the sounds he makes—it all combines into an intoxicating reminder of how thoroughly we belong to each other.
"Stop," he gasps finally, gently pulling me away. "Going to come if you keep that up."
I rise to my feet, feeling powerful in a way I never have before. "Bedroom," I suggest, already pulling my shirt over my head, stepping out of my panties.
He doesn't need to be told twice. In one fluid movement, he stands and lifts me into his arms, carrying me to our bedroom with the same sure strength he showed the night of the fire. But this time, I'm not a stranger being rescued. I'm his woman, being cherished.
He lays me on the bed with reverent care, then covers my body with his, skin to skin, heat to heat. His mouth finds mine in a kiss that's both tender and demanding, his hands mapping every curve as if memorizing me by touch.
"I need to be inside you," he murmurs against my lips. "Need to feel you around me."
"Yes," I breathe, spreading my thighs in invitation. "Please."
He positions himself at my entrance, then pauses, his eyes finding mine. "Say it again," he requests, his voice roughened with desire and emotion. "Need to hear it."
I cradle his face in my hands, ensuring he sees the truth in my eyes. "I love you, Dagger Wolfe. I'm yours, completely and forever."
With a groan that seems torn from his very soul, he enters me in one smooth thrust, filling me completely. The stretch is exquisite, my body welcoming him as if made specifically for this purpose.
"Perfect," he whispers, holding still to let me adjust. "So perfect around me. Like you were made for me."
"I was," I reply, wrapping my legs around his waist, drawing him deeper. "We were made for each other."
He begins to move, setting a rhythm that's neither hurried nor teasing—deep, purposeful strokes that hit exactly where I need him. One large hand slides beneath me, tilting my hips to deepen the angle, while the other cups my face, keeping our gazes locked.
"Never going to let you go," he says, punctuating each word with a thrust. "Never going to stop loving you."
"I don't want you to," I gasp, pleasure building with each movement of his hips. "Don't ever want you to stop."
Our bodies move together with practiced synchronicity, every touch, every kiss, every thrust bringing us closer to completion and to each other. It's not just physical—it's a communion, a confirmation of everything we've become to each other.
"My girl," he groans, his rhythm faltering as he nears his release. "My heart. My everything."
His words, combined with the pressure of his body against mine, push me over the edge.
I come with his name on my lips, my body clenching around him in waves of pleasure that seem endless.
He follows moments later, his release triggering aftershocks of my own, until we collapse together, sweaty and sated and utterly connected.
In the aftermath, he gathers me close, his large body curled protectively around mine. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back, occasionally dipping lower to possessively cup my ass. The gesture is so familiar now—his need to constantly touch, to claim, to remind us both that I'm his.
"You're my forever," I tell him, nestling closer, my head tucked under his chin where I can hear the steady beat of his heart. "You know that, right?"
His arms tighten around me. "I know," he says, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "Still like hearing you say it."
I smile against his chest, marveling at how thoroughly this man has claimed my heart. Three weeks ago, I was a woman who lived alone, who taught kindergarten, who had never known what it meant to be loved with such fierce devotion. Now I'm his—his woman, his heart, his future.
"I never expected you," I murmur, the words muffled against his skin. "Never expected any of this."
"Does that scare you still?" he asks, a hint of vulnerability in his voice. "How fast it happened?"
I shake my head. "Not anymore. Now it just feels right. Like everything before was just... waiting. For you."
He shifts to look down at me, his blue eyes serious. "I'll never take it for granted. You. Us. This life we're building."
"I know." And I do know, with bone-deep certainty. This man who holds me like I'm precious, who looks at me like I'm his entire world—he will never stop fighting for us, protecting us, cherishing what we've found.
Outside, rain begins to fall, pattering against the windows in a soothing rhythm. Our walk will have to wait for another day. But I don't mind. Right now, there's nowhere else I'd rather be than here, wrapped in the arms of the man who walked through fire to find me.
My protector. My lover. My forever.