Chapter 11
I’d just signed off on the latest investigation log, cataloging a suspected accelerant found in an East Liberty rowhouse—third one in a cluster that didn’t sit right with me.
Patterns had begun to trace themselves across the map, not just in structure types but in timing, in damage, in gut feeling.
The kid we pulled from the last fire—barely seventeen, skin blistered, lungs smoke-thick—had tried to say something before the oxygen mask silenced him.
I was going to find out what he saw. And who lit that match.
Sometimes people think the job ends at the hose line. But the fire don’t stop there. Sometimes it follows you. Sometimes it crawls up the back of your neck when you’re sleeping, whispering about what you missed.
I became a firefighter because of the fire that almost killed me.
Hot, greedy, merciless—left its mark across my shoulder and arm like it owned me. And maybe it did. But it didn’t win. I crawled out from under the nightmares. And I stayed.
And when the work stopped being about the adrenaline and started being about the why, I moved into investigations. I wanted answers. Still do.
I’d just started sketching the framework for a deeper probe—dig sites, interviews, cross-checks—when her voice cut through the murmur of office noise.
“Afternoon, Maliah. Is Tariq in?”
“Ms. Ellison.” Maliah’s voice was colder than usual.
“I have something for him.”
I stood, rounding the corner of my desk just as she stepped into view—and damnshe did have something for me.
Black leather jacket that wouldn’t protect her from the cold at all. Short leather skirt that knew how to cling to those fantastic hips and ass.
A silk crop top skimming just beneath her ribs, framing that toned, art-sculpted waist.
Red lips. Smoky eyes. And thigh-high spiked boots that dared gravity—she might’ve only stood five-one, but she moved like a woman who towered over the room.
She turned toward me, and I met her halfway, one hand brushing her hip as my lips skimmed the curve of her cheek, then hovered near her ear.
“You’re gonna ruin me showing up like that.”
“I thought about you all morning,” she murmured, fingers toying with the edge of my lapel as I pulled her in closer. “Decided I didn’t want to wait.”
My dark navy tactical jacket hung open over my badge and form-fitting navy tee. Slacks, utility belt, steel-toe boots. Regulation-ready. But under the weight of her stare, I felt half-dressed.
Behind her, Maliah’s face twisted like she’d just tasted something bitter. Good. She’d need to digest the truth eventually.
“Long lunch?” Sanaa asked with a smile that didn’t even try to be innocent.
I snatched my keys off the hook. Didn’t even glance back.
“Yeah,” I said, low and sure. “Long.”
We didn’t talk much on the drive. We didn’t need to.
Every stoplight turned into a glance. Every glance held too long. The air inside the truck felt thicker than it should’ve, like something was already happening between us and we hadn’t even touched.
Instead of heading downtown, I swung east and pulled up to a narrow storefront squeezed between a barbershop and a lottery spot.
No valet. No white tablecloths. Just a hand-painted sign, bass-heavy reggae leaking through the door, and the unmistakable smell of charred spice and slow-braised meat hitting you before you even stepped inside.
Sanaa looked over at me. “You brought me here?”
“You hungry or you judging?”
A slow smile spread across her mouth. “Both.”
Inside, it was warm, loud, alive. Steel drums layered over dancehall. Conversations rolling in patois and Pittsburgh slang. A woman behind the counter called everybody “baby” whether she knew them or not.
We ordered like we meant it.
Oxtail. Rice and peas. Jerk chicken. Plantains. No drinks but sorrel and water because I was still technically on duty and she knew better than to tempt that line.
We took a small table by the window. No privacy. No dim lighting. Just daylight and the kind of place where nobody cared who you were as long as you respected the food.
Sanaa slid out of her jacket and folded it beside her.
That silk top caught the light. Her shoulders bare. Collarbone sharp enough to follow with your mouth if you weren’t careful.
I wasn’t careful.
“You keep staring at me like that,” she said, not looking up from unwrapping her fork, “you’re gonna make this awkward.”
“You showed up looking like that,” I replied. “This is on you.”
She finally met my eyes.
Yeah. There it was. That same look from years ago. The one that said she knew exactly what she was doing and wasn’t about to stop.
The food came out fast, steaming, rich with spice and gravy. She took one bite of oxtail and closed her eyes.
“Oh my God.”
I laughed. “Focus.”
“You brought me somewhere that requires focus,” she shot back, licking a bit of sauce from her thumb. “That’s dangerous.”
I watched that thumb longer than I should have. She noticed. Of course she did.
Her foot brushed my ankle under the table.
“You plan on heading back to work?” she asked, her voice softer now.
“I’m going to try.”
“That mean I have to behave?”
I leaned forward, lowering my voice just enough that the words stayed between us.
“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
Her lips parted slightly. A breath. A pause.
Then she went back to eating like nothing happened — except now her knee rested against mine and didn’t move.
We talked between bites. About nothing important. Her parents. My brothers. Tyson still giving me hell. Her sister Jada still asking too many questions. Real life. The kind that kept moving whether we were ready or not.
But every now and then, the conversation would stall. And we’d just look at each other. Knowing lunch was just foreplay.
After paying the bill and promising to bring Sanaa back, we headed to my truck and pulled off.
We didn’t make it far.
I’d barely cleared the lot when her hand slid up my thigh again, this time with no hesitation. No teasing. No games. She leaned over, her breath ghosting against my ear.
“I’ve been wanting your pretty dick for lunch all day,” she purred.
My knuckles whitened on the wheel. I swerved into a barren gravel lot, heart hammering, breath short.
Her seatbelt clicked free like a challenge.
She turned, kneeling on the seat—her ass high, arched perfectly in that black leather skirt that had me half-crazed since she stepped into my office.
She hiked it up slow, just enough to bare the curve of her thighs, and reached for my belt like it was the only thing standing between her and salvation.
“You’re playing with fire,” I warned, already halfway gone.
She didn’t answer. Just freed me—smooth, sure—and licked her lips like I was dessert.
And then she devoured me.
Hot. Wet. Greedy. Her mouth slid down with intention, swallowing inch after inch until her lips kissed my base. I groaned—raw, guttural—gripping the seat beneath me.
When I looked down… Jesus.
Her lips stretched wide, spit pooling at the corners, her platinum hair framing her perfect face as she worked me deep and sloppy. Her throat fluttered, eyes shut, her body rocking with every pass like she needed this more than air.
“Shit—Sanaa.”
She moaned around me, and the vibrations made my toes curl.
She pulled off just enough to drag her tongue along my length, spit trailing like silk.
“You taste so fucking good,” she whispered against my tip.
My hand found the back of her head—not to guide, just to anchor. Because I was fucking floating.
She took me back into her throat without breaking eye contact. Let herself gag on it, choke just a little, then pulled off with a slick pop and went right back down like she wanted to break me.
And she did.
My hips bucked, chasing her mouth like instinct. I clenched my jaw, trying to hold back, but she was whispering between sucks—filthy, perfect things.
“You gonna cum for me, baby? Gimme that nut. I’ve missed this dick…”
I groaned. “Sanaa—fuck—stop. I swear fo’ God—”
She didn’t. She just smiled around my shaft, swallowing me again, until my vision blurred.
Then she slid across the console.
Smooth. No rush. Just raw intent.
Her jacket hit the floorboards. She kept her heels on—spiked and perfect—bracing her thighs as she climbed into my lap. Her skirt rode high. No panties. Her pussy was glistening, dripping. My breath caught.
“This what you meant by pretending to work?” she taunted. “Then why don’t I do all the work.”
She kissed me—deep, filthy, tongue-first—before guiding me inside her with a slow grind that made my brain short-circuit.
No condom. Just her wet heat gripping me like a vice.
“Shit, Tariq. How did I ever walk away from your muthafuckin dick? Damn.” She was biting her shaking lip.
“Fuck,” I hissed.
She shuddered, one hand reaching back, bracing on the dash as she started to move—slow circles, rocking on my dick like she’d been practicing. My hands locked on her ass, helping her find the rhythm I knew we both needed.
“You love what my dick does to you?” I asked.
“I never stopped.”
I thrust up, and she gasped—head falling forward, mouth open. My hands slid under her top, found her bare breasts, pinched her nipples until she cried out, then clamped down around me hard enough I almost lost it right there.
The truck was bouncing. Windows fogged. Her nails dug into my shoulders as she fucked me like we didn’t have history—like this was the only time that mattered.
“You feel that?” I growled. “Feel what you do to me?”
She nodded. “I feel everything, baby.”
“I’m not gonna last.”
“Then don’t,” she moaned. “Cum in me. Give me all that nut. I want it deep in my soul.”
Her voice, that slick, filthy mouth, her soaked grip clenching me—it was too much. I snapped.
I slammed into her one last time and let go, groaning her name into her neck, body wracked with release as I spilled every ounce into her raw.
She stayed on top, trembling. My dick still buried inside her. Her lips brushed mine. We were both slick, messy, ruined.
And I loved every fucking second of it.
She slid off me slow, thighs trembling as she adjusted her skirt, then leaned in with one last kiss—slick and smug and satisfied.
“You okay to drive?” she asked, smoothing her top like she hadn’t just wrecked me in broad daylight.
I couldn’t even answer. Just grunted and let my head fall back against the seat.
By the time I got her back to her car, we were both a mess of swollen lips and satisfied silence. She winked when she stepped out. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.
Because I felt her. Still inside me. Still wrapped around every nerve.
I sat there another five minutes, trying to collect myself. Buttoned my shirt halfway. Ran a hand down my face. Failed.
I was still leaking, sore, and lightheaded from the kind of orgasm that rewired your damn soul. And I was late.
When I finally walked through the office doors, Maliah looked up from the front desk. Then she looked through me. Her expression turned so icy I could feel the frost off her lashes.
“Afternoon,” I muttered.
She didn’t respond.
Just tapped her pen on the counter like she had a hundred other things she’d rather be doing than acknowledging me.
I didn’t blame her.
I knew she had a thing. She’d been throwing me soft lobs of flirtation for months, and I kept knocking ‘em down with polite smiles. I never crossed a line. But I also didn’t shut it down hard enough. Not really.
And now… this? She knew. Everybody did.
Especially after the way Sanaa walked in here lookin’ like a damn temptation and left with me like she’d already claimed the prize.
Maliah’s glare tracked me all the way down the hall, and I wondered if I’d find a transfer request on my desk by the end of the week. Wouldn’t be shocked. Wouldn’t fight it either.
Marquez probably saw us too. His timing was always slick like that.
And sure enough, not ten minutes after I sat down—still buttoning my damn shirt—he strolled in like he owned the place.
“You took lunch?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.
I shrugged and kept whistling low under my breath. My legs still felt loose. My dick was sore. My heart though… that muthafucka was wide open.
“I eat when I’m hungry.”
He smirked. “You were gone for well over an hour.”
I looked up. “I was really hungry.”