Chapter 4 Devon
DEVON
This was the worst idea I’d ever had—which, inconveniently, also made it the best.
I was driving a half-million-dollar piece of emergency equipment up a mountain road with a slightly buzzed woman who’d just told me she wanted to see my boxers again.
Professional. Real professional, Devon. But hey, I was a volunteer. It wasn’t like it could get me fired from my construction job…but it sure as hell could get me kicked off the roster and stripped of my training duties.
"This is amazing," Rylie shouted over the rumble of the engine, her face angled toward the passenger window. "I can see everything from up here."
Yeah. So could every other driver on the road, which was why I'd taken the back route up the mountain—less traffic, fewer witnesses to my spectacularly poor judgment.
The engine handled the incline like it was nothing, all that power thrumming beneath us. Rylie had her hands braced on the dash, big grin on her face, and I couldn't stop glancing over at her.
She was beautiful. That wasn't news—I'd noticed that the second she'd cleared her throat in the fire station kitchen. But up here, with the late afternoon sun catching the gold in her hair and her cheeks flushed with excitement and tequila, she was something else entirely.
Dangerous. That's what she was.
"Where are we going?" she asked, finally tearing her gaze from the window.
"Overlook. About two miles up. Figured you'd want the full experience."
"The full experience," she repeated, and there was something in her voice that made my hands tighten on the steering wheel.
I needed to get a grip. She'd had two margaritas and just confessed she'd never been with anyone. This wasn't happening. This couldn't happen.
Except she'd also said she couldn't stop thinking about my boxers, and that image—her thinking about me, wanting me—had been playing on loop in my head for the past twenty minutes.
The overlook came into view—a wide pullout with a guardrail and a view that stretched for miles. Mountains layered in the distance, the sky turning pink and orange as the sun started its descent.
I pulled the truck to a stop and killed the engine. Silence rushed in, broken only by the ticking of cooling metal and Rylie's soft exhale.
"Wow," she breathed, staring out at the view. "This is…”
"Yeah."
She turned to look at me, and the setting sun caught her eyes, turning them amber. "Thank you. For this. For today. I know you probably had better things to do than chase a cat and drive me around in a fire truck."
"I didn't." The words came out rougher than I'd intended. "Have better things to do, I mean."
Her lips parted slightly. We were sitting too close in the cab—or maybe not close enough. I couldn't tell anymore.
"Devon," she said quietly.
"Rylie."
"I meant what I said. At the bar." She shifted in her seat, angling toward me. "About the boxers. About wanting to see them again."
Every responsible thought I'd ever had evaporated. "You've been drinking," I managed.
"Two margaritas. I'm buzzed, not drunk. I know what I'm saying." She reached over, her fingers brushing my arm. Her voice trembled, but her words were steady as she said, "And I know what I want."
"Rylie, you told me you've never—"
"I know what I told you." Her hand moved higher, trailing up to my shoulder. "And I'm telling you now that I want this. I want you. Unless you don't want me, which—"
I kissed her.
It wasn't planned. Wasn't smart. But her mouth was right there, and she was looking at me like I hung the moon. Plus, I'd been wondering what she tasted like since the moment she'd cleared her throat in the fire hall kitchen.
She tasted like tequila and lime and something sweet I couldn't name. Her lips were soft, tentative at first, then bolder as she leaned into me. Her hands came up to my face, fingers sliding into my hair, and I groaned against her mouth.
This was insane. We were in a fire truck. On a public overlook. And I was kissing a woman who'd told me less than an hour ago that she'd never done this before.
I pulled back, breathing hard. "We can't do this here."
"Why not?" Her voice was breathless, her eyes wide.
"Because—" I gestured vaguely at the windshield, the view, the entire situation. "Anyone could drive up here. And you deserve better than the front seat of a fire truck for your first time."
“Then let’s not do it in the front seat,” she whispered.
Before I could process her words, she was unbuckling, maneuvering over the console like she belonged in the rig more than I did. She disappeared into the crew cab behind us, and I sat there a second, heart hammering so loud I could hear it over the blood rushing south.
This was reputation suicide. This was every rule in the book torched to ash. This was the hottest damn thing that had ever happened to me.
I followed her.
Back here, the windows were angled so that no one could see in unless they pressed their face to the glass—and the overlook was empty anyway. Still, it felt like playing with matches in a room full of oxygen tanks.
Rylie stood between the benches, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with nerves and want. She shrugged out of her coat, let it drop. Then gripped the hem of her sweater and peeled it up and off in one slow move that made my mouth go dry. The fabric hit the floor.
Jesus Christ.
She reached behind her back, fingers working the clasp of her bra.
One soft snap and the straps slid down her shoulders.
The lace fell away and—god have mercy—those tits were a five-alarm blaze.
Full, heavy, perfect teardrops with pale pink nipples already drawn tight from the cool air.
They bounced just enough when she breathed to make my cock as hard as the truck’s steel frame.
I’d seen beautiful women before. Never anything like this. Never anything that made me feel like the floor had dropped out from under me.
“Rylie…” It came out strangled.
She gave me a shaky smile—half-brave, half-terrified—and hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her jeans. Shimmying them down her hips both took for-fucking-ever and no time at all. The denim pooled at her feet, and she stepped out, standing there in nothing but a scrap of black lace panties.
I realized I was still dressed and started yanking at buttons. Shirt gone. Belt gone. Boots kicked off so hard, one hit the back of the driver’s seat. Pants shoved down. When I got to my boxer briefs, she held up a hand.
“Leave them,” she said, voice trembling but sure. “I want to look a little longer.”
Christ, this woman was going to kill me.
She slid her thumbs under the lace at her hips and eased her panties down, kicking them aside. Then she sat on the wide bench, scooted back, and lay down, knees together at first, like she wasn’t sure what came next.
I dropped to my knees in front of her. “Open for me, baby.”
Her thighs parted slowly, revealing slick, pink heaven. She was soaked already, glistening in the low light, and the sight punched a groan out of my chest.
“Touch yourself,” I told her, voice rough as gravel. “Show me what feels good.”
Her eyes went wide. “I—I don’t really—”
“I’ll talk you through it. Trust me.”
A shy nod. Her hand slid down her stomach, fingers tentative over the curve, then lower. When she grazed her clit, she gasped, hips jerking.
“That’s it,” I rasped. “Circle it slow. Yeah, just like that. Fuck, you’re dripping, Rylie.”
She whimpered, head falling back against the bench, thighs falling open wider. Her fingers moved faster, slick sounds filling the cab, and I had to palm my cock through the cotton or lose my damn mind.
“Slide one inside,” I told her. “Imagine it’s my finger.”
She did, a soft cry tearing out of her as her finger disappeared. Her back arched, those gorgeous tits lifting like an offering, and I nearly came in my boxers right then.
I couldn’t watch anymore without touching. I moved over her, settling between her legs, mouth tracing a path down her throat, between her breasts, over her trembling stomach. I replaced her hand with mine, easing one finger into that tight, wet heat, then two when she moaned my name like a prayer.
“So fucking tight,” I growled against her skin. “Gotta get you ready for me, sweetheart.”
I kissed lower, spreading her with my thumbs, and dragged my tongue up her center in one slow lick. She jolted, hands flying to my hair. I didn’t let up—lapped at her like a man starved, sucking her clit, curling my fingers just right until her thighs clamped around my head.
She came with a broken cry, pulsing around my fingers, flooding my tongue. I kept licking her gently through it until she sagged, boneless and glowing.
When I lifted my head, she was staring down at me, lips parted, eyes hazy. Then she pushed up on her elbows, voice husky and new.
“My turn,” she whispered. “I want to watch you touch yourself.”