Chapter 3 Into the Fire #2
The droplet disappears into the open neck of his shirt, and all I can think about is following it—tracing that trail with my fingers, then my tongue.
Down his throat, across the broad plane of his chest. Over the sharp ridges of his abs—solid, sculpted, the kind of body built by fire and grit, not gyms.
And further still.
Heat blooms low, deep, dark, and slow, curling through me like smoke. My thighs press together. My breath shortens. Every inch of me tightens with want, aching, and alive.
I blink hard and snap my gaze to the horizon, but it’s too late.
The hunger’s already taken root.
You’re here to assess evacuation routes, not fantasize about what lies beneath his belt.
But the image won’t leave.
It lingers like heat lightning behind my eyes—searing, impossible to unsee.
And once it sparks, it spreads.
Fast. Wild. Unforgiving.
The fantasy unfurls before I can stop it—vivid, startling, unwanted… and god, so delicious.
Him. Towering over me. Broad, commanding, radiating heat like he’s forged from fire.
That gravel voice drops an octave—low, feral.
No words of warning. No slow build. Just that look. That knowing.
Then a fist knots in my hair—tight—and he shoves his cock past my lips like I’m made to take it.
Like I exist for this. For him.
Not sweet. Not careful.
Savage.
Hips grinding slowly at first—testing me. Teasing me.
Then faster. Rougher.
Fucking my throat like he owns it. Like he’s waited long enough and now he’s taking what’s his.
The stretch burns.
My eyes water.
I moan around the length of him, and he growls, hips jerking, pushing deeper until I’m gagging, drool slicking my chin, and he’s panting curses into the air.
“Look at you,” he’d snarl. “Kneeling for me like you were born for this.”
My hands grip his thighs—hard muscle wrapped in denim—trying to anchor myself.
But he doesn’t let up. Doesn’t ease.
He fucks my mouth like he needs it, like this is his release and his religion.
My spit runs down my neck. My pulse hammers in my ears. My core throbs—needy and slick and completely untouched.
And when I reach for my jeans, desperate for friction, he yanks me off his cock with a filthy pop, breath ragged as he fists his length and rubs it across my lips.
“You don’t get to touch yourself,” he growls, voice like smoke and sin. “Not until I say.”
Then he pushes back in—deeper, harder—fucking my mouth while I claw at my restraint.
Powerless.
Starving.
So fucking wet I’m shaking.
I blink suddenly, surprised by the intensity of the fantasy. My heart’s hammering. My breath is sharp and ragged in the cool mountain air.
He stands there—real, solid, and completely unaware of the war raging inside me.
The ache clawing through me like wildfire.
The fantasy still pulsing at the base of my spine, slick between my thighs, the ghost of him still on my tongue.
God help me, I want it.
The command. That edge.
He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, oblivious.
But if he looked at me right now—really looked—he’d see it.
He’d smell it on me.
And I don’t know what terrifies me more—
That I want him to see…
Or that he already does.
“So these evacuation routes.”
His voice—steady, professional, completely unaffected—slices through my lust-drenched haze.
He spreads my map across a flat slab of granite, crouching beside it like nothing’s shifted. Like I wasn’t just mentally on my knees, moaning around the hard weight of his cock.
“You’ve marked three alternates from the summit.”
He taps one with a calloused finger, precise and focused.
The contrast hits like a slap.
Whiplash.
My mind scrambles to catch up—to tear itself away from the fantasy still burning like an ember behind my ribs.
But it’s not gone.
Not even close.
Because I’m still throbbing.
Still soaked.
Still aching to give in to the raw power he doesn’t even seem to realize he holds.
I drag in a breath, but it’s shaky, thin—no match for the way he smells.
Like pine and smoke and heat.
Like danger dressed in denim and sweat and absolute control.
He doesn’t look at me.
Doesn’t glance up.
Just crouches there, legs spread, forearms braced on his thighs, the sun cutting sharp shadows across the muscles straining beneath his shirt.
Virility. That’s the word that hits me next.
Not sexiness. Not attraction.
Virility.
Undiluted, masculine virility.
Like if he reached for me right now, I’d fold.
Collapse.
Submit.
I shift my weight, thighs pressing tight—because the pulse between them won’t stop.
Won’t be ignored.
“Yes,” I manage, voice hoarse. “Three routes. Two eastward descents, one drops north—less exposed, but longer.”
His eyes lift, finally.
And just like that, the air changes.
Like he feels it.
The tension. The heat.
His gaze holds mine for a beat too long.
Long enough for my breath to catch.
Long enough for everything inside me to scream, Take me. Do it now.
But he just nods, eyes unreadable.
“Good work.”
Then he looks away—like he didn’t just light me on fire and walk away from the blaze.
Like he’s not the walking embodiment of everything I’ve spent my life resisting.
And still, I stand here—heart hammering, body betraying me—wanting it all over again.
Worse.
Rougher.
Real.
Focus!
"Different options for different scenarios." I point to each route. "This one's fastest but exposed—dangerous in lightning. This one's sheltered but steeper—risky in wet conditions. This one's longest but has water access and natural shelters."
"You favor the middle route." It's not a question.
"How can you tell?"
"The pencil marks are darker. You've traced it more times, considering it."
His observation unsettles me. Few people notice such details.
"It splits the difference between speed and safety." I tap the route. "Best compromise in most scenarios."
"I disagree." He traces the longest route with his finger. "Water access trumps speed in evacuation scenarios. Dehydration kills faster than most people realize."
"That route adds forty minutes to evacuation time."
"Forty minutes alive is better than twenty minutes dead."
"That's not how risk assessment works, and you know it." I cross my arms. "Longer exposure to danger increases mortality risk exponentially."
"Unless the danger is dehydration and heat exposure."
"On a mountain that's below freezing eight months of the year?"
The debate intensifies, each of us defending our position with increasing passion. We're no longer discussing hypothetical evacuations, but rather fundamental approaches to safety and risk.
"You can't apply desert firefighting protocols to alpine environments." I jab my finger at the map. "That's the kind of by-the-book thinking that gets people killed in specialized terrain."
"And stubborn adherence to tradition over evolving best practices is equally dangerous." Mac's voice rises to match mine. "Your father's methods might have worked twenty years ago, but—"
"Leave my father out of this."
"You brought him into it when you cited him as your qualification."
We're standing toe to toe now, the map forgotten between us. Scout whines softly from her spot under a nearby pine, sensing the tension.
"These mountains have rules that don't appear in your fancy training manuals." My voice rises despite my best intentions. "People who ignore local wisdom end up as statistics."
"People who refuse to adapt end up as cautionary tales." He steps closer, his height forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Do you think you're the only one who cares about saving lives?"
"I think you're too busy proving your superiority to listen to someone who knows this terrain."
"And I think you're too busy defending your territory to consider that someone else might have valuable input."
"My territory?" I laugh, the sound sharp in the mountain air. "This isn't about territory. This is about you questioning every mark I make, every route I suggest, like I'm some amateur who wandered in off the street."
"I question because that's my job." His voice drops dangerously low. "Because when I lead my crew into a fire, their lives depend on my decisions. I don't make those decisions based on someone's hurt feelings."
"Hurt feelings?" My hands curl into fists. "You think this is about my feelings?"
"I think this is about you being so damn stubborn you can't admit when someone else might be right."
"And I think this is about you being so arrogant you can't imagine a world where your California protocols don't apply."
I open my mouth to respond when a distant rumble interrupts. We both look up to see dark clouds building over the western peaks, moving with alarming speed.
"Thunderstorm." Mac's eyes narrow. "Coming in fast."