You Were Right #3
She didn't argue. Just kissed me again and started working the buttons on my filthy shirt, peeling it off my shoulders, her fingers gentle on skin that felt too sensitive, too raw.
I should have showered first. Should have washed off the smoke and soot and evidence of everything that had happened today.
But Vera didn't seem to care. She kissed my collarbone, my shoulder, the hollow of my throat, like she was mapping every inch of me, making sure I was whole.
"I love you," she whispered against my skin. "You're safe. You're here. I've got you."
The words broke something loose in me. I pulled my shirt off her body and just looked at her. Beautiful. Alive. Mine. She'd been here waiting while I'd been running from fire, had probably spent hours imagining the worst, and now here she was, offering herself as an anchor when I was drowning.
I kissed her like she was air and I'd been suffocating.
Like she was water in the desert. Like she was the only thing keeping me tethered to earth.
My hands mapped her body with something close to desperation—the curve of her waist, the soft skin of her thighs, the heat between her legs when I slid my hand into her panties and found her already wet.
"Petra," she gasped, her hips rolling against my hand. "God, yes."
I stroked her slowly, watching her face, memorizing every expression. The way her eyes fluttered closed. The way her lips parted. The way her breath hitched when I found that perfect spot and circled it.
She was saying something—my name, pleas, encouragement—but I couldn't focus on the words. Could only focus on this: the way she felt against my fingers, the way she moved against me, the way she trusted me with her body even after I'd shown up broken and shaking.
"I want to taste you," I said roughly. "Please, Vera. Let me."
She was already moving, standing long enough to shimmy out of her panties before settling back on the couch, legs spread. I knelt between them like a supplicant before an altar, my hands trembling again, but for different reasons now.
She was perfect. Pink and wet and perfect. I lowered my mouth to her, and she cried out, her hands flying to my hair.
The taste of her, sweet and musky, grounded me in a way nothing else had since I'd left our home for the call. This was real. This was life. This was something I could control, something I could give her, something good in a day full of impossible choices and consequences.
I worked her with my tongue, learning her all over again like it was the first time. Found the rhythm that made her gasp. The pressure that made her thighs tremble. The spot that made her pull my hair hard enough to hurt.
"There," she whimpered. "Right there, don't stop, please don't stop."
I didn't stop. Couldn't have stopped if I'd wanted to.
I lost myself in her, in the sound of her moans, in the way her body responded to every touch.
This was what I needed—not to think, not to replay the day, not to count homes or second-guess decisions.
Just this: Vera falling apart under my mouth, her pleasure the only thing that mattered.
My tongue pressed insistently against her throbbing clit, licking in rough strokes, flicking over her at a rhythm that was quickly undoing her. She tasted so fucking good.
"That's it," I murmured agaisnt her, slipping a finger inside her.
"Petra. Fuck, don't stop."
"I'm not stopping, baby." I curled inwards, locating her g-spot with experienced ease, and hammered my finger against it, fucking her hard and fast as my tongue resumed its torture on her clit.
She came with a cry that echoed through our apartment, her body arching, thighs clamping around my head. I gentled my touch, tonguing her through it, pressing soft kisses to her inner thighs as she trembled and gasped.
When I looked up, she was staring at me with something like wonder in her eyes. Then she was pulling me up, kissing me deeply, tasting herself on my tongue.
"Your turn," she whispered, but I shook my head.
"I just need—" I couldn't finish. Didn't know how to explain that I needed to give, not receive. Needed to focus on her pleasure instead of my own spiraling thoughts.
"I know what you need." Her voice was soft but firm. "And you need to let me take care of you, too. Please, Petra. Let me."
She guided me back against the couch cushions, her hands already working my pants open. When she settled between my thighs, I felt tears prick my eyes again—not from sadness this time, but from the overwhelming feeling of being cared for, being seen, being loved even at my most broken.
Her mouth on me was gentle at first, tentative, like she was afraid of hurting me. But when I gasped her name, when my hands found her hair, she increased the pressure, her tongue working me with growing confidence.
"Vera," I breathed, my hips moving against her mouth. "Baby, that's—oh god…”
She hummed against me, the vibration sending shocks of pleasure through my body. One of her hands slid up my stomach, between my breasts, finding my racing heart. Grounding me. Reminding me that I was here, alive, safe.
The orgasm built slowly at first, then crashed over me like a wave, pulling a broken sound from my throat. Vera didn't stop, working me through it with gentle insistence until I had to push her away, oversensitive and trembling.
She climbed up my body, wrapped herself around me, and held me while I caught my breath. Neither of us spoke for a long time. We didn't need to. Her heartbeat against my chest said everything that needed saying.
Eventually, she grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and pulled it over us, cocooning us in warmth.
"Whatever happens with the investigation," she said softly, running her fingers through my hair, "we'll face it together."
"They're going to crucify me." My voice was raw, broken from crying and smoke damage.
"Maybe. But you saved your crew."
"Did I?" The doubt crept back in despite the temporary reprieve of pleasure and release. "Or did I just panic and get lucky?"
"You trusted your instincts." She tilted my face up to look at her. "You read the fire, saw the danger, and acted. That's not panic. That's training and experience and being good at your job."
"Rodriguez almost said I was right," I admitted quietly. "Basically implied the homes were already lost."
"Then why are you suspended?"
"Because I disobeyed a direct order. Because I undermined his authority in front of the crew. Because six homes are lost and they need someone to be the fall guy." I closed my eyes. "Because even when you're right, there are consequences for breaking the rules."
"That's bullshit."
I almost smiled at the vehemence in her voice. "It's protocol."
"It's still bullshit. You saved lives, Petra. That should matter more than protocol."
"In a perfect world, maybe. But this isn't a perfect world.
" I pulled her closer, breathing in her vanilla-coconut scent.
"This is a world where firefighters die because someone made the wrong call.
Where homes burn because the wind shifts at the worst possible moment.
Where doing the right thing can still cost you everything. "
"Not everything." Her arms tightened around me. "You still have me. You still have your crew because the ones who matter will understand. You still have yourself, your instincts, your training, and your honor. They can't take that away with a suspension."
I wanted to believe her. Wanted to trust that this would all work out, that the investigation would clear me, that I could keep doing the job I loved.
But right now, wrapped in Vera's arms with her scent surrounding me and her heartbeat grounding me, I could let myself just exist. Just be Petra—not Forewoman Alves, not the woman under investigation, not the person carrying eight years of trauma and guilt.
Just Petra. Loved. Safe. Home.
"I could've died today," I whispered into the darkness. "Stevens could've died. We all could've."
"But you didn't." Vera’s arms tightened around me. "You're here. You're alive. You're with me."
"Yeah." I closed my eyes, breathing her in. "I am."
Tomorrow would bring the start of the investigation, the questions, the crew's reactions, the potential end of my career. Tomorrow would bring all the consequences of the choice I'd made on that ridge.
But tonight, I had this. I had Vera holding me together when I'd fallen apart, loving me through the worst of it, reminding me that I was more than my job, more than my mistakes, more than my trauma.
Tonight, that was enough.
It had to be.