Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Clay
The next time I see her, she’s standing beside the silent auction table like trouble poured into fitted flannel.
Ember.
The woman who’s been haunting my firehouse like smoke without a flame.
I’m posted up near the exit, arms crossed, pretending like I give two shits about tonight’s charity gala.
I’d rather be elbows deep in engine grease or hoses than stuffed into a collared shirt with a clip-on tie choking my patience.
But I promised Gabe I’d donate a “Fireman For A Day” experience, and now here I am—watching her finger hover over my auction sheet like it’s a detonator.
She glances around, hesitates, then scribbles a bid.
And just like that, the fuse is lit.
“You bid on me, firecracker?” I smirk an hour later, cornering her near the dessert table where she’s piling chocolate-covered strawberries like she’s hiding from a crime scene.
Her eyes widen. “It was an accident.”
“Sure it was.” I arch a brow, taking a deliberate step into her space. “You just accidentally outbid Mayor Henley’s wife.”
She pops a strawberry in her mouth, cheeks flushed, chewing slowly. “You’re not even a real prize.”
I smirk. “I’m a damn good prize, sweetheart.”
Her throat works as she swallows. “I didn’t mean to win. I thought I was bidding on a vintage quilt set.”
I lean in, my voice dropping. “What about me screams ‘home textiles’?”
She glares up at me, but her breath stutters. “The flannel.”
A low chuckle escapes. “Cute. You’ll need better comebacks during your training session.”
“Training?”
I tilt my head. “You signed up for the full experience. That means one-on-one drills. Hose handling. Pole sliding.” My voice is thick with need and innuendo.
Her gaze flickers. She licks a smear of chocolate from her thumb and doesn’t realize what that does to me.
Damn.
“You’re joking,” she mutters.
“Nope. Tomorrow. Ten a.m. sharp. Don’t be late.”
I walk away before she can argue. Because if I stand near her any longer, I’m going to forget we’re pretending not to be combusting every time we breathe the same air.
Ember shows up the next morning in high-waisted jeans and a snug white tee that hugs her curves in ways that make my brain short-circuit.
She waves. “So, where’s the vintage quilt?”
I grunt, tossing her a firehouse t-shirt. “Put that on.”
She catches it, nose scrunching. “Over my real shirt?”
“If you want me to cut you out of it later, be my guest.”
Her jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
I give her a wink and keep walking.
The rest of the crew’s out on call, and I’ve got the place to myself. Which is probably a mistake. Because five minutes into our ‘training,’ I’m already picturing how she’d look straddling my hips on the firehouse couch, soot-streaked and panting my name.
“Okay,” I say, dragging a thick coiled rope from the wall. “You’re gonna learn to descend the pole. Safely.”
She squints. “You’re serious?”
I nod toward the platform above. “Climb.”
Her eyes narrow. “This feels like hazing.”
“It’s not hazing if you begged for it.”
She marches up the stairs, muttering under her breath. “I didn’t beg.”
I stand at the bottom, arms crossed, watching the way her hips move. Her ponytail swishes. She gets to the edge of the platform and peers down.
“You catching me or am I face-planting?”
“Slide. I’ll be here.”
She hesitates.
“Scared?”
She glares. “Daring me again?”
I grin. “Every time.”
She grabs the pole. “Fine.”
Then she lets go.
She lands against my chest with a thud, her body plastered against mine. My hands grip her hips on instinct. Her chest heaves against me. Our faces are too close.
“Good form,” I say, voice hoarse.
She sways. “I think I broke something.”
“My sanity?” I murmur.
She tries to push off me, but I hold her there. Just a second longer.
“Let go, Clay.”
“No.”
Her hands flatten on my chest. “People—could come back—”
“They won’t.”
Her eyes blaze. “This is a bad idea.”
I dip my head. “Say stop.”
She doesn’t.
Instead, her fingers fist in my shirt and she drags my mouth down to hers.
The kiss is chaos. Teeth, tongue, years of tension exploding in a collision of mouths. She tastes like strawberries and regret. Her moan ignites something in me, something reckless and deep. I back her against the wall, bracing my forearms beside her head.
She gasps. “Clay—”
“I’ve waited too long to do this,” I growl.
“You should’ve said something.”
“You should’ve run.”
She exhales, trembling. “You should stop daring me to.”
I press my forehead to hers. “Then stop answering the dare.”
She leans up and kisses me again—harder this time. A slap of lips and desperation, like she’s trying to burn every thought from her head.
I lift her onto the wall-mounted hose rack, her thighs parting instinctively around my waist. I press my body into hers, groaning into her mouth. My hands roam, greedy, selfish.
She arches into me. “Clay…”
“I’m not sorry,” I whisper, dragging my mouth along her jaw. “For this. For wanting you.”
Her nails scrape my scalp. “This is insane.”
“Then let’s lose our minds together.”
We don’t go all the way. Not yet. But the way she shudders when I suck a bruise into her neck, the way her hips roll when I press my palm between her legs over her jeans?
It’s enough to wreck me.
We part only when the sound of tires crunching gravel warns us someone’s back.
She pushes me off, breathless. “I need—space.”
“Too late,” I say. “You’re in my head now.”
She swallows hard and bolts toward the locker room.
I watch her go, jaw tight.
Because this?
This is going to get complicated fast.
And I’m not sure I’ll survive it twice.