23. Ember #2
I let out a soft groan, my head falling back against the sofa cushion as his thumb circles my clit in slow, devastating strokes.
“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Say you’re sorry for calling me a prick.”
“Not a chance,” I gasp, a cheeky grin playing on my lips despite the haze of sensation. “You’re just an arrogant, overbearing prick, Brooks. That’s not an insult, it’s a fact. A very hot, annoying fact.”
“Is that so?” He pulls his finger out completely, leaving me cold, aching, and instantly desperate.
I open my eyes, batting my lashes at him, trying to hide how much I’m already craving the return of his touch. “What? Did you run out of ideas? Or are you suddenly shy?”
He leans back in, his breath hot against my inner thigh, his fingers hovering just millimeters away from my clit. “Apologize for calling me a prick.”
“Make me,” I challenge, my voice a sing-song taunt.
Brooks lets out a low laugh, and then he slides two thick fingers inside me, stretching me wide, but he stops moving entirely. He just holds them there, pinned inside. I squirm, desperate for the movement, my pussy throbbing around his fingers.
“Say it,” he orders. “Say you’re sorry, Emmy.”
I stare at him, stunned.
I swallow hard, my pulse hammering in my throat.
Why is this so hard? I’m not shy. I’m never shy. I’m the woman who speaks her mind, so why can’t I just say sorry?
When I don’t respond, he begins to slide his fingers out, just an inch.
“You’re really going to make me beg?”
“I like hearing you beg a little. Makes me feel appreciated.” He pulls his hand away entirely and stands up, adjusting his jeans. “And you don’t get to call me a prick while I’m between your legs, sweetheart.”
My heart hammers against my ribs.
I’m so close I can taste it, my clit aching, my body humming with need.
“Wait,” I plead. “Brooks, wait.”
He pauses. “Well?”
I look at him, my jaw hanging open.
Because somewhere between the gruff fire chief routine and the constant lectures about safety hazards, apparently Brooks Lawson has been hiding an entire personality.
And judging by the look on his face, he’s enjoying my surprise way too much.
I stare at him, breathless and thoroughly suspicious. “Where exactly has this version of you been hiding?”
Brooks raises an eyebrow. “What version?”
“This one,” I whisper dramatically. “The smug, bossy, deeply inappropriate one. I thought you were all rules and protocols and lecturing me about structural integrity.”
His mouth twitches.
“I am,” he says calmly.
“No, see, that’s the disturbing part. You somehow turned safety compliance into a personality trait and then blindsided me with…” I wave a hand vaguely between us. “Whatever this is.”
Brooks steps closer, slow enough that my pulse starts climbing all over again.
“Maybe you just weren’t paying attention,” he murmurs.
“Oh, I was paying attention,” I say. “You spent weeks glaring at me like I was personally violating a fire code.”
“You usually were.”
“That is not the point.”
His hand settles against my waist again, solid and warm. “You talk too much,” he says.
“And you apparently have a whole secret life as some kind of dirty-talking lumberjack.”
That finally pulls a real laugh out of him. “Lumberjack?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m literally the fire chief.”
“Worse,” I say. “Authority issues.”
Brooks shakes his head slowly like I’m impossible, but there’s something darker settling into his expression now.
“You know,” he says, voice dropping lower, “most people have the good sense not to mouth off to the guy currently holding all the leverage. You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”
My stomach flips.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “You’ve been secretly insane this whole time.”
“Nope.” His thumb traces once against my hip. “Mostly just patient. But you keep pushing, kept baiting me at the bakery… you have to know that just makes me want to see how far I can make you go.”
“Oh, so it’s my fault now?”
He hums, a vibration that travels through the sofa. “I’m not complaining. I actually love it when you fight back. Keeps things interesting.”
“That is somehow hotter and more alarming than I want it to be.”
“I know.”
I can’t stand the distance, the sudden lack of his weight pinning me down. I shift, arching my back and hitching my hips upward. I nudge closer, desperate for him to bridge the gap.
He exhales sharply through his nose when I arch against him, his eyes closing briefly like he needs a second to recover. But he doesn’t move to touch me; he just tilts his head, his smile widening as he surveys my impatience.
“I’m still waiting, Ember. I didn’t hear the apology.”
“Really? That’s how you’re going to be? You’re going to make me play this game?” I groan, closing my eyes. “Fine. I’m—I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay? You’re not a prick.”
He doesn’t move. He just looks down at me, his expression unreadable. “Hmm? What was that? I didn’t hear you.”
He really is a prick.
“I said I’m sorry!” I narrow my eyes at him.
He leans down, a grin breaking through, and dives back between my legs. “Knew you could do it.”
His breathing sounds heavier now, less controlled, and his gaze drags slowly over me like the sight alone is getting to him.
He pauses for a second, looking at me. “Still okay?”
I nod immediately, breathless.
He reaches up, his thumb brushing a stray curl from my temple, his touch lingering in a way that feels almost hesitant, as if he’s trying to ground himself just as much as he’s grounding me.
He slides his fingers back in and locks his tongue onto my clit with a sudden, relentless precision that forces a loud, strangled cry from my throat. He pumps his fingers inside me, hard and deep, matching the fast, wet friction of his tongue.