Chapter 5 – Natalie #2
"Can't help it," I gasp as he adds a second finger, stretching deliciously. "You're too good at this."
"I'm thorough," he corrects, his free hand still working at my breast, pinching and rolling my nipple in time with the thrust of his fingers. "I like to be certain I'm doing things right."
My thighs begin to tremble, my breathing growing ragged as I chase the release he's building within me.
"Paul," I pant, nails digging into his shoulders. "I'm close—"
"I know," he says, never altering his perfect rhythm. "I can feel it."
Pleasure crashes through me in waves, my body clenching around his fingers as I cry out his name. He works me through it, drawing out every last tremor until I'm boneless and gasping.
Before I've fully recovered, he's lifting me again, arms secure beneath my thighs. "Hold onto me," he instructs, and I wrap my arms around his neck without hesitation.
He carries me across the apparatus bay, past the gleaming engines to the brass fire pole that connects to the upper floor. My back meets the cool metal, the pole pressing along my spine as he holds me against it.
"Always wondered about these poles," I murmur, still breathless from my climax. "Do they actually use them?"
"Not as often as the movies would have you believe," he says, lips trailing along my collarbone. "But they have their uses."
To demonstrate, he shifts his hold, allowing the pole to support some of my weight as he frees one hand to caress my breast again. The cool brass against my heated skin makes me gasp.
"Creative," I manage as his thumb and forefinger pinch lightly, sending aftershocks of pleasure through my still-sensitive body.
"You inspire improvisation," he admits, and there's something both playful and meaningful in his tone.
I reach between us, palming him through his uniform pants, gratified by his sharp intake of breath. "Speaking of improvisation..."
His kiss is consuming now, deep and hungry, as I work at his belt and zipper. When I finally wrap my hand around him, hot and hard against my palm, he groans into my mouth, hips jerking involuntarily, I guide him to where I'm slick and ready.
He searches my eyes for one more moment of confirmation, then presses forward in a slow, controlled movement that has me gasping against his shoulder.
His hands grip my thighs more firmly as he begins to move, slow, deep thrusts that use the pole for leverage. The brass is cool and smooth against my back, creating a delicious counterpoint to the heat of his body against my front.
Each thrust pushes me against the metal, then pulls me back to him, a rhythm as old as time but somehow entirely new in this context, with this man.
"You feel incredible," he murmurs, one hand sliding up to cup my breast, thumb circling my nipple in time with his thrusts. "So perfect around me."
I wrap my legs tighter around his waist, changing the angle slightly so that each thrust hits exactly where I need it.
The pole behind me gleams in the morning light, brass warmed now from my body heat. Paul's skin is flushed, a light sheen of sweat making his chest glisten as he moves.
When his hand slides between us, thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at my center, I nearly sob with pleasure. "Paul, I'm going to—"
"Yes," he encourages, circling firmly. "That's it, Natalie. Let go for me again."
This orgasm builds differently from the first, it’s slower, deeper, more all-encompassing. When it breaks, it's like being swept away by a tidal wave, every muscle tensing then releasing in rhythmic pulses that draw a matching groan from Paul.
He follows me over the edge, his rhythm faltering as he presses deep, I feel each pulse of his release, the slight twitch of him inside me as we both shudder through the aftermath.
For long moments, we stay connected, his forehead resting against mine, our breathing gradually slowing.
The morning light has shifted, painting new patterns across the floor and our entwined bodies.
The station is silent except for our breathing and the distant hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Slowly, he lowers my feet to the ground, keeping his arms around me until he's sure I'm steady. My ankle twinges slightly, but it's a distant concern compared to the pleasant ache between my thighs and the warm glow suffusing my entire body.
"We should clean up," he says, though he makes no move to step away. Instead, his hands continue to explore lazily, tracing the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine, the fullness of my breast. Each touch is appreciative rather than demanding, as if he's memorizing the landscape of my body.
"Mmm," I agree, equally reluctant to break the moment. My own hands map the broad planes of his chest, the defined muscles of his abdomen, the intriguing texture of hair narrowing to a trail below his navel. "But we have time."
His smile is slow and surprisingly playful. "Enough time for me to show you the shower upstairs?"
The thought of hot water cascading over our bodies, his hands slick with soap, sends a fresh wave of desire through me despite our recent satisfaction. "Lead the way, Chief."
He gathers our scattered clothing, then sweeps me into his arms again before I can protest. "Ankle," he reminds me when I open my mouth.
"My hero," I tease, but I'm oddly touched by his continued concern even in this moment.
The upstairs shower is utilitarian but spacious, clearly designed for multiple firefighters to use after calls. Paul sets me on a bench, turning to adjust the water temperature with practiced efficiency.
Steam begins to fill the tiled space, and I watch appreciatively as he finishes undressing, removing his pants and boots before helping me with my underwear. Naked, he's even more impressive—powerful thighs, narrow hips, and a perfectly shaped backside that my hands itch to explore.
As if reading my thoughts, he turns, offering his hand to help me stand. "See something you like?"
"Everything," I admit honestly, letting my gaze travel the length of him. "You're gorgeous, Paul."
A flush that has nothing to do with the steam colors his cheekbones, and I realize he's genuinely affected by the compliment. It's endearing on a man who otherwise exudes such confidence and control.
The water is perfectly hot as we step under the spray together, rivulets tracing paths down our bodies. Paul reaches for the soap, working it into a lather between his large hands before beginning to wash me with reverent attention.
His touch is exploratory, thorough, palms sliding over my shoulders, down my arms, across my back. He takes his time with my breasts, soap making his hands glide effortlessly over sensitive skin until I'm arching into his touch again, desire rekindling despite our recent climaxes.
"Turn around," he murmurs, and I comply, presenting my back to him.
His soapy hands work their way down my spine, over the curve of my butt, down my thighs. The sensation is both soothing and arousing, practical and intimate. When he kneels to wash around my injured ankle, the tenderness of the gesture brings an unexpected lump to my throat.
I'm more playful with my exploration, tracing the defined muscles of his chest and arms, circling his flat nipples until they peak under my touch. He watches me with hooded eyes as I wash lower, over his abdomen, around to his back, deliberately avoiding where he's beginning to harden again.
"Tease," he accuses softly when my hands slide over his hips, down his thighs, then back up to repeat the circuit.
"Patience," I counter, enjoying the way his muscles tense under my touch. "Isn't that what you're always preaching? Safety first, careful preparation..."
His laugh turns to a groan when I finally wrap my soapy hand around him, stroking from base to tip with firm pressure. "That feels too good to be safe."
"I'll be very, very careful," I promise, sinking slowly to my knees before him, the shower spray warm against my back.
His eyes widen as he realizes my intent. "Natalie, your ankle—"
"Is fine," I assure him, settling comfortably. "Let me do this. I want to taste you."
The groan that escapes him as my lips close around him is possibly the most gratifying sound I've ever heard. His hands come to rest lightly on my head, not guiding, just connecting as I take him deeper.
I work him with unhurried attention, alternating between my mouth and my hand, discovering what makes his breath catch, what draws those deep groans from his chest. The shower continues to rain down around us, steam rising, creating a private world of sensation.
"Natalie," he warns after several minutes, voice strained. "I'm close. You don't have to—"
I look up, meeting his eyes as I take him deeper, communicating without words that I want everything he has to give.
The sight seems to undo him, his head falls back, muscles tensing as he finds his release.
I stay with him through each pulse, swallowing around him until he gently guides me away, drawing me up to stand before him.
His kiss is tender now, grateful, his arms encircling me as the water continues to cascade over us both. We stay like that for long moments, simply holding each other as our heartbeats slow to normal.
Eventually, he reaches around me to shut off the water, grabbing towels from a nearby shelf. He wraps one around me first, then secures another at his waist before helping me step from the shower stall.
"We should get dressed," he says, though his expression suggests he'd rather do the opposite. "The crew will be back soon."
Reality intrudes like a cold draft, reminding me that this interlude, however magical, has occurred in a public building where his subordinates could return at any moment. I nod, reaching for the borrowed t-shirt.
"My clothes from yesterday are still in the guest room," I say. "Though they probably smell like smoke."
"I have spare clothes in my office," he offers. "Nothing that will fit properly, but better than smoky clothes."
Wrapped in towels, we make our way down the hallway to the room I'd slept in. There's a new intimacy between us now, evident in the way his hand rests at the small of my back, how our eyes meet with shared knowledge of each other's bodies.
In the guest room, he helps me into a pair of his sweatpants and a fresh WFFD t-shirt that smells like him—a clean, masculine scent with hints of cedar.
"You look good in my clothes," he observes, his expression warm as he watches me roll up the sleeves.
"I look ridiculous," I correct, but I'm smiling.
He shakes his head, stepping closer to tuck a damp strand of hair behind my ear. "Beautiful," he insists. "Though I prefer you in nothing at all."
Heat rises to my cheeks at the memory of how thoroughly he's explored my body this morning. "Likewise, Chief."
He kisses me again, soft and lingering, before reluctantly stepping back. "I should get dressed. And probably air out the apparatus bay before the crew returns and starts asking questions."
I laugh at the thought. "Good luck explaining why the fire pole is suspiciously clean."
His eyes widen comically. "I hadn't thought of that." Then he grins, an expression so unexpected and boyish it takes my breath away. "Worth it, though."
As he leaves to get dressed, I sit on the edge of the bed, fingertips tracing my still-tingling lips. Outside, the morning has fully bloomed, sunlight streaming through the windows, illuminating dust motes that dance in the air like tiny embers.
Whatever happens next, whatever complications arise from this unexpected connection, I know one thing with absolute certainty: I've never felt more alive, more seen, than in Paul Hawkins' arms this morning.