Chapter 32
thirty-two
. . .
SUTTON
At nearly four in the morning on February thirteenth, Thomas and I returned to the firehouse from what I hoped would be the final call of this shift.
We’d gotten hit with another nasty blizzard.
Even though the people who lived in the area had done so for most of their lives, there was always a contingent of townsfolk who mysteriously forgot how to drive when the snow flew.
Thankfully, all the accidents we’d responded to had been minor.
Thomas and I had performed wound care and sent people on their way without needing to take them to the hospital.
The fender benders were nice, though, because Lane was working a rare overnight shift, and I’d gotten to see him more than once.
After spending the last hour out in the cold, I was really looking forward to curling up in my bunk for a few hours of shuteye, but I pulled up short at my bedside when I found a gift-wrapped package in the center of the mattress.
Glancing around, I looked for the person who’d left it there.
The box was a shiny, deep red; the lid was held in place by a brighter ribbon in the same color. A tag dangled from the bow that read: TO MY SUNNY.
From Lane, then, I thought, mouth splitting into a grin.
Since he’d finally let me in on his deepest, darkest secret, things between us were better than ever.
So incredible, in fact, that I was seriously considering selling my house when repairs were finished.
But that was a conversation for a different day.
Eyeing the package, I wondered why he’d decided to leave it here instead of giving it to me at home, but I didn’t linger on the thought too long as I tugged the ribbon free and lifted the lid.
Honestly, I hadn’t been sure what to expect, but it hadn’t been this.
The moment I shifted the white tissue paper aside and realized what I was looking at, I slammed the lid back down, then scooped up the package and carried it to the small women’s bathroom—the one place in this firehouse, surrounded by men, where I could have some privacy.
Sliding the box onto the counter, I once again lifted the lid and brushed aside the tissue paper, inspecting my gift.
Lane had given me lingerie. And not just any lingerie, but black lace, the panties a barely-there scrap of fabric that was sheer enough to leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.
Not that he hadn’t seen it all already. The bra was a sort of racerback style, the sides and back lace, the straps a normal, flexible material that dipped down to the cups, which were mainly underwire with a little clasp between them.
The only modesty came in the form of a bow that tied across the front, which would likely cover my nipples but not much else.
My boobs weren’t huge, but they were still perky and, according to Lane, “the perfect handful.”
Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I was about to text him, then had a better idea.
An idea I’d have to save for later when I wasn’t at work.
Someone was always awake at the firehouse during shifts, even if it was the middle of the night like now, and I wasn’t taking my chances.
Especially when one of my co-workers was Lane’s brother.
I gave into a shiver before gathering the box under my arm and heading toward the locker room, storing it in my bag.
As was always the case, I couldn’t wait to get home.
When I got home on Valentine’s Day, Lane helped me relax before I took my post-shift nap with his face between my thighs.
When he left for work, I went to bed. I slept like the dead, my alarm jarring me awake at noon, but I found myself excited for the day ahead.
Even in my dreams, my mind had played fantasies of what would happen when I set my little plan in motion, of how Lane would react, of how we’d subsequently spend our night.
I’d never been in a relationship for Valentine’s Day, and I was looking forward to making it special for both myself and Lane.
After breakfast and coffee, I went down to Lane’s home gym and put in an hour of exercise between the treadmill and lifting weights.
Then, I hopped in the shower, spending another hour going through an extensive self-care and grooming routine, taking great pains to shave, buff, and exfoliate every inch of my skin.
By the time all of that was completed, I headed upstairs to my (former) room, dug the gift box out of my work backpack, and put on the lingerie Lane had bought for me.
Once the bow was secured, the ribbon covering my nipples, I went back to Lane’s room to survey myself in the large, arch-shaped mirror that sat on the floor in the corner.
Damn, I look good.
The bra and panties fit me perfectly, no sagging or tightness to be found anywhere. The bow of the bra pulled my tits together and pushed them up, making them look incredible. The lace of the panties offered tantalizing glimpses of both the seam of my pussy and the crease of my ass.
Swiping my phone off the bed, I positioned myself exactly how I wanted to begin taking pictures.
First, a shot from behind, my hair a long curtain down my back, my head angled so I offered a sultry look over my shoulder.
Then one from the front, my arm raised behind my head, hip cocked, my bottom lip trapped between my teeth.
Satisfied with my work, I texted Lane.
ME
You alone?
LANE
Sitting in my office drowning in paperwork. Why?
ME
Then I’m sure you could use a little pick me up
[photo message]
[photo message]
LANE
Holy fuck, baby.
ME
Hurry home
LANE
You’re wicked, my girl. Sending those when you know I can’t leave for a few hours yet.
ME
Just wanted you to know what you have to look forward to.
LANE
I always look forward to time with you.
And, as pretty as that underwear is, I can’t wait to rip it off later.
I didn’t respond, just threw on some sweats—Lane’s, of course—and made my way into the kitchen to get to work on cooking dinner.
I’d made a secret trip to Boise a few days before, picking up all the fixings for a surf and turf meal.
I’d never prepared lobster before, and I had no idea how long it would take.
For the next few hours, while an audiobook played from my phone, I bustled around the kitchen, dropping the lobster in a pot to boil and vacuum sealing the thick filets in a marinade so they’d be ready to grill just before Lane got home.
In another pot, I boiled potatoes, and when they were fully cooked, I mashed them with butter and garlic, as well as pan roasted a mix of green beans and asparagus stalks cut into thirds.
The one thing I wasn’t making was dessert.
I was dessert.
About ten minutes before I expected Lane home, I rushed upstairs to change into my favorite jeans that made my ass look phenomenal and a burnt orange sweater that hung off my shoulder, returning to the kitchen as Lane walked in from the garage.
My man wasted no time dropping his bag and coat on the floor in the foyer, kicking off his boots, and stalking toward me.
A thrill raced through me at the desire in his eyes.
He was a little disheveled. His pants were half tucked into his socks, and his long-sleeved uniform shirt was unbuttoned.
It hung open, revealing a plain white tee that clung to the sculpted muscles of his pecs and abdomen.
He reminded me of an animal closing in on its prey, and I was more than happy to let him consume me.
After dinner.
I put up my hands to halt his progress, but they collided with his chest before being crushed between us as he gripped me by the backs of my thighs and hoisted me onto the counter.
Then he attacked, mouth descending on mine, instantly licking past my lips.
I met him stroke for stroke, my fingers curling into the open lapels of his shirt.
I was moments away from saying fuck it to dinner and letting Lane take me to bed now, but the oven timer went off, and I pulled away from him with a gasp.
“I need to get that,” I said weakly.
“Leave it,” he responded, his mouth pressed against the pulse point at the base of my neck. He suckled the skin, tongue laving and teeth nipping, in a way that made goosebumps break out across my body.
Gaining some strength, I managed to push him back and hop off the counter.
“I worked hard on this,” I told him over my shoulder. “You’ll eat it, and you’ll like it.”
“I’d rather eat you,” he mumbled.
Winking at him, I said, “Later.”
With a sigh, he stepped up behind me and pressed one more kiss to the side of my neck. “I guess I’ll go change.”
While he did that, I set the table. When Lane returned, he took in the spread and whistled low, then settled onto the chair across from me.
Before taking my own seat, I opened a bottle of champagne and poured each of us a glass.
Lane lifted his, and I mirrored him. “To us.”
“To us,” I agreed.
Conversation was essentially nonexistent while we ate, content to make fuck-me eyes at each other across the table instead.
And, I had to admit, I couldn’t keep my mind from wandering to what happened next.
Since New Year’s, Lane and I had of course had sex multiple times, but we still hadn’t managed traditional missionary.
Experimenting with other positions that didn’t involve Lane’s entire weight coming down on me had been fun, of course.
But after Lane shared his deepest, darkest secret with me, I felt as if the final walls between us had crumbled—including my own lingering reservations about finding myself in a similar position to the night I’d been raped.
Lane wasn’t Ryan; I’d always known that, like I’d always known the other guys I’d tried with before weren’t Ryan.
But I hadn’t trusted any of them even close to as much as I trusted Lane, and knowing he trusted me equally as much wiped away my final doubts.
It was comical, how missionary was the norm, the place everyone started, and for so long it had been the one place I couldn’t allow myself to go.