Chasing Fire (Gilded Knights Series Book 2)

by Emilia Finn

  And I’m caught in his frenzy, hungry for what he can give me, desperate for some kind of release after years of no physical touch except for that from a child.

  “Nixon.” I break our kiss, not because I want space, but because if I don’t, I might die from lack of oxygen. “Jesus, Nixon. You make me crazy.”

  “That’s fine,” he growls. “Because you make me crazy too.”

  He slides his hand between my thighs, but stops before touching. Again, his eyes meet mine and await consent.

  “Yep.”

  I drop my head back until it thuds against the wall. But when Nixon’s knuckles glides over my clitoris, I spring taut once more, straight as a board and strung so tight that it’ll take hardly more than a stroke or two until I come undone.

  “Jesus,” he growls. “You’re ready to explode.” He slams his lips to mine. Hot, hungry, and without apology. “How far can I go?” he murmurs. “Where do you want me to stop?”

  “I thought we were just kissing?” I pant. “I thought—”

  “Me too,” he grins. But he pulls back. Slides his hand away from my core, and respects my not-very-clearly-spoken wants. “I don’t want to push you. I don’t want to do anything you don’t wa—”

  “I haven’t had sex in over two years.” My stomach threatens to rebel from nerves. “Two years,” I whine. “I miss it.”

  “Fuckkkk,” he sighs. “I haven’t even had sex with you yet, but I already miss it.”

  “It would be quick,” I pant. Daring, much more than I ever thought I could be, I reach for his hand and push it back inside my jeans. It’s a tight fit, but I unsnap the button to make more room. “It would be so quick that it would hardly be fair for you. But—”

  “I could be your safe space.” He catches on quickly and dives forward to nip my neck. “If you’re looking for someone safe to dive in with, someone who’ll treat you right, someone who’ll be gentle…”

  “Someone who won’t get mad if, like… maybe I’m fast, and unable to bring you the same pleasure?”

  Surprised, Nixon stills, then he pulls away and meets my eyes. “Are you seriously worried about whether I’ll enjoy myself?”

  “It’s been a long time,” I desperately pant. “I’m not sure I even know how to do it anymore. So, if I preface it with this will be quick, and you probably won’t come…”

  “I’d still take you up on your offer,” he laughs. “And then you’ll prove us both wrong when you rock my world and make it impossible for me to walk away.”

  “Maybe I don’t want you to walk away. Maybe, I want you to continue talking me into this.” I lean forward, slower than before, and take charge. “I’ve never in my life felt as wanted as I do when you look at me. As when you write essays in your head and try to convince me why I should say yes.”

  “You want me to keep doing that?”

  “Absolutely.” I loosen my legs on his hips—not because I want to be put down, but to show him I’m here, I’m present, and this may be a one-time offer. A moment of insanity.

  As always, he’s quick off the mark and refuses to stumble or lose an opportunity. Strong, stronger than any man I’ve known, Nixon holds me with one arm, and uses the other to unsnap his jeans.

  Our movements are clunky, clumsy, but the fact he’s no Rico Suave helps put my own worries at ease. I might be nervous to the point of wanting to puke, but I’m not alone in that. I’m not alone in my want.

  The sound of Nixon’s zipper lowering, and with that, his breath racing, and the heat of it bathing my chin is enough to make my stomach tumble. Slick coats my underwear, and when there’s too much, my thighs. But the whole time I remain pinned against the wall, I don’t worry that he’ll drop me.

  He’s strong, capable, formidable… and that is the sexiest thing about him.

  “I don’t have a condom on me,” he rasps once he’s done with his jeans and mine. “I could get one,” he rushes out. “I just have to run to the bedroom, and I’ll be all set.”

  “If you put me down, I’m afraid I’ll chicken out by the time you get back.” I slide my tongue over his. Then his lips. His teeth. “I’m scared of being so green at this that, if I have even a second to think, I might spew.”

  “You have nothing to worry about.” He reaches up and cups my face so our eyes meet. His cock, rock-hard and commanding, rests against my core. Teasing. Taunting. “It’ll be two seconds, and then I’ll be back.”

  “I’m clean,” I whisper. “And I’m protected. What about—”

  “Clean,” he rushes out. “Completely and absolutely clean. I get medicals twice a year for work, and I’ve never done this,” he looks down between us, “without protection.”

  “Are you considering it now?” I whisper. “Would you do it with me?”

  “Yes,” he breathes out. “Absolutely. Give me the go, and I’m gonna go.”

  “Why me?” I ask. “Twenty-eight years, and I would be the first for you. Why?”

  He knows he has my consent, he knows I’m ready and willing, so he reaches between us, slides my panties to the side, and lines his cock up at my opening.

  Fire on fire, we both sigh when he makes contact.

  “I already told you; I’ve never wanted someone as much as I want you. There’s something here, Idalia. Something that means something. So I’m at a point where I’ll do anything, say anything, be anything, just to earn a second glance from you.”

  “I’ve been looking.” I close my eyes, a direct contradiction to my words, and sigh when he begins sliding inside. “I’ve been looking since the first moment we met.”

  “So fucking hot,” he groans. His entry is slow, measured, and leaves him with gritted teeth and a thick vein bulging in his neck from how hard he must work to remain in control. “So perfect, Idalia.”

  I wrap my arms around his neck, tightening until our cheeks press together and my shoulders lock us close. “It’s a tight fit,” I cry. “So tight.”

  “Painful?” he asks. “Am I hurting you?”

  “Only a little,” I admit. “But it’s good,” I breathe out. “So good.”

  “So fuckin’ good,” he growls. “I’ve wanted this since I first saw you.” His movements grow bolder. His hands on my hips, drawing me closer, even as he pushes deeper inside me. “You feel so fucking good.”

  “Mommy?”

  “Argh!” I spasm between Nixon and the wall like I’ve grabbed onto the end of a live electrical wire.

  From a deep, blissful oblivion where Nixon and I… joined, is the only thing I can focus on, to now, this reality, where I’m Mom again; though it’s accompanied by the happiness that swells when I’m reminded my son can say ‘mom’ again, after two years of silence.

  Nixon continues to hold my hips, but instead of pulling me closer, he now shoves me off, so fast, so rough, it’s like whiplash, then he sets me on my feet and turns so his back is toward the living room.

  Just a second or two after my son’s call hits our senses, Max pokes his head into the hallway and tilts it a little to the side when he’s met with me, looking at the trophy case—my underwear still askew, but hidden by the jeans I tugged back into place—and Nixon, tucking himself away, his movements and actions covered by his broad back.

  “Oh, bello. Hi.” I rush away from Nixon, away from the trophy case, and toward Max at the end of the hall.

  Walking away from Nixon is like tearing my arm off and leaving it behind.

  My head rushes, and darkness impedes on my sight for a single second. My body reels, from blissful sex to this, as I kneel at Max’s feet. “Did you have a good sleep, bello?” I reach up and push his messy hair back to clear his eyes. “You only slept for a little while.”

  He doesn’t speak. He’s tapped out for the day, ‘Mommy’ being all he’ll give me. But for that alone, I’m thankful.

  Leaning forward and trying not to wonder what Nixon is doing at my back, I press a kiss to Max’s sleep-smooshed cheek and smile. “Are you okay?”


  Did he hear what Nixon and I were doing? And if so, will he tell me? Or choose silence?

  He remains silent, of course, which means I have to guess what he wants. What he needs.

  “Do you need to go to the bathroom, bello? Is that why you woke?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Do you want go home? Are you still sleepy?”

  Again, he shakes his head.

  “Are you hungry?” Nixon asks from behind me.

  For a second, a single moment in time, I forgot his existence. So when his voice registers in my mind, then his words, my stomach jolts.

  I had sex. Oh my god, I had sex!

  It was fast, and no one got to finish, but sex is sex, and—Oh lord, I press a hand to my burning face. I had sex.

  “Max?” Nixon tries again. “Are you hungry, bud? I’ve got something really yummy cooking in the kitchen. Do you want some?”

  I release my face and slowly, timidly, glance up to find Max nodding.

  “He’s hungry.” Nixon flashes a smug grin. “Smells delicious in here. That’s what woke him. Come on.”

  Brushing by me, and touching more than he probably needed to, Nixon winks for Max… or maybe it’s for me… then he heads toward the kitchen and snags the dropped hand towel from… Geez. When did he drop that?

  “Um… okay. Come on.” Pushing to my feet, I take Max’s hand and slowly wander toward the kitchen.

  I’m shy, perhaps shyer than even my son, but we stop at the doorway and peek into the glistening room to find Nixon tossing the dropped towel through another door—possibly an adjoining laundry—then he stops at the sink and goes to work washing his hands.

  “I’ve made a special treat.” He turns the tap off and grabs a fresh, clean towel to dry off with. “A Rosa family recipe that’s been passed down for generations. Now, that’s not to say the recipe is good,” he chuckles. “But it’s been used by a lot of Rosas.”

  He grabs a strainer, picks up a steaming pot, and pushes the two together until the boiling water drains away and leaves behind perfect penne pasta.

  “Now I present it to you.”

  Nixon sets the pasta onto the stove, but not on the flame, and makes his way around his kitchen as Max and I head to the stools at the counter.

  Nixon practically dances, smiles, smirks sometimes when he can’t help himself, as he grabs plates—ceramic, not plastic, like I’m so used to at our own dinnertime—then serves up three meals. Pasta first, where he sets a piece of cooked penne in front of Max to sample. Then, while Max silently does that, Nixon grabs the next pot and begins scooping rich, red, cooked beef and tomatoes.

  The aroma of garlic and spices floats through the room, far too intoxicating, considering how little care he had to put in to cook it—he was having sex!—but he places heaped servings on top of the penne, and grins as the steam from the sauce billows into the air.

  Surprising me, Nixon bends in front of the oven and yanks the door open, then he pulls out garlic bread; not the store-bought kind, but bread he clearly cut himself, with a topping I’ll assume is garlic and cheese topped with a sprinkle of oregano.

  Nixon transfers the crunchy bread from the hot tray to a plate that won’t burn if Max reaches out, then when he’s done, he sets a plate of pasta in front of Max, another in front of me, and the third, in front of the stool beside mine. He sets the garlic bread plate in the middle, then he grabs two wine glasses and a coffee mug from the cupboard. The coffee mug is red—fire engine red—with the fire department’s insignia on the side.

  My stomach twists as Nixon fills the mug with orange juice from the fridge, then it hollows when he slides the mug in front of my son. But Max, thankful for the sugar, instantly picks it up and takes a sip.

  My baby is drinking from a fire department mug.

  My baby, who lost his father to a fire, is drinking from a fire department mug.

  “Hey?” Sensing my distress, Nixon reaches across the counter and places his fingers under my chin. “You okay?”

  “You gave him that mug,” I rasp out. “That one. With the fire department emblem on it.”

  Giving a gentle nod, Nixon turns back to the cupboard he took the mug from, then opening the door, he steps back and shows me what’s inside.

  “They’re all from work,” he says, almost regretfully. “I’ll get more… just as soon as I’m at the store, I’ll get something else. But for right now, I only have FD mugs. Or wine glasses,” he adds. “Would you like me to pour the juice into a wine glass?”

  “No. It’s fine. I shouldn’t have… I’m imposing. Don’t worry about—” I accept the forks he offers. Two of them: one for me, and one for Max. “Forget I said anything.”

  “Come to dinner with me.”

  “Huh?” Stunned, I meet his eyes and wonder what I missed. We were talking about mugs, right? And he was planning to upend his life, to buy something else, for the woman and child who may never again step foot inside this home.

  “Come to dinner with me, please?” he presses. “You were here with me.” He points at the beautiful stone countertop. “Here, in this house. You were here.”

  “Er…” I look around. “I’m still here.”

  “No, you’re running. I’ve already figured you out, Idalia. I saw it the moment the thought passed through your mind; you were here, you were even happy to be here, but then your brain jumped in and reminded you that you’re not allowed to be vulnerable.”

  “No, I—”

  “Besteira,” he growls. “You were looking for the exits and wondering how much pasta you could shove in your pockets for Max before running.”

  We both look to Max, who eats, even without his fork. Then I look back to Nixon… and lie.

  “I was not.”

  “So if you’re here, and you have no intention to run and hide, then you’ll accept a date. Dinner, tonight, anywhere you want to go.”

  “I can’t tonight.” Dismissive, I lift my nose in the air and fulfill that ice queen thing he’s so certain I do. “I’m busy.”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “I’m busy then t—”

  “The next night,” he snaps. “Go and check your schedule, Mazzi. Then you come back here and tell me what night you’re free.”

  Meeting his temper with my own, I narrow my eyes. “I’m a mom. I don’t get a night off for the next fourteen or so years.”

  “Then I’ll come to you,” he declares. “I’ll bring the food, I’ll cook in your kitchen, and then I’ll clean up the mess so you don’t have to worry about it.”

  “Nixon, I—”

  “I said I would do anything,” he snarls and leans closer. “Say anything. Be anything. You just have to give me a chance. I swear, once you do, I won’t ever make you cry.”

  “Ever?” I smart. I’m going for callous and dismissive, but my heart and soul cling to his promise. “You won’t ever make me cry? So you’ll never say unkind things?”

  “Never. I don’t take pleasure in being an asshole.”

  “You won’t ever find a new Italian girl who makes you look and hunger and want?”

  “Why go looking,” he asks, “when I have this one right here, already in my kitchen?”

  “You won’t ever make me worry about you when you’re at work?”

  “I—”

  But then he stops. Because he knows that’s not a promise he can make.

  “I’ve just committed hours to convincing you I’ll be safe. That I’m strong and competent. That my team has my back, and I, theirs. I’ve just talked you from one end of a fire station to the other. Explaining every single piece of apparatus. Showing you how each piece of my PPE fits together. Teaching you our backups, and those backups’ backups. You spoke to Rory!”

  “And she was lovely. But she’s not going to be in a house fire with you, promising to get you back out again.”

  “No, but Cootes will be in there. And Axe, Rizz, Sloane. They’ll be in there, and they promise to get me out, just as I promise to
get them out. And I’ll get you the radio, just like I said. It’s against policy, and it’ll be boring as hell, but you can listen. You’ll hear me every step of the way.”

  “What did your brothers and sister say?”

  “Wha— Huh?”

  “To your text,” I clarify. “What did they reply that made you so mad?”

  Understanding, Nixon snags his phone from his pocket, unlocks the screen, and tosses the device onto the counter between us.

  While I reach out and grab it, setting it the right way up, Nixon pours two glasses of wine from the waiting bottle, then he comes around to sit beside me.

  Scrolling back to the text that asks who is the fastest runner they know, I bite my smile as I read their replies.

  Troy: Usain Bolt

  Corey: Cathy Freeman

  Beckett: Me

  Mitchell: Me

  Beckett: Not you

  Abby: Where’s Idalia?

  And then there’s Nixon’s reply: You’re a bunch of assholes. Just answer a serious question with a serious response for once in your damn lives. It’s important!

  Beckett: Still trying to impress girls with that 3rd grade ribbon, I see. I had no clue Idalia was the type to like that

  Abby: Oh my gosh. Is Idalia with you??

  Nixon: Answer the fucking question!

  Abby: Nixon! Cussing.

  Troy: Usain Bolt

  Mitchell: How important is this?

  Nixon: Make or break. And I really don’t want it to break. I care, guys.

  Troy: You

  Corey: You

  Mitchell: Definitely you

  Abby: You’re the fastest

  Beckett: Me

  Snickering, I set the phone down when the text replies turn to insulting Beckett, then I turn and meet Nixon’s eyes. They’re barely six inches from mine. His breath feathers along my lips. His heart, thundering so hard I feel it in the air.

  “Come to dinner,” he murmurs. “Please,” he begs. “Please say yes.”

  Nerves lodge in my throat. My stomach spins and swirls, jumps and tickles. But my heart feels nice, and my core is still hot from being with him just ten minutes ago.