I move slowly, careful of my injuries. He matches my movements. His hand snakes in between us, pressing my sensitive nub. The additional pressure creates a new level of high, pushing me closer to the inevitable.
He grits his teeth, picking up the pace on my clit. I groan, loving the way he sets me off. He catches my gaze, quietly saying the words he wants to say with his eyes. I see them. I feel them. It might be too soon to say them out loud, but they’re there.
"Baby, I can't hold off. You need to get there," he admits before cupping my breast and pinching the sensitive nipple. What he doesn't know is that I've been holding back, not wanting to rush the moment. I toss my head back and give way to my orgasm, clamping down on him. He jerks and groans underneath me, finding his own release at the same time.
Everything about the moment is more than I ever wished for. Wave after wave setting my heart on fire, setting my soul on fire.
Chapter 11
Wade
I toss and turn, replaying the night's events in my head.
I can't get the vision of her helpless on the ground out of my head, that asshole standing over her, kicking her over and over.
I don't know what came over me, but I saw red and couldn't stop.
Until she touched me.
Every fear I've ever had in my life is nothing compared to the fear I felt in that moment. I never want to feel it again.
I've never felt this strongly about a woman, but everything about her is perfect. Like she was created for me. I'll be damned if I let someone destroy that.
Glancing at the clock on my nightstand, I curse time. I'm due at the station in an hour, but I'm not ready to let her out of my sight. It's too soon.
Her soft breathing fills the room, and I slip out of bed, trying to figure out who I can call to cover me for the day.
Jason.
That son of a bitch owes me big for talking him up to Tori.
Chapter 12
Vivienne
Sometime before dawn, I feel Wade get out of bed and go into the bathroom. The cold night air chills my body, and I reach for the sheet and pull it over my head. Groaning loudly when I realize the pain reliever has worn off.
When he comes back into the room, I listen while he rummages through a drawer and heads out into the kitchen. The sound of his voice filters down the hallway, but I can't make any of it out. I sit up, straining my eyes to the sound, feeling my heart pick up as different scenarios play through my head.
After a few moments, it's silent again, and he comes back in with his cell phone in hand. I pull the sheet up to my neck, afraid to ask him what's going on. As if reading my thoughts, he answers every question floating around in my head.
"I don't feel right leaving you so soon after everything that happened last night, so I called in a favor." My heart stops, and he crosses the room, sitting down next to me. I don't know what to say; no one's ever cared for me the way he does. "Jason is going to cover for me for the first twelve hours, but I'll be on call after that."
"You didn't have to do that." I lean forward, touching my forehead to his. Fuck, this man is sweet.
"I almost lost you. I don't ever want to experience that feeling again." He reaches for the sheet, but I pull back, suddenly feeling a little too exposed. I find myself wondering if he's real and what I did to deserve him. The last three days have been a whirlwind, but it's safe to say I can't picture my life without him in it.
"Babe," he murmurs, touching his lips to my bare shoulder and giving the sheet a good, hard tug, ripping it down my chest. "Why are you covering up?"
"W-Wade..." I stutter and struggle to pull the sheet away from him to wrap around my body. He tugs harder, ripping it from my hands. Instinctively, my hands move to shield myself from him. "Stop it. I need that."
"No, you don't," he states, narrowing his gaze on me.
"Yes, I do," I argue, reaching for the sheet, but he balls it up and tosses it across the room. "What the fuck, Wade?"
"You don't need it." He leans forward and takes my hands into his, pulling them away from my body. Then he slowly pushes me backward until I'm lying flat on my back. He cups my face and places a gentle kiss on my lips. "There's no reason to hide your body from me."
"Wade—" I try to protest, but he silences me with another kiss. This time swiping his tongue across my lips, leaving me suddenly achy.
"I love your body, baby." His hands roam across my breasts, squeezing and caressing them.
"Wade—"
"It's fucking perfect." He lifts my arms above my head, pinning them in place, and his lips find the spot on my neck. "It's a body meant for love. A body designed to bring a man to his knees. To bring this man to his knees."
I feel his body shift as he kneels above me. His lips move from my neck down the length of my body, stopping at my belly button. His hands skirt down the length of my legs, lifting them to the edge of the bed.
"Never hide this body from me, sweetheart, because this body is mine, and it's fucking sexy as hell." He lowers his head, inhaling the scent of my sex before using his hands to pull back the inner lips, revealing the pulsating bud desperate for his mouth. "Promise me you'll never hide from me again."
The warmth of this breath dances across my skin, causing my body to shiver. Lifting my hips, I offer myself to his glorious mouth, but he doesn't move. I peek down at him and meet his smoldering gaze.
"Wade," I gasp as he breathes heavily on my sex. The small change in temperature leaves me breathless and feeling as though I'm going to explode soon if I don't feel his mouth on me. "Please..."
"Say the words, Vivienne."
"I promise," I groan and watch as he dips his head closer to me. I try to thrust my hips toward him, but his hands pin me to the bed. His warm, wet tongue darts out, running along my outer lips, teasing me. I try to spread my legs further, needing to feel his tongue against my throbbing clit.
"This pussy is mine," he murmurs. His hands move from my hips to my pussy, slowly spreading the lips, exposing the aching nub. "Say it, Vivienne. Tell me whose pussy this is."
I growl, throwing my head back in frustration. His mouth is moving entirely too much in the wrong spot. "Less talk, more action."
"Not until you tell me," he demands, and the tips of his fingers dig into my flesh. I cry out, feeling more desperate to feel his mouth than I've ever felt before. The anticipation is almost more than I can handle.
"It's yours." I’ve barely uttered the words when his mouth is suddenly on me, sucking the nub. An orgasm rips through me as a finger slips into my honeypot, coaxing me deeper into the high. My body twists and writhes. My hips thrust forward, and my hands thread through his hair, holding his head right where I need him to be.
"Fuuuuck," I groan, riding out the waves of pleasure. He slows his motions but doesn't stop, still allowing me to gently float back down to earth. He kisses up the length of my body, tucking me gently into his side.
"I'm going to love you, Vivienne, with every breath I take," he starts, daring to say the words. I listen attentively, needing to hear the words almost as much as he needs to say them. "I want you to know you're it for me, baby. I'm never letting you go; in fact, you might as well call your friend now and tell her you're moving in with me, because I never want to wake up in this bed without you by my side again."
"Wade..." My heart thrums. His words tug at all the right places.
"I've spent my life looking for a woman like you. The woman. My woman."
"It's only been three days." I smile, forgetting my disbelief in insta-love, because if this is what it feels like, sign me up. "Are we crazy?"
"No, baby, we're in love. I'm in love with you."
"I'm in love with you, too." I smile, letting him see my feelings for him.
"It only took you three days to admit it," he chuckles and leans down, sealing the moment with another kiss.
This time setting my heart on fire.
The End
About the Author
Surviving on caffeine most days, Tracie Douglas lives in the mountains of Southern California with her husband, two children, and one dog. She spends her days chasing children and the fur baby, all while maintaining the illusion of sanity.
Her nights are spent toiling away at the keyboard, creating a world filled with hot men and strong women. She loves to read and write all types of book but tends to lean on the darker side of the spectrum. She’s pretty handy with a crochet hook too.
Tracie loves to hear from her readers!
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Email: [email protected]
Burned
A novella
By Kim Jones
Chapter 1
The hot water pounds over my tired and achy muscles as I fight my fatigue. I’m on day six of double shifts, late night studying and minimal sleep. All I want to do is curl up in my bed, turn the T.V. on and let the background noise lull me into the kind of slumber even my nightmares can’t disturb. Then I remember if I want to watch T.V., I’ll have to do it in the living room.
Great.
I knew when I bought this house it had problems. The old wood frame structure built in the sixties needs to be completely renovated. The roof leaks. The floors sag in places. The windows need to be replaced. And just yesterday, the only electrical plug in my bedroom shorted out my T.V.. Which means I can add rewiring to my list of shit to do.
Despite all the problems, this place is mine. It’s the first place I’ve ever had to myself. Growing up in the system, I’ve been in and out of many foster homes. Some better than others. This house is better than most. So when the owner offered me a lease-to-own plan with affordable payments, I didn’t hesitate to jump on it.
The hot water heater groans and the water turns cool. I shut it off and step out, wanting to take advantage of the warm room before the steam dissipates and I freeze to death. This is just another problem with having an old house. In the summer, I swelter. In the winter, I freeze.
I step out and squint through the cloud of steam. It’s thicker than normal. And I swear it’s rolling under the door. I pull in a deep breath and the back of my throat burns. My senses kick in and I realize it’s not steam I’m inhaling, but smoke.
Without thinking, I pull open the door of the bathroom and gasp. The smoke is thick. Fire blazes to my right. I turn left toward my bedroom. From there, I could jump out of the window. Use my phone and call for help. But before I can get there, I’m stopped by the smoldering heat.
Turning back, I shut myself into the bathroom and shove a towel in the gap beneath the door. The air is clearer near the floor so I remain on my knees—ignoring the stinging pain in my hands. The vanity has a cabinet beneath it and I jerk open the door, inhaling the fresh air. Seconds later, it too is engulfed in smoke.
This is it.
This is how I die.
I’m going to burn to death.
Or die from smoke inhalation first.
Then burn to death.
I soak a towel in the sink. Jump in the bathtub. Turn the cold water on and smother my face in the towel.
My vision is fading. My lungs burn. Throat aches. Despite the cold water blasting my skin, my entire body feels hot.
“Hello!”
The voice sounds far away. Deep. Dark. Male.
Am I dreaming?
I try to answer, but I can’t. I’m dying. Death is gripping me. Smothering me. Pulling me into the dark abyss of the unknown.
The noise in my ears is loud. It hurts my head. I can’t decipher it. I don’t want to. I want to find my happy place. Disappear there. Maybe on the back of Luke Carmical’s motorcycle—the hero I’ve been reading about in my latest romance novel by Kim Jones who, in my opinion, is the greatest author who ever lived. I mean, her work is sometimes shitty and rushed. But she is awesome, so it’s easy to overlook her imperfections. Anyway, back to the book hero who, by the way, is a hero from one of Kim’s book. She doesn’t talk about him much anymore because he came from her first novel which is, for lack of a better word, terrible.
Wow.
The heat and the smoke and my impending death have me straying from topic.
What was I saying again?
Right.
Luke Carmical.
Book hero.
A good distraction from the fire blazing on the other side of the door.
I imagine the wind whipping my hair as I clutch his leather in my fists.
My body curled into his.
His hard back pressed against my chest.
I’m cold. So cold. Perhaps we’re riding in the winter. It’s my first ride with him and I don’t have my leathers.
As I hover in my final moments before death, I wonder what will be said about me at my funeral. Will my tombstone have some cliché saying?
Mila Evans. Gone but not forgotten
Who will remember me? My coworkers? What will they say?
She was always the first to volunteer to take an extra shift.
What will my teachers say?
She had so much potential. Too bad she didn’t put it to good use.
Will my real parents show up? Will they beg me cold, dead body for forgiveness? Will they regret abandoning me?
What about my foster parents? All eighteen of them? Will they remember me?
Everything is brighter now. I’m no longer in the dark. The light has found me.
I’m not ready to go.
I’m only twenty-two.
I’m still a virgin.
I’ve never had a real relationship.
I’ve never felt real love.
I’ve never had my knuckles kissed.
My hair tucked behind my ear.
I’ve never had a boy tell me I’m beautiful.
I never realized how much I hadn’t lived, until I died.
Chapter 2
Shane
Dressed in full turn-out gear, my fingers drumming on the visor of my helmet, I wait for the voice of dispatch that always follows the sixty-second page.
The first forty-five seconds are spent dressing. Getting to the truck. Counting heads. Checking gauges. Firing the engines. But those last fifteen seconds are the hardest. It’s just the beat of my heart. The pump of my adrenaline. The fear of the unknown.
I’ve been a firefighter for six years.
And the wait is just as fucking exhilarating now as it was when I was nothing more than a rookie.
“Attention all firemen, attention all firemen. House fire at 173 Corley Road. Be advised that structure is fully engulfed. Resident unaccounted for. I repeat…”
Dispatch’s voice fades away as every nerve in my body comes alive. My focus is centered on one thing only. I’m not distracted by the flashing lights and loud sirens of the fire engine as we barrel through the city. I don’t give a second thought to the trained men riding with me I call my brothers. My own life isn’t even factored into what’s at stake.
Only theirs.
Man. Woman. Black. White. Old. Young.
Doesn’t matter.
Someone is trapped inside a house that is fully engulfed in flames.
My job is to save them.
And I will.
I see the fire from a block away. Orange and red flames lick up the old wood-framed house. Crawling its way up the rafters in the attic and reaching toward the black sky as if it were trying to set the moon on fire.
A crowd has gathered around the house. They keep their distance. Scared of the unforgiving heat. The promise of pain and death from not only the flames but the smoke that comes with it.
I catch bits and pieces of what I’m told by the neighbor who tried to save the resident. Bathroom. Hallway. First door on the right. I don’t wait for permission. There’s no time for a plan. I survey the structure with practiced eyes. My knowledge doesn’t come from training. It comes from experience.
My fellow firemen are as skilled in letting me do my job as I am at performing it. They don’t tell me to wait. They don’t give their opinion. They know I won’t listen. They don’t like it, but they respect it.
The fire is as desperate for air as whoever is still inside. Thankfully, the front door is wide open and I rush past the flames that frame it and into the smoke filled living room. Rolling waves of red heat cover the ceiling. Timbers snap and crumble overhead and a burst of adrenaline shoots up my spine.
I feel my way down the hall. I’m blinded by the black smoke. Moving on gut and instinct. I sweat beneath my gear. The heat is intense. But my breathing is controlled. Mind focused. It has to be. Because if I can feel the intensity of this fire’s wrath beneath my gear, whoever is still inside is without a doubt suffering with no protection at all.
I’m at the door. I call out and don’t get an answer. I touch the handle and find it locked. The heated metal warps under my grip. For a moment, I fear that whoever is on the other side is too far gone for me to save. But the moment is fleeting. I shake it away and survey my surroundings. I refuse to accept defeat no matter how bad the odds are stacked against me.
A closed door is never a good sign. Especially when it’s so dark you can’t see if flames rage behind the smoke. Backdraft is a firefighter’s greatest fear. Fire needs to breathe. And if I kick down this door, it will find life in the oxygen on the other side. Or maybe it won’t. Fire is an unpredictable, untamable beast. That’s why I love it.
My decision to go inside could get me killed. But it’s only a possibility. Whereas if I don’t, the person on the other side will die. Guaranteed.
I brace my hands on either side of the frame, lift my leg and kick the door. Wood splinters around the edges as it swings open and crashes into the wall from the force. I drop low—staring up at the black ceiling in search of the backdraft. But the fire has made it to the attic and what little air that’s survived among the smoke filled room isn’t worth obtaining.
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