Combust

by K. Bromberg

  And then I startle awake. The room is dark, the scanner is faint in the background, but Grady’s lips are on mine. Still kissing me. Still letting me dream even now that I’m fully awake.

  I sink into the kiss, the possessive feel of his hand on my neck, and the hard and ready length of him against my thigh. Into the simmering ache I’ve had since I left that he’s now throwing kerosene on.

  “Grady.” His name is a moan on my lips as his other hand slips beneath the waist of my shorts and cups me. I hitch my leg up and crook it over his hips to grant him better access. He wastes no time parting me and slipping a finger into the well of my body.

  His hand on my neck tightens, and he groans when he finds me already wet for him. He begins to work me over. One finger. Out and up and over the top of my slit and then back down. Two fingers in and out, rubbing my nerves within and drawing every sensation out of me before sliding back up and using my own arousal to rub circles over my clit.

  His lips tease and taunt me just as thoroughly as his fingers do. There is no need to draw this out. There is no need to suspend the pleasure that is a forgone conclusion based on how responsive my body is to his touch.

  Is it the few days apart that has made me this way? Or are my emotions telling me they can no longer separate enjoying each other from feeling for him? Either way, I know I’m going to come, and I’m going to come fast.

  I grind my pelvis against his hand, which has my leg shifting, rubbing against his dick and eliciting a groan from him that I swallow. His fingers continue their torment of building me up and then letting me fall back down so I don’t hit my peak. I start the one-handed process of unzipping his pants. Of wrapping my hand around his cock and pulling it free. Of stroking it until Grady’s fingers tense within me because I’m returning the pleasurable favor.

  And as if choreographed without words, the next few seconds are a clumsy dance of intimacy as I stand and discard my clothes while he shoves his pants down to his knees and protects us.

  I climb back onto the couch and sit astride his hips. His hand slides between my thighs and holds his dick in place as I position myself over him and slide inch by pleasurable inch onto him.

  Our collective moan fills the room as he stretches me, fills me completely. My head rolls back as his hands find their way to dig into my hips and hold me there so he’s sheathed fully inside me. Every part of his body tenses as he tries to hold on to his own control. “Oh my God,” falls from his lips in a long, drawn-out groan that sounds just like how I feel—desperate.

  I hold his gaze through the dimly lit room as I begin to move, grinding circles at first that cause his head to fall back and the tendons in his neck to strain. Then on to rocking back and forth over his cock so his crest hits my G-spot as I slide one hand between my thighs to try to help it along.

  A moan falls from my lips as the combination hits every zone it needs to and Grady’s patience snaps. His hands guide my hips up, and he thrusts at the same time as he pulls me back down. There’s no other name for the sound I make than pure pleasure.

  And it is.

  As Grady pistons his hips up and I grind my hips down, the heat within me builds to a fire. The ache starts to burn. And then, every nerve combusts in an array of sensations I couldn’t describe if I tried.

  All I can do is feel.

  All I want to do is succumb to every ounce of bliss they evoke and allow Grady to take me there and then some.

  Because it seems like no matter how much he gives me, I still want more.

  And he does. He gives me more until my head grows light and my muscles turn tense. I’m so spent by the time he climaxes that my only option is to collapse on top of him. So I do. I press my lips to the underside of his jaw and rest my hand over his heart so I can feel it jumping against his ribcage.

  I try to find solace in the now. In appreciating the moment.

  Eventually, when he catches his breath and his fingertips dance up and down the line of my spine, he murmurs, “Welcome home.”

  The nightmares were relentless last night. Even with Dylan beside me, and the scent of her shampoo in my nose, they never let up.

  It happened because of what I’m doing against my will. But I gave my word, and my word seems to be all I have these days.

  But the panic attack still tries to take hold when I walk into the studio. I hate knowing I’ll be standing in front of a camera, documenting the body I can’t look at in the mirror most days. Mine. Physically strong. Horrifically imperfect.

  I’m ready to walk out of the studio not two seconds after I walk in. Two fucking seconds, but what I see when I throw open the curtain in the studio breaks my fucking heart.

  And solidifies why I’m here.

  Brody, standing in front of a black backdrop. His little legs are drowning in Drew’s turnout pants, his dad’s helmet is huge on his head, and his eyes are looking straight at the camera with the same mixture of grief and pride that I feel every time I look at him.

  My feet are rooted in place. My eyes lock on the little boy who has so much courage that there is no way I can walk out of here. There’s no way I can run from showing my scars when he has invisible scars he lives with every single goddamn day. And he’s five.

  I watch with tears burning in my eyes and an ache in my gut that makes me feel physically ill.

  You promised, Malone.

  You promised Drew you’d take care of them. The calendar helps with that.

  You promised the guys you’d do the shoot. That proves they can depend on me.

  You promised Dylan you’d follow through. That proves that she means more to me than I’m willing to admit.

  I wish he’d told me.

  Our phone conversation replays in my mind as I turn into the parking lot, going a little faster than I should.

  “I didn’t want to bug you because I know you’re busy trying to get the songs finished, but . . . would you mind coming here for a little bit,” he asked.

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Always interrupt me.”

  “I’m at the calendar shoot.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  The sound of his voice, the uncertainty, rings in my ears as I all but jog across the parking lot to the address Grady texted me.

  Why didn’t he tell me ahead of time so I could be here for him?

  Because I’m not his girlfriend.

  I’m not anything to him.

  I’m his enjoyment for the time being—that’s why.

  And even though the stinging thoughts are in my head, the minute I push open the door to the studio and see Grady, I know why I’m here. For him. To help him heal. He’s pacing back and forth on the side of the room. His hand keeps going to his head and then stopping when he realizes he can’t mess up his hair.

  Another firefighter—Dixon, I think—is in front of the camera. His shoulders are square, his chest is bare, and he has his turnout jacket hooked by one finger over his shoulder. His nervous chuckle and his awkward and forced positioning reflect how uncomfortable he is.

  There’s a catcall from a side of the room I can’t see, and I’m sure it’s another one of the guys giving him shit.

  “Romeo, Romeo, get your hose out to save me, Romeo.”

  There are snickers and laughter, and I realize there is a whole crew of guys in the corner razzing him. Dixon lifts a finger and flips them off.

  “Now, now. We can’t be doing that on film.” The photographer laughs as she clicks a candid picture of Dixon laughing. “Okay, you’re all done.”

  “Thank, Christ. This modeling shit is for the birds. Give me a hot fire any day over these hot lights.”

  “Pussy,” one of the guys says.

  “Don’t worry, GQ won’t be knocking down your door,” another says.

  Everyone in the room is laughing and relaxed except Grady. He’s standing in the corner, staring out the window, shoulders a wall of tension.

  “Grady.”

  He turns when I say his name, a mixt
ure of relief and unease fleeting through his expression.

  “You’re up next, Malone,” the photographer says, an encouraging smile on her lips and an upbeat tone to her voice.

  The crew in the corner whistles and catcalls.

  “Take it off.”

  “C’mon, you sexy beast.”

  “Put us all to shame.”

  Grady laughs, but it’s his eyes as they meet mine that communicate how he really feels. He may proclaim that he’s vain, but right now his insecurity owns him.

  Does he not change in front of the guys at the station? Does he not realize they don’t care what his scars look like just as I don’t? Or is it that he’s afraid to be the reminder of what can happen in their job? Does he fear they’ll shun him so they don’t have to see the consequences?

  I’m not sure which one it is, or if it’s a combination of all of them, but my heart breaks seeing him try to put on such a strong front when he’s struggling internally with something none of us clearly understands.

  “So, what am I going to do with you?” the photographer asks as she looks at him shift on his feet and radiate discomfort. She angles her head to the side. “Turnout pants, suspenders, helmet.” She nods for emphasis as the rest of the guys whoop it up.

  They can’t be oblivious to what he’s going through, so I can only think they’re being boisterous intentionally. But it isn’t working. I can see it in his hesitation to walk to where his pile of gear is waiting on his chair, his helmet resting atop it.

  His shoulders rise and fall as he stares at his gear in indecision.

  “Hey, guys?” I ask as I walk over to them. “What would you say if I told you I wanted my own private show here?”

  Bowie’s eyebrows arch, and he nods to let me know he gets what I’m saying and will play along with my ruse. “You know this is a PG calendar, right, McCoy?” He chuckles and lifts his chin to the guys in an unspoken directive. If Grady has been keeping us sleeping together on the down-low, I just screwed that up for him.

  “I’ll take my chances, but you never know what might come over me when Malone puts on those turnouts. They’ve been known to make female hormones get a little hot and bothered.”

  “I think that’s our cue to vacate the premises,” Dixon says. “Are you going to be okay with her here, Malone? I mean, do you need backup in case she can’t control herself and jumps you on the spot?”

  “I assure you, this is one fire I know how to put out.” Grady chuckles and picks up his gear to head to the changing room.

  The guys gather their stuff and begin to file out of the studio. Bowie hangs back, waiting for the guys to clear before turning to me. “Thanks for coming. I was worried how he was going to do with this . . . but I know he’ll be fine now that you’re here.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but he just shakes his head as if to tell me nothing more needs to be said before patting my shoulder and walking out.

  “Marcy Holden.” I look over to where the photographer has her hand outstretched and curiosity etched in the lines of her face.

  “Dylan McCoy. Nice to meet you.” I shake her hand.

  “Is there something no one’s telling me here?” she asks in a hushed tone.

  I wage a mental war between giving away private information on Grady and then realize this is a small town. If Marcy is shooting photos for the calendar to benefit the widows’ fund, she knows what happened. And if she knows what happened, I can draw the conclusion that she’s aware another firefighter was injured, so I give enough information not to feel like I am betraying and emasculating Grady. “He’s the one who was injured in the fire.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes widen and the sound comes out in a gasp of shock. “How did I not put two and two together? That’s what I get for being new in town. I’m sorry. Is there something I’m not supposed to do or—?”

  “Where do you want me?”

  I’m not sure how long Grady has been standing there, but we both turn to face him at the same time, worried he overheard us. I stare at him, my mouth waters, and the murmured hum of approval Marcy emits beneath her breath is equivalent to the sucker punch of lust that hits me when I see him in his turnouts.

  His everyday service uniform is hot. His Class A’s are sexy. But this, his yellow turnouts with reflective tape, red suspenders, and no shirt on underneath are everything and then some.

  Perfection with a little bit of grit thrown in.

  Any woman who says a firefighter in his gear isn’t sexy is lying because damn . . . that’s the only word I can form.

  Grady’s standing before us with his red suspenders on one shoulder, the other hooked but hanging down. The turnout pants hang low on his hips so every perfect ab is on display.

  It takes me a second to snap out of the lust clouding my thoughts and realize we are both ogling him in a way that will either help his insecurities or exacerbate them.

  “Right. Yes. How do I want you?” Marcy asks with a shake of her head as she walks toward him, recovered and suddenly all business. She places a hand on his shoulder to direct him. It’s an innocent touch, but I see Grady steel himself for it and walk sideways to keep his back away from her line of vision. “Have you ever done anything like this before?”

  “No.” His voice is stunted and eyes flick to mine.

  “Okay, so I’m thinking . . .” She steps back and angles her head to the side as she stares at him before walking over and grabbing a yellow turnout coat and then holding it out to him. “I’m thinking you hold this over your shoulder. We’ll start there. Your definition is going to play well with this lighting.”

  “Sure. Yeah.” Grady moves toward where she directs him in front of the backdrop. His body is stiff, his smile forced. The fluidity to his movements, which is usually so natural, is all but gone.

  Over the next thirty minutes, Marcy photographs him while I sit silently in the corner. She struggles to get a photo that reflects the man we see the minute the camera is off him and his body is not being stared at.

  Will this ever change for him? Will he ever grow comfortable in this new skin he’s been given and this new chance at life?”

  “Okay, shake your shoulders out, Grady. You’re looking stiff.”

  Grady shoots her a look with a kind smile, but I see so much behind those eyes. I wish I could do anything to take his discord away. To take his insecurity away. To show him how gorgeous he is, even with his scars.

  “I had Brody in here earlier,” Marcy says quietly. “He’s the sweetest little boy. He talked a lot about you, you know? I didn’t put two and two together until you went to get changed.”

  Grady’s shoulders fall some, but his head lifts. A genuine smile slides softly onto his lips despite the sadness in his eyes. “He’s a good kid.”

  Marcy pushes the button in her hand that takes the photo without her having to look through the lens. There’s a constant whirring click as the shutter continues to snap pictures.

  “He is. I took some incredible shots of him in his dad’s gear. I thought it was important for him to have them for his memories.”

  “I’m sure it will mean a lot to him.”

  Click. Click. Click.

  “It’s a good thing you’re doing here. This calendar for him and Shelby and whoever else they appropriate the funds to.”

  Click. Click. Click.

  “It’s the least I can do since . . .” His voice fades off, but I know what he left unsaid. Since I didn’t save him.

  “The calendar will make some women happy.” She laughs. Click. Click. Click. “A lot of women happy. In fact, I’d love to shoot you another time. You have an incredible body.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.” His voice is soft, his cheeks flushing as his movements remain still despite her efforts to relax him.

  “The offer stands,” she murmurs.

  She positions him a few more times, and yet even to a layman like me, it doesn’t matter how striking Grady’s body is, his expression reflects his disquiet. But h
e’s patient and never complains. He does what she asks, turning his body every time she moves around him to reposition her camera so that any hint of his scars are out of the frame.

  “Okay, give me a few seconds to check my shots and make sure I have enough to choose from.”

  Grady nods and stands in the middle of the studio. He doesn’t look my way. He doesn’t say a word. It’s like he’s on an island by himself without wanting anyone to save him. Without believing anyone would want to.

  He looks so lonely and isolated and every part of me yearns to be able to provide the solace he needs, but deep down I know he’s the one who needs to find that. He’s the one who needs to accept that life moves on regardless of how hard that may be.

  Marcy looks over the top of her computer to Grady and then back down, the clicker still in her hand. A line forms on her forehead as she furrows her brow in concentration. “I think I’ve got it. Thank you, Grady.”

  “I’m done?” There’s a mixture of relief and gratitude in his voice as he stares at her.

  “You’re done.” She offers up a smile to him as he walks over and sets down the borrowed turnout jacket he had in his hand. In my periphery I catch Marcy wince when she sees Grady’s back for the first time as he relaxes, knowing the hard part is over.

  Her reaction is natural and unintentional. I know it. But I also feel the need to protect Grady from it. From possibly turning around and seeing it for himself. So I move into her line of sight so I’m the only one who can see Grady in this vulnerable state.

  Desperate for a connection with him, anything, so I can let him know how proud I am of him for following through with this, I call his name. “Grady.” He looks back over his shoulder at me. Good job. I mouth the words across the space, and when he smiles at me, it’s the truest smile I’ve seen since I walked in here.

  And for the briefest of seconds, I let myself believe he feels the same way about me that I do about him.

  “Hey,” Grady murmurs into my ear as I stir slowly from my sleep.

  I feel the bed dip. The covers lift. The heat of his body as he slides up behind me. The feel of his hand on my abdomen pulling me against him.