“Agreed,” Lulu says. “He had the hottest girl in the world on the end of his phone and he still managed to fuck it up.”
A tiny broken laugh escapes me. “Maybe he’ll come crawling back.”
“And if he does, youmake him crawl.”
“Yes you do,” Lulu adds, clinking her glass with Tamara’s. “A woman who buys festive butt plugs deservesexcellentgrovelling.”
Wine goes up my nose as I snort, but the coil in me eases just a little. Enough to breathe, enough to laugh. Enough to feel the faintest spark of myself again.
I reach for a pretzel on the cheeseboard when there’s a knock at the door, but I barely look up. This is the Parnell house on Christmas Day—of course there’s a knock at the door. Firefighters rotate through here like bonus family members. Leah’s practically got a sixth sense for feeding underpaid public servants, and Herb’s a walking invitation.
“Merry Christmas, Chief. Sorry I’m a few minutes late, brought some reinforcements.”
Something flickers at the base of my spine as the voice floats down the hallway. Familiar in the way a dream feels right before it slips away.
“Merry Christmas, son,” Herb replies. “Come on in.”
My head tilts instinctively toward the hallway, brows pinching.
It’s probably someone I’ve met before, or maybe he just has one of those voices. Warm and rough, a little cocky. The kind that wraps around your neck and tightens.
Footsteps sound—Herb’s heavier stride, a slightly quicker one behind it, then they round the corner and step straight into the living room.
“Girls,” Herb says, gesturing with a hand. “This is Mason Fletcher—Fletch, you’ll remember Lulu of course, but I don’tthink you’ll have met Tamara or Frankie here. Mason’s one of the full-timers out at the station. Been there, what, three years?”
“Four now, give or take,” Mason replies with a smile, then turns back to us. “Hey ladies—sorry to barge in and ruin the fun.”
Lulu and Tamara chime in with warmth and welcomes, but I don’t speak. I don’t move. My body forgets how to exist.
Because that voice.
I know that fucking voice.
Fireboy.
Chapter six
Frankie
Fuck me sideways with a candy cane, he's hot.
Chapter seven
Frankie
Mason.
Mason fucking Fletcher.
I don’t even hear the rest of the conversation around me. Their voices are all a blur, drowned out by the roaring in my ears, apart from Fireboy’s—Mason’s—voice.
I’d know that voice in a blackout. My body knows that voice. Hell, myvibratorknows that voice.
God, who even has orgasms that good from a voice alone?
Me. I do.
Ordid.
