Her thighs press lightly against me, and I feel the tremor ripple through her.
She leans forward that last fraction of an inch and I lose control.
My other hand slides behind her head, tangling in her hair. I pull her toward me, gently but with a force that makes her gasp. Her knees shift, brushing my thigh. I feel everything.
Too much. Her hands slide up my chest, grabbing fistfuls of my shirt.
I groan—low, guttural. “Briar…”
She leans her forehead against mine. “Please.”
I exhale shakily, brushing my lips across hers. Not a kiss. Just a ghost of one.
Her whole body shivers. I press her closer, one hand gripping her hip now—thumb brushing the soft edge under that ridiculous oversized sweatshirt.
Her breath catches. “Saxon?—”
“I’ve thought about this,” I growl. “More than I should.”
Her fingers curl into my chest. “Then do it.”
“Briar…”
“Please.”
Jesus Christ.
I tilt her chin up with my thumb, lowering my mouth again, brushing her lower lip with mine.
A breath. A swallow. A ragged sound from her throat that feels like it was meant for me.
And then my radio crackles. Harsh. Violent. Loud enough to blow the moment apart.
“Station 19, structure fire, Devil’s Pass Road. Repeat—structure fire, Devil’s Pass Road.”
I rip back like I’ve been struck, breathing hard enough my lungs burn.
“No,” she whispers. “No—wait—just?—”
I press my forehead to hers once, a rough, agonized moment. Her breath shakes against my mouth. Then I force myself to stand. Chest heaving. Heart pounding. Want screaming through me like a siren.
“Saxon,” she says, rising to her knees in front of me.
I grab my helmet from the porch rail. “I have to go.”
Her voice trembles. “W-will you be okay?”
“I always am.” I lie.
Her hands brush mine when I take a step toward the stairs. My whole body jerks from the contact.
“Be safe,” she whispers.
I hesitate. Just long enough. Then I turn back, grab her shoulders gently, and press my forehead to hers one last time.
“Lock your door,” I murmur. “I’ll come back when I can.”
Her breath catches. And then I’m gone. Bounding down the steps. Radio clipped at my shoulder. Every instinct snapping back into place. But halfway across her yard, I look back. She stands in the porch light, sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, breath trembling, lips still pink from almost being kissed. And I know—I feel it down to the bone—that whatever line we pretended existed between us is gone.
