My knees are still weak from the confrontation when Arthur guides me back upstairs to his apartment. His hand rests at the small of my back, warm and steady, as we climb the stairs in silence. The adrenaline that kept me standing tall in front of Richard is ebbing now, leaving me shaky and raw.
Inside, Arthur closes the door behind us, the soft click of the latch somehow final. We stand in the middle of his living room, the morning light streaming through the windows, illuminating dust motes that dance in the air between us.
"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice low.
I nod, though "okay" doesn't begin to cover what's happening inside me. Relief, fear, pride—and underneath it all, something electric that sparks whenever I look at Arthur's face, his hands, the breadth of his shoulders.
"I should be terrified," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "He knows where I am. He'll probably come back." I take a shuddering breath. "But all I can feel right now is..."
I trail off, unable to find the right words. Arthur takes a step closer, his eyes never leaving mine.
"Is what?" he prompts gently.
"Alive," I finish. "I feel alive."
Something shifts in his expression, a softening around the eyes, a slight parting of his lips. He reaches up slowly, giving me time to pull away, and cups my cheek in his palm. His skin is calloused but warm, and I lean into the touch without thinking.
"You're the bravest person I've ever met," he says.
I laugh softly, disbelieving. "You're a firefighter. You know actual heroes."
"I know what bravery looks like," he insists. His thumb brushes lightly across my cheekbone, sending a shiver down my spine. "What you did down there… that's courage, Lori."
I'm suddenly aware of how close we're standing, of the heat radiating from his body, of the fact that I'm still wearing his clothes with nothing underneath but my underwear.
His hand slides from my cheek to the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair. He pulls me closer, slowly, deliberately, giving me every opportunity to stop him.
I don't want to stop him.
Our lips meet and something electric races through me. His mouth is soft but insistent against mine, testing, tasting. I make a small sound in the back of my throat and press closer, my hands finding the solid plane of his chest. Through the thermal shirt, I can feel his heart racing as fast as mine.
We break apart, both breathing harder. His eyes search mine, looking for hesitation or regret. He won't find any.
"I want this," I tell him, my voice steadier than I expected. "I want you."
He takes my hand and leads me to the couch. I sit, tucking my legs to the side, looking up at him. He kneels before me, his large hands settling on my waist, fingers warm even through the fabric of the borrowed t-shirt.
"Tell me if you want to stop," he says. "Anytime."
I nod, unable to form words as he leans in to kiss me again. This time, there's no hesitation. His mouth is demanding, confident,sending pulses of heat straight to my core. His hands remain at my waist, thumbs making small circles that drive me crazy with their restraint.
I shift impatiently, wanting more. One of his hands slides under the borrowed sweatshirt, his calloused palm against my bare skin making me gasp into his mouth. The contrast between his rough hand and the gentleness of his touch sends goosebumps racing across my skin.
I tug at his shirt, wanting to feel his skin against mine. He pulls back long enough to yank it over his head, and I'm momentarily stunned by the sight of him—broad chest dusted with dark hair, muscles defined but not showy, a smattering of scars that speak of a life lived fully.
My hands reach out of their own accord, fingers tracing the firm planes of his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath my palm. His skin is hot to the touch, slightly rough with hair, nothing like...
No. I won't think of anyone else. Not now. Not with Arthur looking at me like I'm the only woman in the world.
He catches my wrist, pressing a kiss to my palm that makes my breath hitch. Then he tugs me gently to my feet. I go willingly, letting him guide me until my back meets the wall beside the couch. He braces one hand beside my head, the other settling at the small of my back, pulling me closer until our bodies press together.
The hard length of him presses against my lower belly, and heat pools between my thighs in response. His breath catches, his control visibly slipping.
"Lori," he says, my name a rough sound on his lips.
I answer by rolling my hips against his, the friction making us both gasp. His hand moves to my hip, gripping hard enough that I might find marks tomorrow. The thought sends another pulse of heat through me.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that makes me think of other ways our bodies could move together. His hand slides lower, cupping my backside and lifting me slightly to align our bodies better. The new angle puts him exactly where I need him, the pressure perfect against my center even through layers of clothing.
