We reach the small equipment room at the far end of the station, a space filled with extra turnout gear, spare parts, and a workbench where the crew repairs equipment. It smells of metal and leather, with undertones of smoke permanently embedded in the gear hanging on wall hooks.
I pull him inside and close the door behind us, the soft click of the latch suddenly very loud in the quiet.
"Michelle," Austin says, his voice low and uncertain. "We shouldn't—"
I turn to face him, still holding his hand. "Do you want to stop?"
His eyes meet mine in the dim light filtering through the small window. "No," he admits, the word barely audible. "But Chief—"
"I'm tired of letting Paul decide what I can and can't do." The words come out stronger than I expected. "I'm tired of making myself smaller to keep everyone else comfortable."
Austin's expression softens. He reaches up, his fingers hovering near my cheek but not quite touching, as if he's afraid I might disappear.His thumb traces my cheekbone, and I feel the touch everywhere.
"I've wanted you since I first saw you," he says, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Not just since the fire. Before. Every time you came to the station."
I rise on my toes and press my mouth to his. The kiss is firm, deliberate. His lips are slightly chapped, warm against mine. For a heartbeat, he remains still, and then his arm slides around my waist, pulling me hard against him. The sudden contact makes me gasp, and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss.
His hand moves from my cheek to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, gripping just enough to tilt my head how he wants it. The gentle assertion sends heat rushing through me. I press closer, my breasts flattening against his chest through our clothes.
My fingers find the buttons of his uniform shirt, fumbling slightly. I work them open one by one, knuckles brushing against the undershirt beneath. When I reach the last button, I push the shirt from his shoulders. It catches at his wrists, and he has to let go of me to shake it off. The momentary separation feels too long.
"Fuck, you feel good," he murmurs as he reaches for me again, his hands settling on my hips. His thumbs dig into the soft flesh just above my hip bones, and I make a small sound in the back of my throat. "I want to see you."
He tugs at the hem of my sweater, a question in his eyes. I nod, lifting my arms. The sweater slides up and off, leaving me in my bra. In the dim light, I see his eyes drop, taking in the full curves of my breasts, the softness of my stomach, the width of my hips. Self-consciousness flickers, but there's nothing but hunger in his gaze.
"Jesus," he breathes, hands hovering as if he doesn't know where to touch first. "Look at you."
Before I can respond, his hands are on me again, sliding up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through my bra. I shiver at the touch, nipples tightening against the fabric. I reach for his undershirt, tugging it upward. He helps me, pulling it off in one smooth movement.
The sight of him steals my breath. His chest is broad, sprinkled with dark hair that narrows as it travels down his stomach. I replace my hands with my mouth, pressing my lips to his warm skin. I feel him swallow hard, his hands tightening on my waist.
"Your turn," he says, reaching behind me to unhook my bra. His fingers are sure, practiced, releasing the clasp in one smooth motion. The straps slip down my arms, and then the garment falls away completely.
I resist the urge to cover myself. My breasts are full, heavy, with pale stretch marks tracing the sides. Austin's intake of breath is audible as he looks at me, and then his hands are there, cupping their weight.
He bends his head, replacing one hand with his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue against my nipple pulls a moan from me, louder than I intended. His other hand squeezes my other breast, kneading the flesh as his mouth works.
His free hand moves to the button of my jeans, popping it open with a flick of his thumb. The zipper follows, and then his hand is sliding inside, cupping me through my underwear. I rock against his palm instinctively, seeking pressure.
"You're wet already," he murmurs against my breast, sounding pleased. His finger traces the damp spot on the cotton, and I whimper. "Let's get these off you."
He tugs my jeans down, and they catch on the fullness of my thighs. I have to wiggle to help him work them down, a moment that would be embarrassing if not for the look of pure want on his face as he watches the movement of my hips. When the jeans finally hit the floor, I kick them aside, standing before him in just my underwear.
I reach for his belt. The leather slides through the buckle with a soft hiss. I work open the button of his uniform pants, then slowly lower the zipper over his obvious erection. The pants hang loose on his hips, and I push them down, revealing dark boxer briefs stretched tight across his arousal.
My hand cups him through the fabric, feeling the hard length of him. He's hot, pulsing against my palm. His head falls back slightly, eyes closing as I stroke him through the cotton.
I smile, squeezing him once more before releasing him. He steps out of his pants, kicking them aside, then pulls me against him.
He walks me backward until my back hits the wall. The concrete is cool against my heated skin, making me gasp. He kisses me deeply, one thigh pressing between mine, and I rock against it.
His hands slide down to cup my ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he lifts me slightly, increasing the pressure of his thigh against my center. I make a broken sound against his mouth, grinding down shamelessly.
"That's it," he encourages, lips moving to my neck. "Show me how you want it."
His mouth is hot against my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin below my ear. I tilt my head, giving him better access as I continue to rock against his thigh. One of his hands slides around to my stomach, then lower, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my underwear.
"Can I touch you?" he asks, his breath hot against my ear.
