“I’m not happy to be here, though,” he counters quietly. “This tie is choking me and these people are all a bunch of rich bastards.”
“Oh, poor baby. There are worse fates than wearing cuff links and having to sweet-talk people into emptying their wallets.”
He scoffs, but I swear when I glance up at him, the corners of his lips have twitched upward ever so slightly.
I’ve never been to a gala, but I have been to prom and I went to Lou’s sorority formal in college when her date bailed at the last minute. Weirdly enough, this is a lot like that. We make the rounds, shaking hands and pasting on polite smiles. We endure the speeches about bravery and sacrifice and generosity.
In between these moments, when Jake and Lou are able to squeeze through the crowd and get close enough, I coax words out of Hale so that the public can see him as a capable, confident man who runs an exemplary fire station.
As agreed earlier, the questions I ask are simple.
Do you come to the gala every year?
Will you tell me about the year you were honored as the youngest captain in Station 47 history?
What made you want to serve the FDNY?
Did you always want to be a firefighter?
To my relief, he answers them all with patience and thoughtfulness, and I almost feel bad that I thought this part of the filming process would be like pulling teeth or herding cats.
I feel even worse that the more I listen to him talk about his life, the more intriguing I find him.
But I don’t really know much about him. I don’t know why he’s thirty-four and still single. I don’t know where his parents live or what they do, nor do I know if he has any siblings. I don’t know what his favorite color is or what his last meal would be.
Because those are questions you’d ask a real date.
And I’m not actually dating this hero. I’m just trying to save him.
The music swells around us, a live orchestra playing something sultry and slow, and I realize my hand is still lingering on Hale's arm from our last posed shot.
His skin is warm under the crisp fabric of his tuxedo shirt, and every time he shifts, I catch a whiff of his cologne—clean, masculine, like cedar and smoke. It's doing things to me, things I shouldn't be feeling in the middle of a crowded ballroom full of donors and dignitaries.
My agency's future is riding on this campaign, on keeping things professional, but god, the way his dark eyes flick down to my lips when I laugh at one of his rare, dry jokes... it's like he's undressing me right here.
I excuse myself abruptly, murmuring something about needing to freshen up, and weave through the throng of glittering gowns and black ties toward the restrooms.
My heart's pounding, not from the champagne—I've barely touched it—but from the ghost of his hand on my waist earlier, guiding me through the crowd with that firm, possessive grip. Captain Hargrove, stoic and serious, but tonight he's been looking at me like I'm the only fire he wants to put out.
The ladies' room is mercifully empty, all marble counters and soft lighting, with stalls that feel more like private suites. I slip into the farthest one, locking the door behind me with a click that echoes too loudly in my ears.
My dress—a slinky number that hugs my curves and dips low enough to show the freckles across my chest—rustles as I lean back against the cool tile wall.
I'm wired, buzzing from his attention, from the way he leaned in close to answer my questions, his voice low and gravelly, like a secret just for me.
What the hell is wrong with me? This isn't real.
But my body's not listening. My nipples are already hard against the thin fabric, aching from the friction of every step I've taken tonight.
I press my thighs together, feeling the heat building there, the slickness starting to pool between my legs.
It's impulsive, desperate—I shouldn't be doing this here, now, but if I don't release some of this tension, I'll combust right in front of the cameras.
I hike up the hem of my dress, the silk sliding up my thighs like a lover's caress. My fingers tremble as I reach under, pushing aside the lace thong that's already damp. God, I'm soaked, my pussy throbbing with need just from thinking about him.
I imagine Hale's big hands instead of mine—those callused palms that could span my waist, rough from years of gripping hoses and ladders. I circle my clit slowly at first, teasing the swollen nub, and a soft whimper escapes my lips before I bite it back.
Faster now, my breath coming in shallow pants. I dip two fingers lower, sliding them through my wet folds, coating them in my arousal before plunging them inside.
