“Not anymore,” I say, kissing her back, pouring all my love, all my fear, all my hope into that one perfect kiss.
Millie
He’s in love with me.
The words echo in my head, a frantic, dizzying mantra as my fingers find the zipper of his firefighter’s uniform. The metal is cold against my heated skin.
He’s in love with me.
I peel the heavy fabric from his shoulders, the material whispering as it slides down his arms. He lets me, his hands hanging loose at his sides, his eyes locked on mine, dark and intense.
He’s in love with me.
My hands move to the hem of his T-shirt, a simple, worn thing that smells like him—sweat and snow and pine. I lift it, my knuckles brushing against the hard plane of his stomach. He raises his arms, and I pull it over his head, tossing it aside.
He’s in love with me.
I lean in, pressing my lips to the side of his neck. His skin is hot, his pulse a frantic beat against my tongue. I taste salt and something uniquely Maddox. My mouth trails a path down his throat, to the hollow of his collarbone, to the hard muscles of his chest.
“Fuck,” he says, his hands flying to my hair, his fingers tangling in the strands, holding me to him. The word is a harsh, broken sound, a testament to his fraying control.
I love that I can do this to him. I love that I can make him feel this way.
My hands explore his chest, his shoulders, the broad expanse of his back. I can feel the tension coiled in his muscles, the raw, barely leashed power that hums just beneath his skin. I want to unleash it. I want to see him let go.
“Millie,” he groans, his head falling back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat.
I kiss him there, my tongue tracing the frantic beat of his pulse. I can feel his cock, pressing against my stomach. I want him. I want him with a desperation that scares me.
I pull back, my eyes meeting his. “I’m scared,” I confess, the words a raw, vulnerable whisper.
“Of what?” he asks, his hands cupping my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks.
“Of the heat,” I say, my voice trembling. “Of what’s coming.”
“We’ll figure it out,” he promises, his gaze unwavering. “We’ll talk to Liam. We’ll figure out what needs to be done to get you through it. We care about you, Millie. Both of us.”
His words are a balm to my frayed nerves, a lifeline in the storm of my own fear. “Okay,” I whisper, leaning into his touch.
“I want to take you on a date,” he says, and the words are so unexpected, so tender, they make my heart ache.
I pause, my hands stilling on his chest. A date. This sweet, gentle boy, this man who’s been in love with me for years, wants to take me on a date.
“I never knew,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “How could I never know?”
He turns me in his arms, his lips finding my back, tracing the line of my spine, the constellation of freckles scattered acrossmy shoulders. He kisses my hairline, my temple, the soft spot behind my ear.
“You are so beautiful.” His words are a warm caress against my skin.
And then he’s laying me down on the bed again, his body covering mine, his weight a welcome pressure. His mouth finds mine, and the kiss is different this time. Deeper. It’s not just about passion, not just about need. It’s about connection. It’s about love.
He reaches for his wallet, his movements clumsy, urgent. He pulls out a small, square packet, his fingers fumbling with the foil. I take it from him, my own hands shaking as I rip it open. I roll the condom onto his length.
He enters me slowly, his eyes locked on mine, watching my every reaction. It’s a tight fit, a delicious stretch that makes me gasp. He pauses, giving me time to adjust, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.
“Okay?” he asks, his voice a low, rough whisper.
I nod, my hands cupping his face, pulling him down for a kiss. “Okay.”
