Last Call at the Firehouse

You flush, suddenly aware of how close he’s standing. How very alone you are. “Right,” you mumble, turning away to strip down to your t-shirt and pants. When you turn back, he’s doing the same, shrugging out of his own gear, revealing a thermal shirt stretched tight over his broad chest.

You both crawl onto the makeshift bed, wrapping yourselves in blankets, huddling close for warmth. The heat of his body is a shock against your chilled skin, and you have to bite back a groan. He feels solid, real, in a world that’s rapidly turning to ice.

“Body heat,” Griff says gruffly, as if reading your thoughts. “It’s the best we’ve got.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. You can feel the tension in him, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way he holds himself just barely apart from you. Like he’s fighting himself. Fighting this.

The hours crawl by. The cold deepens. You drift in and out of a fitful doze, jolting awake every time the wind screams or the ice cracks against the glass. Every time you move, you brush against Griff, the contact sending sparks skittering across your skin.

At some point, you give up trying to pretend. You press closer, tucking yourself against his side, your head pillowed on his shoulder. He stiffens, but he doesn’t pull away. His arm comes around you, heavy and warm, anchoring you against him.

“Eli,” he says, his voice a low rumble in your ear.

You don’t answer. You don’t know what to say. All you know is that you’re cold, so cold, and he’s the only warm thing in the world right now. The only thing that feels real.

His hand finds yours beneath the blankets, his fingers threading through yours. You can feel the calluses on his palms, the strength in his grip. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a slow, deliberate caress, and your breath catches in your throat.

“Jack,” you whisper, and it’s the first time you’ve ever said his first name. It feels strange on your tongue. Intimate. Dangerous.

He doesn’t answer. Just holds you tighter, his face buried in your hair. You can feel the tension in him, the way he’s holding himself back. The way he’s always holding himself back.

The storm rages on outside, but inside, in this small, frozen corner of the world, something is shifting. Something is breaking loose. You can feel it in the way his heart hammers against your cheek. In the way your own blood is roaring in your ears.

This is a bad idea. The worst. You know it. He knows it. But as the cold closes in, as the world narrows to just the two of you and the heat between you, you can’t bring yourself to care.

You tilt your head back, your lips brushing the stubble of his jaw. He goes very still. You can feel him holding his breath. Waiting.

“Eli,” he says again, and this time it’s a warning. A plea.

You don’t listen. You can’t. You need this. You need him.

You kiss him.

The kiss is clumsy, desperate, your lips cold and chapped against the stubble of his jaw. For a heart-stopping moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, his body rigid against yours. You can feel the rejection coming, the shove, the sharp word that will shatter this fragile thing between you.

And then he makes a sound, low and rough, almost pained, and his hand fists in your hair, dragging your mouth to his.

His lips are hot, searing, a brand against yours. He kisses like he fights—hard, relentless, no holds barred. His tongue pushes into your mouth, claiming, conquering, and you open for him, helpless, desperate. He tastes like coffee and something dark and male, something that shoots straight to your groin.

You’re drowning. Drowning in him. In the heat of his mouth, the iron strength of his arms around you, the way his body shifts over yours, pressing you down into the thin mattress. The blankets are tangled around you, trapping the heat, the musk of sweat and man and desperation thick in the air.

“Fuck,” he growls against your lips, his hands already shoving under your shirt, palming the small of your back, dragging you closer. “Fuck, Eli—”

You can’t answer. You can only pull at his clothes, frantic, your fingers numb and clumsy. His thermal shirt rides up, revealing the hard planes of his stomach, the dark trail of hair leading down into his pants. You follow it with your mouth, kissing, biting, sucking at the salt-slick skin.

He groans, his hips bucking against yours, his erection hard and heavy against your thigh. “Christ, you’re gonna kill me,” he rasps, his hands rough as he yanks your shirt over your head, baring you to the cold air. “You’re gonna fucking kill me—”

You don’t care. You need more. More skin, more heat, more of him. You fumble with his belt, your fingers trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. He bats your hands away, impatient, and shoves his pants down, kicking them off into the tangle of blankets.

And then you’re skin to skin, the shock of it electric. His chest hair rasps against your nipples, his thighs hard and hairy against yours. His cock is a hot brand against your hip, thick and leaking, and you can’t help but reach for it, your fingers closing around the shaft.

He swears, his head thrown back, the cords in his neck standing out. “Jesus, Eli—fuck, your hand—”

You stroke him, slow and tight, just the way you like it, and he shudders, his hips jerking into your grip. “Like that?” you murmur, your voice hoarse, unfamiliar. “You like that, Jack?”

He groans, long and low, his eyes dark and wild as he looks down at you. “You’re a fucking tease,” he growls, and then he’s kissing you again, deep and filthy, his tongue fucking into your mouth in time with the thrust of his hips into your fist.

It’s not enough. It’s nowhere near enough. You need him inside you, need to feel him fill you up, stretch you open. You need to be his, utterly and completely, if only for tonight.

“Please,” you pant against his lips, your free hand scrabbling at his shoulder, his back. “Jack, please—”

He knows what you’re asking. You can see it in the way his eyes flare, hot and hungry. He reaches for his pants, fumbling in the pocket, and comes up with a small packet—lube, thank fuck. He must carry it always, this man who’s so careful, so controlled.

“Hurry,” you breathe, spreading your thighs, lifting your hips in silent plea. “Jack, hurry—”

He tears the packet open with his teeth, his hands shaking as he slicks his cock. The sound is obscene in the quiet, the squelch of lube on skin, the rasp of his breath. You can feel your own cock leaking against your belly, hard and aching, your hole clenching in anticipation.

He pushes your legs back, spreading you wide, and then he’s there, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance. You bear down, trying to relax, to let him in, but it’s been a while and he’s big, so fucking big, and for a moment you’re not sure you can take him.

“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice rough but surprisingly gentle. His hand strokes your thigh, soothing, even as his hips press forward, relentless. “Easy, baby. Let me in.”

You whimper, your head thrown back, your fingers digging into the mattress. He’s stretching you open, inch by agonizing inch, the burn almost more than you can stand. You want to push him off, to tell him it’s too much, but then he’s fully seated inside you, his balls flush against your ass, and the feeling of him, of being filled, of being his, is so fucking good you nearly come right then.

“Jack,” you gasp, your voice cracking. “Fuck, Jack, move, please—”

He doesn’t need telling twice. He pulls back, slow and deep, and then slams forward, hard enough to rattle your teeth. You cry out, the sound echoing in the small room, and he does it again, and again, setting a brutal, punishing rhythm that has you seeing stars.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he grits out, his hands hard on your hips, yanking you down to meet his thrusts. “So fucking tight, Eli. You feel so goddamn good—”

You can’t answer. You can only hold on, your legs wrapped around his waist, your arms around his neck, as he fucks you into the mattress. The world narrows to this, to the slap of skin on skin, the musk of sex and sweat, the relentless drive of his cock inside you. The cold is forgotten, the storm is forgotten, everything is forgotten but him, but this.

“Harder,” you beg, your voice raw, your head thrashing against the pillow. “Fuck, Jack, harder, I need—”