Another FILF: (Fireman I'd Like to F**k) (Hotshots Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Epilogue

  FILF Chapter One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Also by Savannah May

  Another FILF

  Fireman I’d like to F**k

  Savannah May

  Beeyoo Productions LLC

  Copyright © 2018 by Savannah May

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  FILF Chapter One

  Also by Savannah May

  1

  Lila

  I make a concerted effort to avoid the mirror as I wait for the water in the shower to get warm. I don’t want to see what it’s sure to show me: A bedraggled woman looking more haggard that I should at twenty-five years old. My hair a mess, dark circles under my eyes, maybe some paint on my nose. I’m in need of the shower to rejuvenate me after a long night spent tossing around trying to find a way to sleep.

  Without any luck and ripping at said hair as though that would shut my brain off somehow, I got out of bed and went back to the canvas that wouldn’t release me. All the pre-dawn hours spent in a kind of frenzy, capturing the latest nightmares, have depleted me.

  The finished canvas sits drying in the studio, ferocious in the intensity of heat coming from the color. Orange and red and purple. Flames again. The stuff of my nightmares. I paint nothing else.

  Someday, when I’m famous for them, the fire canvasses will give art critics plenty of fuel for analysis. Burning trees, the flames licking up the trunks like a lover worshipping his love’s body. Riots of crimson, cinnabar, vermillion, tangerine, a dozen yellows. As the layers draw the viewer in, she can make out a shadowy figure among them.

  Who am I kidding? Those canvasses would earn me a one-way trip to the funny farm if I ever showed anyone. Someday I’ll have to. The demands from my gallery and the collectors will become more insistent. I won’t have the luxury of creation. The money will run out, and I’ll have to leave this place, my refuge from reality.

  I step into the shower with his name on my lips. It’s been more than a year since his hands have touched me in places only the water caresses me now. Oh, Jon, why did you have to leave me?

  The water is just a few degrees warmer than my skin, perking me up from the grogginess. The late-summer day promises to be a scorcher, so I don’t want a hot shower. And what I have in mind, anticipating as I shampoo my hair, requires warm, not cool.

  I inhale to the bottom of my lungs and let myself remember.

  Not the bad part, but before.

  Before the fight that made him storm out of the apartment.

  Before the call that … no don’t go there every pore seems to cry out.

  I inhale again and breathe out hard. Let’s start over, remembering only the good parts. A languid mood steals over me as I squeeze the creamy body wash in my hands, foregoing the shower puff. I smooth it over my skin, stroking my legs, my belly, my ass, felling my skin start to tingle as I picture him.

  It’s so easy. The broad shoulders at my eyeline, bulging out into powerful biceps. His entire upper torso just built for shouldering the helpless, the fearful. Those arms that could pick me up and shoulder me as though I weighed nothing.

  I loved to palm the hard swell of his pectoral. The muscle beneath the smooth leathery skin, pushing and alive. So alive.

  Watch it. Don’t stray from the goal.

  I close my eyes and see, feel in my eyes, the hard grooves laddering down his stomach, to that perfectly etched vee over his hipbones, cupping the huge cock, standing erect and swaying with anticipation.

  My nipples peak as my slick hands cup my breasts. Moisture gathers between my legs. My hands slide over the soft mounds of flesh, flicking the stiff peaks with my thumbs. I pinch them lightly between my finger and thumb and squeeze, just a little. then a little harder. The pain feels good and makes me gasp. My legs tremble, and my core begins to throb with urgent need.

  It’s time. I fiddle with the shower controls, lift the hand-held part of the shower head down, so that a single stream of warm water is pulsing from its central outlet.

  Eyes closed, I direct the forceful water first to my left nipple, then the right. Remembering his touch. It feels like his lips and teeth, teasing me. When one nipple begins to go numb, I move the stream to the other. Ah, that one. God, yes.

  It could be better. Jon’s hands would be on both breasts, mounding the flesh insistently, adjusting the pressure from caress to grasp. But I only have one free hand. I’m losing the fantasy. Do something else.

  Sighing, I point the water down, down, there. Oh, God- this. Waves of pleasure ripple through me as the water thrums my clit. Very soon the tension begins to build, and build. Take the water away, make it last. Don’t let it be over.

  My eyes are squeezed tight shut. Almost as if by its own volition, the water pours over my breasts again, left nipple, right nipple, now down to my thighs again.

  I’m no longer in control. My entire focus is on keeping the water right on my clit, while I’m trembling so badly I can barely aim it. I need more. My other hand, busy teasing my nipples, drops to spread my flesh. Pulling my lips apart so the exposure ratchets up my hunger.

  An electric thrill shoots down my spine and almost drops me. Almost there, almost. An eternity passes while my body hangs on the brink of orgasm. And then I curl into myself, the pressure moves me to the edge, shudders start taking me. I lean back against the tile for support, on the brink of falling in the tub from the promise of relief, but not there yet, my knees threatening to buckle. Then Mr. Pete starts barking.

  My beagle pup’s insistent alert snaps me out of my fantasy and I’m just a lonely young woman getting herself off.

  “Great timing, Pete,” I mutter.

  I’ll get out of the shower in a minute. Can I recapture the glow? No. It’s gone. Well, there’s always tomorrow. Or maybe later this afternoon I’ll… what the hell is wrong with that dog? He sounds as frenzied as though there’s an animal in the cabin. Oh, shit! Has that raccoon gotten in again?

  Mr. Pete begins to croon. I grab my towel, stumbling out of the tub. Clutching the towel, I yank open the door and tumble into the bedroom. Run through, stubbing my toe on something I’ve left in the floor, and shoot into the kitchen, looking for the dog. My still aroused pores now on alert for the intruder rifling through my food supplies. Where did I leave that broom?

  He’s standing stiff-legged, his little brown head with its funny white face thrown back, ears down, mouth wide open in song. “Pete, what’s wrong?”

  He stops baying, throws a wide-eyed, panicked look behind me, into the front of the room, and begins barking again. I turn toward the front door. And see a ghost.

  “Jon?”

  This can’t be real. And my body agrees; my knees wobble and are about
to give way as I’m overtaken by a powerful shaking.

  Jon?

  The towel falls from my nerveless fingers and I drift toward the tall, blue-eyed, impossibly handsome specter in my doorway. He’s dressed in his turnout gear, just as he was a year ago today. When they pulled his singed body out from under the fire shelter that failed to save him.

  The apparition doesn’t answer me.

  Of course, it doesn’t. It’s a ghost, I tell myself, as if that makes perfect sense. Or my fantasy mind bringing an apparition. I sway toward it, desperate for Jon’s powerful arms around me again, knowing it will dissolve into nothing when I reach it, like always.

  Only, when I reach the huge form and reach my fingertips, they land on solid flesh. Its huge arms come around me, holding me up before I drop to the floor.

  “Sorry, lady, I heard the dog inside, and…”

  His arms are still around me. My naked skin is being scratched by the coarse Nomex, bringing me from the surreal to the real in a heartbeat.

  Where the fuck is my towel?

  He smells of smoke. I look up at him, and he has a cocky grin on his face.

  Oh, fuck no. This is not happening. He doesn’t look like Jon at all. My heart hammers. Who is he? Why is he here?

  “Who are you? What the fuck are you doing in my living room?” I squeal, my voice cracking.

  I think better of the words the moment they’re out of my mouth, but it’s too late. With relief, I see something else in his expression. The cocky grin fades, and his eyes turn serious, though he’s still holding me. For some reason, I have no desire to leave his arms.

  “I’m Shawn Newton, ma’am. You know my name. You said it a minute ago.”

  “What? No, I didn’t,” I squawk.

  “Just before you dropped your towel.”

  The grin is back, and it infuriates me. I push away, and he lets me go, but only after momentarily resisting. I turn my back on him with as much dignity as I can muster, walk to the towel I dropped. I stop myself just in time from bending over and fold at the knees, dipping to pick up the towel while hopefully not giving him a view of any more of me than I already have. Could this get any worse?

  Yeah, I tell myself. At least he hasn’t tackled you and had his way with you. Yet.

  With my back still turned to him, I belatedly wrap the towel around my perky tits and measure the distance between me and the knife block, in case I have to defend myself. I’m at a disadvantage, so I go on the offense.

  “You still didn’t tell me what you’re doing in my living room.”

  “Well… “

  I have the towel wrapped around me, now, tucked in between my breasts. To my annoyance, my nipples are still stiff, inspired by the rough material of his turnout coat. I need to turn around, just in case he gets any ideas about sneaking up behind me, but I don’t want him to see. I cross my arms over my boobs and turn.

  The bastard is obviously trying hard not to laugh.

  “Well?”

  Before he can say another word, Mr. Pete starts barking again and rushes to get between us. The guy looks down at my comical little dog baying like a wolf in his puppy voice and lets out a low throaty laugh.

  The ridiculousness of the situation finally sinks in, my eyes lift to the stranger’s at the same time and I can’t stop the smile.

  2

  Shawn

  Holy fucking shit! Of all the misadventures I’ve ever had in my line of work, and there have been a few, this is the weirdest. And also the stuff of firehall chatter hard-ons.

  First, I get to the door of what seems to be an unoccupied cabin, and when I knock, no one answers. But then the dog starts barking. Where is the resident? Why did he leave his dog here, in the cabin alone? That’s easy. He’s gone to work. Because surely he wouldn’t have taken off and left the little guy behind. This dog isn’t going to make it.

  So, I break in. And fortunately I didn’t kick the door in, which crossed my mind. Next thing I know, this eager beagle is threatening to kill me, and then this crazy naked chick comes barreling out of the back, drops her towel, and falls into my arms.

  I’m a professional, but this is too much for any healthy male to stand up to- or not.

  And if she didn’t call my name, what did she say right before tossing her wrapping to the ground? She must have thought I was someone else.

  “I think we need to start over,” I hear myself say.

  What I really think is I’d like to go back to before she picked up the towel and covered over that perfect body. But it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen, and besides, I’m here on business.

  “My name is Shawn Newton,” I repeat. “I’m here to notify you of a mandatory evacuation.”

  Her eyebrows rise.

  “I did knock,” I gruff out and am rewarded with a scowl from those perfect lips. I have to not look at her mouth. Eyes up.

  “Look, I like dogs, okay?” I continue, defending myself for some reason. “When you didn’t answer, and the little guy here started barking, I thought he was left alone. The fire… I couldn’t leave him here to burn.” I turn my hands palm out and raise my arms a little.

  She has an expressive face. It softens at my confession of a weakness for dogs, then the scowl returns and she says; “Thank you. You can leave now.”

  In the few minutes since she came busting out of the other room, her hair has started to dry from a deep auburn to what looks like it will turn out to be strawberry blond. The mass of curls would be perfect to run my hands through, if I ever get the chance to come close again.

  “I’m afraid I have to stay until I can confirm you’ll comply with the e-vac order,” I tell her, getting business-like. “I’ll wait here while you get dressed.”

  Her mouth falls open. Her arms are already crossed over her tits, but if they weren’t, she’d be crossing them now. She’s got that look on her face. This one is a rebel. Doesn’t play with the rules.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” she purrs. “Get out.”

  Wow. Feisty.

  “Yes, ma’am. I will go outside,” I nod, the total professional. “But I’ll be waiting for you to come out.” I love how her scowl deepens and her lips get fuller into a stubborn pout. I can imagine biting that flesh and sucking it into my mouth. “If you don’t, I’ll have to come in and get you.”

  Her face turns pink, and her green eyes, swear to God, turn brown with dark angst. “Bite him, Pete.”

  Luckily, Pete’s the dog, not some dude she keeps chained in the back to do her will. I heard her say his name before she noticed me. He cocks his head toward her when he hears his name, and sits there, looking confused and as goofy as a dog can look. I can’t help but laugh.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she says.

  The dog woofs with pleasure, thinking she’s talking to him again, I guess.

  “Listen, lady,” I say, getting serious again when I recall the gravity of the situation. “There’s a fire burning up this hill. You need to get a move on.”

  I try to put authority in my tone, but looking at the goofy dog, I want to laugh again. The girl, who I just called ‘lady’ like she’s my mother’s age, is fuming, not only the skin on her face pink, but a hot pink spot spreading from the hollow of her throat to the cleavage that just won’t be hidden away with the towel. I’d love to see that flush travel all the way to those gorgeous nipples.

  Yeah, I looked and they’re tattooed on my memory. So, what? Now I’m aware that recalling that image makes my dick unfurl eagerly. Thank fuck for the Nomex. I can’t imagine what she’ll tell the dog to do if she notices I’m getting a hard-on.

  Without another word, she whirls around and stalks into the back of the house she emerged from. I’m guessing it’s her bedroom. I stand there trying not to picture her body without the towel again while she puts on some clothes. It’s getting uncomfortable enough in my tightening pants without fueling the flame, to coin an apt phrase.

  Under other circumstances, in another world,
I’d follow her in there. She’s hot as sin, and when she first came out of that room, she looked like she’d just been fucked. Her face all pink, her hair wet and tousled. It doesn’t take much effort to picture what she was doing in the shower. And there doesn’t seem to be a Mr Stubborn at home. I bet she could be persuaded.

  I think about my reputation. The only thing I can do to damage it is not take advantage of this situation. My crew thinks I can fuck any woman I want, just because of that stupid calendar.

  Fund-raiser, they said. Hot firefighters, they said. So now I’m Mr. August. My half-naked body, leaving little to the imagination with my turnout pants riding as low as decency permitted, is plastered all over the county. A surprising number of women have shown up at the station, looking for Mr August. Who am I to deny them their five minutes?

  This woman isn’t one of them. She said my name, though—I swear it. Now she denies it, but why else would she literally throw herself into my arms? I need to get to the bottom of it. Going all detective mode, I start looking around the cabin for the calendar.

  It’s a small cabin, finished in rough logs. The living room has no television, just one easy chair and a rocker, both with homemade quilts thrown over their backs. Funny- this girl doesn’t look like the crafting type. Actually she doesn’t look like the cabin type either. I continue my inspection, wanting to figure out more about her.

  A bookshelf lines one wall, loaded with art books, psychology and memoir. Windows take up the other two. There’s a half-wall separating the kitchen, where the dog has retreated. The two rooms together form an L, while what I assume is one bedroom with a bath forms the rest of the square. All of it hand chopped and carved wood.