Another FILF [Fireman I'd Like to F**k] Page 3

  I don’t want to hurt her. I could disarm her, but without exposing myself to a bad cut or worse, I’d have to hurt her. I need to think of another way.

  “Sweetheart, put the knife down, please.”

  She looks at it again, tilts her head.

  “I was just—" She trails off. Then she looks directly into my eyes. “Jon, why did you leave? I’ve missed you so much.”

  The hairs on my neck stand up. She’s entered a fantasy world, and I’ve become her dead boyfriend. I’m about to set her straight when it occurs to me I can use this. She’ll hate me afterward, but at least we’ll both get out of this alive. If I can persuade her to put down the knife.

  “Baby, I didn’t mean to,” I rasp, not only due to the smoke getting thicker. “Will you forgive me? I’m here now.”

  I take a step toward her, shrugging out of my turnout coat. I’m going to wish I hadn’t done that if I can’t turn this around quickly.

  “You hurt me.”

  Tears spill over, and suddenly I’m fucking pissed at the dead man who broke this woman’s heart. She’s magnificent, her hair now floating around her in a cloud of light red-gold. She has a pixie face, little pointed chin below a mouth made for kissing, a pert little nose, and eyes too big for her. They’re green again, now that she isn’t mad anymore.

  I hold out my hand, wincing in anticipation of her slashing across it with the knife, but instead she lays it gently in my palm. I drop it as she moves into my arms again.

  “I forgive you.”

  She turns up her face, her lips moist and parted for a kiss. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t but I do. I dip my head and take what’s offered. If she hates me after, then at least I’ll have had the prize. Her hands smooth my shirt and fumble for the hem, and just like that, it’s over my head. Her wet cheek presses into my skin, over my heart.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” she breathes. “I need you, Jon. I want you. Right now.”

  Fuck. There’s no time, but if this will make her cooperate.

  Shit, who am I kidding?

  I’ve been hot for her since she came dashing into the room I’d busted into and promptly dropped her towel. I’ve never seen such a perfectly voluptuous little body. And now her small hands are fumbling with my belt. I push them away and instantly regret it.

  She mewls out a snark of frustration and I lose all my good intentions. I can get the closing undone faster than she can. As soon as I do, her eyes stretch wide and she yanks her tank top over her head. The lacy bra I saw earlier is gone now and her naked breasts bounce into my hands like they need to be there permanently.

  My Nomex brush pants are around my ankles, and she’s pushing down her jeans and panties as I crowd her backward toward a table behind her. Her ass hits it and I lift her hips as I tumble her onto her back. She lets out a whimper as I tug one leg of her jeans off her foot and then rip clean through the bikini panty when it gets caught.

  An image of the little foil packet that’s always in my wallet flashes briefly in my brain, the part that’s still working that is. The small part that hasn’t been totally detonated by the raging desire to be buried deep inside red. Yeah, real red. My wallet’s in my truck. No time, fuck it, and damn the consequences. If things don’t change in the next hour, we could both be dead anyway.

  Damn, she’s gorgeous. Her creamy skin is so soft, and the thin strip of red-gold cloud between her legs looks like strands of silk. Dripping wet silk. I take a beat to enjoy the sight of her pink pussy pulsating and glistening with her desire. Then I rise up tall and take in her tits, also tipped with pink, taut buds.

  Her fingers claw at my shoulders, dragging me between her thighs as she moans hungrily. I’m more than ready. My dick is pushing forward like a racehorse at the gate, and this needs to happen fast.

  I tip down to take one nipple between my teeth and nip gently. Her gasp tells me she’s more than ready, too and my fingers find the evidence as I part her. Her juice slicks my fingers when I graze across her swollen clit to push two into her. Her tight little pussy clenches around them. Her nails gouge into my bicep and then a white-hot light flashes behind my eyes as I slam my dick into where my fingers were only a second ago. Lila lets out a high-pitched scream and throws her head back.

  My eyes snap open. Is she okay? Have I hurt her? I’m bigger than most so I’m told and I’m not exactly being gentle here. My hips don’t care—they’re pumping as if my life depends on it and my dick’s enjoying the ride. Her head is still back, eyes closed, mouth open and panting. A deep blush extends all the way to those delicious tits, which are bouncing with each of my thrusts.

  She’s saying something, as usual more to herself than me.

  “Harder,” she whimpers when I demand that she repeat herself. “Fuck me harder.”

  I curl down to tug one of her pointed tits into my mouth and she tightens convulsively around me. Fuck, I’m not going to last. On the heels of that thought, my brain starts working again. Doesn’t matter, we’ve got to get out of here.

  Shit, I’m not a complete dickhead. I like my women to get off before I take the glory, too. I’m almost there—is she? With my mouth still sucking hard on one nipple, I reach to tweak the other, and sure enough, another squeeze. I reach down between us and find the sweet spot. AS i strum across her bulbous clit, the tight squeeze of her pussy around my pole almost does me in. Lila wails and begins to writhe against me.

  That’s it, sweetheart, let go.

  I pump harder, faster, and she meets me thrust for thrust. She’s dug her fingers into my back, the nails drawing blood, maybe. I nip the stiff bundle of flesh, and she digs in harder, squeezes with that incredible pussy tighter, and I can’t hold back anymore.

  With a deep groan, I push in and let go, gushing into her like a fucking geyser. My mind goes blank.

  When the first molecule of oxygen-rich blood reaches my brain again, I’m holding a woman who’s gone stiff as a day-old corpse. Except corpses don’t tremble from head to toe, and they don’t have pussies like vices. At least, not to my knowledge. She’s humming a note I’ve never heard before. Somewhere, the dog starts baying.

  5

  Lila

  I’m staring into a pair of high mountain sky-blue eyes, spent, my arms circling a muscular back, and I’ve just had the most intense orgasm of my life.

  The eyes don’t belong to Jon.

  Mine widen—I can feel them being stretched like one of my canvases. I didn’t just- no I cannot have-

  “Oh, fuck!”

  “Yeah, we sure did.” The bastard grins.

  “Get the fuck off me,” I snarl.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He puts both hands on either side of me and pushes himself upright. The slithery feeling of his cock coming out gives me an aftershock, and I gasp. It’s still almost solid. I glance down and see the thing is softening but it’s a huge bastard. I’m amazed I managed to take it all inside me. Then I realize I’m going to be sore as all hell tomorrow. If there is a tomorrow. He grins again.

  “You bastard!” I say.

  “Probably. But you did say you…”

  “Shut up. I know what I said. Now will you get out?” My demand isn’t really a question.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he repeats. Still grinning, he can’t take his eyes off my parted folds as he pulls up his pants, searches the floor for his shirt and shrugs it on. “I’ll go find the dog.” He glances at his watch. “You have… ten minutes to finish putting stuff in your car, and then we’re going. If you refuse, I’m authorized to arrest you.”

  “You’re lying. You aren’t law enforcement. Take the dog and get lost. I never want to see you again.”

  I’m not thinking straight. How will I get my Mr Pete back?

  “Citizen’s arrest. You forget about those handcuffs?” He leers at me again with that lop-sided cocky grin I’d like to slap off his smug but even more gorgeous face.

  “Shut up.”

  “You never answered me. Did you set
this fire?” he asks.

  “What? No! Of course not.What the hell are you talking about?”

  I remember now. He asked that before. Why would he think that? The question falls out of my mouth in spite of my intention not to speak to him again, ever.

  “Why would you think that?”

  He does a slow turn, pointedly looking at each of the canvases.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Because you seem to be more than slightly obsessed by fire?”

  Rage clouds my vision. That doesn’t deserve an answer, but he’s going to get one, along with a piece of my mind.

  “Ever hear of loss, grief or stress, you fucking bastard?” I snarl viciously. I’d actually like to find that knife and use it, seeing as he’s already decided I’m a nutjob. “Did you get the part where my fiancé was killed in a fire through your fat head? One year ago, today? It’s fucking therapeutic. A way of processing. God, you’re such an asshole.”

  “Lady, I’ve been called much worse. Okay, I accept you didn’t start the fire.”

  “Accept? You accept?” I squeal.

  He starts backing up.

  “I’ll take your dog. But I am not leaving you behind when I leave here, and I repeat, I am not going to die for you. You’re coming with me one way or another. You can save your car and whatever possessions you can get into it in the next ten minutes, or you can leave it all to burn. Your choice.”

  He stomps out, , tugging his belt together as he goes and slamming the door behind him.

  I’m propped on my elbows, butt and thighs spread over my table, and legs still splayed. Now that he’s gone, I realize I’m lucky he didn’t all me out for being a hypocrite as I reamed him out. A few seconds pass as I take it in. I’ve just had sex with a total stranger, who bears only a passing resemblance to my lost love. I’ve done my best to antagonize the man whose seed is oozing out of me at every turn.

  And he’s still here, still trying to find Mr. Pete to save him from the fire. And still trying to save me. I’m a bitch. A well-fucked and completely satisfied bitch. Fuck that was incredible. I haven’t felt this alive in at least a year.

  I start to cry.

  Outside, Shawn’s calling the dog and I note that Mr. Pete isn’t howling anymore. Where has he got to?

  I push myself the rest of the way up, discover my panties are hanging off my ankle, beyond salvation and rip them the rest of the way off. I’ll have to go commando. I pull up the jeans, find my top and tug it back on. How long did he say? Ten minutes? No way! Four or five must have passed already.

  Frantically, I shove my feet into my flip flops and run for the house. “Shawn! Shawn, I need help!”

  He isn’t in the house, and neither is Mr. Pete. I grab my engagement ring, which I don’t wear while I’m painting because I’m so messy, and shove it onto my ring finger. For safekeeping I tell myself, knowing it’s a lie.

  Flip flops aren’t the best mountain footwear, but there’s no time to find socks or put on my boots. Finding Shawn on the other hand is urgent. If I don’t wrap the canvases, just stack them, that will be faster. But there’s not enough room in my car. I needed to wrap them and tie them onto the roof. Also no time. The air is thickening with acrid smoke every moment.

  The bastard has a truck, doesn’t he? At least some of the paintings will survive if he agrees to take them. Filled with the relief of finally putting a plan together, I run outside and circle the house. Where the hell has he gone? Is Mr. Pete afraid of him and l took off, leading the bastard deeper and deeper into the surrounding forest?

  I call out, my throat rasping from the smoke. No answer from either of them. I turn and run back to the studio and grab as many canvases as I can carry, then stagger with them to his truck, only to find the flat bed is enclosed. I leave them on the dried up earth and carry two of them to push into the back seat of my mini-Cooper. The rest won’t fit.

  More than ten minutes have passed. Damn that man! He imposes a deadline and then disappears. Fuck him. I should get out of here. But I can’t leave without him. He’s searching for my dog, after all and it was Mr Pete who was responsible for getting us into this ridiculous situation in the first place.

  “Mr. Pete!” I shout.

  I need to find them both. I go back into the house to get the leash, but it’s gone. Shawn must have taken it. I sit down to think, but immediately pop back up. If I’m going to wait, I may as well do something productive, like finish making the sandwich I started. I go into the kitchen. There’s a huge bite taken out of two slices of sourdough. The sandwich meat is gone. Shawn must have taken it to tempt Pete to come to him, but not before helping himself to a bite. That man has no qualms about taking whatever he wants.

  I stand in the middle of my kitchen, trying to think. What should I do? If I go past the edge of the clearing to look, I could miss both Shawn and the dog. Early childhood training reinforced the idea that when lost, you stay put so as not to go wandering in circles. But if Shawn is somehow lost in the smoke, he could - die. A surge rises through my core and my mind goes completely blank as though a switch was thrown off on my brain.

  At least I’ve also pushed out the thought that Pete may also be lost and unable to smell his way home because of the smoke, which is working its way under doors and window ledges into the house, thicker now. I’m having some trouble breathing. The panic about my dog and the - that man - sends me outside screaming.

  “Shawn! Shawn, follow my voice! Oh, god! Don’t you die! You promised you wouldn’t on my account, remember? Shawn! Mr. Pete!”

  I keep it up until my throat is raw, and I need a drink of water. As soon as I’ve had some, I’m back outside, screaming anything I can think of to provide a beacon of sound for him. I’m sure it’s just because of Jon, the past, and nothing to do with the sexy firefighter somehow finding, against my will and against all odds, a place in my heart.

  Visibility is down to no more than a yard or two and the flames are starting to lick at the edges of the scene. I look down at the painting and up at real life, as the same phantom wearing turnout gear swims through the murky air. It’s like some crazy movie where the painting has become reality. I’m shaking hard when the figure comes stumbling toward me into my arms.

  “Jon,” I murmur.

  “I’m so sorry, Lila. I can’t find him,” Shawn croaks.

  I grab him around the waist and hug him to me.

  “Where the fuck have you been? It’s been way more than ten minutes! I thought you were going to -”

  I burst into tears as his arms come around me. I don’t know whether I’m crying from relief, from grief for my dog, or from sheer frustration with this impossibly stubborn and arrogant man.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeats, croaking so I feel bad for putting him through all this. “Are you ready to go?”

  I struggle out of his embrace and look up at him. He’s covered in soot, his face blackened from it.

  “Without my dog?” I frown. “No. You go ahead. Save yourself. Mr Pete will come back to me, I’m sure.”

  Shawn’s expression hardens. I see the small muscle flex where his jaw is hinged. I know nothing about him but I do see his stubborn side is emerging.

  “I hate it as much as you do, Lila, but we can’t wait any longer. The smoke is going to kill us if the fire doesn’t, and I’m not sure we can even get through now. But we have to try.”

  He doesn’t say what I’m thinking. We would have had fifteen more minutes to find Pete if we hadn’t… I shove the thought away.

  “No, we don’t. I don’t. You don’t owe us anything. Save yourself.”

  I don’t add bastard. Even if he is one, that isn’t fair. He’s done his best to get me out of here, and the fault is mine alone if I die here. The romantic drama of dying here the same way as Jon and with the paintings of him suddenly seems dry. He wouldn’t want that. And suddenly, I don’t either.

  Why did he have to show up now? Before what happened in the studio, I’d have been perfectly happy to leave this
world and join Jon. It would have been the sweetest irony to die in a fire, the same way Jon did, a year to the day later. I’m not afraid of burning. The smoke will get me before the fire does.

  Already it’s hard to breathe. But I am not leaving Mr Pete behind.

  6

  Shawn

  “Lila? What is it, are you okay?”

  She’s fading on me, her mind confused and her breathing becoming labored. This is a fucking disaster, and I don’t mean the fire. Or I do. I’m supposed to take care of her, that’s my fucking job and I’m good at it. Or I was until the moment I walked into her house and saw her.

  It’s all a massive fuck-up, from the time I broke in, to when I fucked her. I don’t call that a waste of time. If it turns out to be the last fuck of my life, it was also the best.

  I hate to leave the crazy dog, but I’m now looking at a medical emergency. She’s been breathing rapidly and not used to this much smoke. She’s inhaled too much particulate and needs a respirator. I scoop her up in my arms and start toward the truck. She’s feebly smacking at me and kicking the entire way. I’d have expected nothing less from this kook.

  Something about the way her house sits on the cleared lot means there’s less smoke at the side, just a few steps away from where we were standing before I picked her up. Her eyes refocus and she gets her second wind.

  “Put me down!” she commands, clear as day.

  “If I do, will you walk to the truck with me, or am I going to have to carry you all the way there?”

  “Please put me down?”

  Since it isn’t a demand, I stop and set her on her feet. But I take her elbow to guide her in case the smoke thickens again when we reach the corner of the house. It’s still so thick I can’t see the truck, which can’t be more than 30 feet away.

  With the first step, I know she’s going to be trouble again. She doesn’t move her feet. I stop.

  “Lila, come on. This is no time to screw around. Let’s go.”