Smokin' Hot Firemen

by Delilah Devlin, Jo Davis

  Steve damn near tripped over the first kid, a girl in a filthy, torn T-shirt and diaper, curled up near the door. “Kyle!” He scooped the baby up and handed her over. Only Kyle’s third live fire, and Cartwright’s sister Angela had already chewed their asses once for letting the boy take risks. “Get her out, I’ll check the bedrooms!”

  Kyle was going to have to grow up sometime. The Cartwrights had been founding members of the station, back in 1902, but no one could tell Angela that. She’d married into the family. Fuck it. There’d probably be a picture-snapper out there with the looky-loos to get the boy on the front page, carrying the baby out the door. Maybe that would get Angie on the truck with everyone else.

  “Roof’s ablaze,” Hinkley said. “14 and 9 are on scene soaking down the neighbors.”

  “Someone’s insurance is gonna scream blue murder,” Chris said.

  “Lives first, paperwork later,” Steve chanted. “Get me some water in here!” He pushed into the living area. The television was the only recognizable thing left, and it was pouring white smoke; the sofa and chairs were lumps of misshapen ash and smolder. Chris flipped the chairs and shoved the burning sofa away from the wall; kids did the damnedest things in a fire. Hid under tables, in closets, behind dressers.

  Chris peeled off, kicking in the toasted door to the bathroom with one booted foot. “Got one here,” he reported.

  That kid was sopping wet, the water steaming off his skin as Chris wrapped him in a towel. He must have filled the tub. “Chessie! Chessie!” The boy screamed, pointing back toward the deepest part of the apartment, where the fire was worst.

  “Go, go!” Steve yelled. “I’m on the third.” He hoped. “We’ll get Chessie out.”

  The bedroom was hell in a kettle. Flames wreathed the walls. Smoke was dense and black, obscuring his vision. Any kid in here...

  Steve shook his head. He stopped in the door, careful. The floor seemed solid enough. He glanced around, letting his eyes rest on each area of the room for a few seconds. Bed was so much char. Bookshelves, the twisted remains of a space heater. One for the fire marshal to prod at, he expected. Closet door was open, there was nothing in there but flaming clothes and toys... toys... He shifted his gaze. The toy box—solid wood with cracking, faded paint—huddled just below the window. He strode across the room, lifted the lid.

  Chessie was in there, blanket over her head, pink My Little Pony footie pajamas on. She didn’t move when he lifted her, and in the strange darkness of the fire-bright room, shadows throwing crazed sparks into the air, he couldn’t tell if she was breathing. Behind him the doorframe collapsed, along with a fair amount of ceiling and roofing tile.

  “Amy!” Steve bellowed into his helmet mike. “Need you, babe. Get me a ladder up here, second floor!”

  “On it!”

  Her voice was music in his ears. Keeping the girl tight to his chest, he cracked the window. Tricky bit of work, with windows. If you opened them, you could get out, but there was also the risk of fanning the flames. Here, he didn’t think there was much choice. “Got a fuckin’ traffic cone in my way. Goddamn cops.” Steve peered out the window to watch the cop scramble back out of the patrol car to move it away.

  “I got the kid here,” Steve said, “which is making suppression all kinds of unreasonably difficult.”

  “Get your panties out of your ass,” Amy said. “I’m coming.”

  The tower came up, Hinkley already climbing up like a pirate’s monkey. “I got the kid, you get your ass down here,” he said, holding one arm out for Steve’s bundle. “If we’re lucky on this one, we can save the basement.”

  Just before he threw his legs over the windowsill, Steve heard Amy snort into her headset. “Yeah, save the basement for a swimming pool.”

  “How ya doing, hero?” Amy threw a towel at Steve as he crossed out of the locker room, hair dripping down his T-shirt, feet bare.

  “Whose Kool-Aid you been drinking? Thought that reporter was going to cream her jeans for the interview with Kyle.”

  “Yeah, yeah, brush it off.”

  “I don’t do the job to get medals pinned on my chest,” Steve said. “It’s not about that. It was never about that.” Steve toweled his hair vigorously, suppressing the smile that teased at his mouth as Amy danced back out of the way of flung water droplets.

  Amy perched on one of the stools near the coffee maker. She poured and handed him a mug.

  Black, viscous crap. Ah, the glamorous life of a hero. He drank it anyway. Another hour on shift, and then he still had to drive home. But the four days off would be sweet even if they weren’t over a weekend.

  “So what is it about? For you?”

  “Someone’s gotta do it,” Steve said. “And since I can... What about you? What are you here for?”

  Amy ignored the question. “Is it worth it? Everyone says that’s why Lindsey left you. The job. You even get to see your kid this weekend? Play a little catch?”

  “More like hack up zombies,” Steve said. “Kids don’t want to play ball anymore. They wave controllers at the TV.”

  “Get off my lawn, old man,” Amy smirked.

  “It’s hard for some people,” Steve said. He wasn’t angry with Lindsey. Not really. Although he could have done without paying huge legal fees to defend his right to see Cody more than twice a year. “Having someone you care about risking his life all the time.”

  “There are better ways to cope,” Amy said. She hooked her feet around the legs of her barstool, cuddling her coffee mug without actually tasting it. She grimaced and stretched her fingers.

  “Still gripping the wheel too hard?” Steve plucked one slender, calloused hand from around the warm ceramic and pressed his thumbs to the sore spot in the center of her palm.

  She groaned and put the cup down, contents still unsampled. Smart woman.

  “That feels heavenly,” she said. She shook her head back, the weight of her gold-blond hair seeming too heavy for her slender throat. Amy stayed that way, hair swinging loose over her back, eyes closed. She licked her lips in appreciation, a few low groans passing between her lips as he massaged first one hand, then the other.

  He moved closer, holding her arm to his chest as he worked his thumbs into sore muscles.

  “You slipped up today.”

  “Hmmm?” He wasn’t exactly listening, too busy watching the play of sensual responses on her face, his body heating from her nearness.

  “How about we not play this game anymore?” Amy opened her eyes, a rich, creamy smile painting her mouth as she took note of how close he was, their faces separated by nothing more than the merest whisper. “Let’s just admit we like each other and see what happens.”

  “Amy...” Steve tried to take a step back and suddenly her hand tightened on his. He could have broken her grasp, but freeing himself from her gaze was impossible. “We work together.”

  “You want me to quit my job before you’ll admit you want me?”

  “Hell no,” Steve said. “We need you here.”

  “And you? What do you need?” She leaned closer still, until the heat of her breath was enough to drive him mad.

  “This is a mistake,” he said, stepping into the cradle of her thighs.

  “Only if you actually get around to making it,” she said, her voice breaking with a sound: half sob, half laughter.

  He kissed her. The world could have burned, but for that moment, there was nothing else beyond her kiss. The silken taste of her mouth, the faint remnants of the fire-smell in her hair, her warm hands against his chest, the pressure of her thighs against his hips.

  “Come on, hero,” Amy whispered against his hair, “we probably shouldn’t wait ’round here ’til next shift. The boys will want their engine degreaser.”

  Engine 31 was hosed down, fresh and clean already from the afternoon’s adventure.

  Amy spread her coat along the step-up into the cab. “If there’s another fire...” she started, biting at her lip, suddenly uncertain.

/>   “We’ll be right here. Can’t get much faster than that,” Steve said, catching her mouth in another kiss and swallowing the rest of her words. He tugged her T-shirt up, hands on the sleek flesh of her back.

  She arched as his fingers traced the path of her spine, tickling and caressing the small of her back. She was braless beneath and he couldn’t resist the siren call of her breasts, licking a trail of fire over her stomach until his mouth closed over her stiffening nipple.

  Amy’s quick, clever fingers were on his belt, loosening the buckle and then popping open the buttons on his fly.

  “Hey, slow down,” Steve said, pulling her hand up to his mouth and nipping the tips of her fingers. “Where’s the fire?”

  Amy snorted, a singularly unfeminine noise. “Is it mandatory,” she asked, “for every firefighter in the world to make that joke?”

  Steve considered it, licking down her index finger and planting a kiss in the palm of her hand.

  She shivered under his ministrations.

  “Yeah, probably.”

  “Jerk.”

  “And yet you want me anyway.”

  “I always did have bad taste.” Amy shrugged. She tugged off her T-shirt, dropping it to the floor.

  “I don’t know about that,” Steve joked. He traced a line of kisses down her throat, along her collarbone, then returned to her nipple, teasing it erect with his tongue. “I think you taste pretty good.” He nuzzled at the warm flesh under her breast, nibbled down her ribs, and tongued the ticklish spot over her hip until she was breathless and twisting in his arms.

  This time, when she reached for his jeans, he let her, aching for her touch.

  Her hand was quick, warm, the skin soft as she brushed against the flesh of his lower stomach. Muscles jumped and twitched along his belly and thighs, his cock hard inside suddenly-too-tight denim. She undid his buttons far too slowly, and he groaned aloud when she finally took him in hand.

  She pushed his jeans down around his ankles and nudged him backward until he sat on her coat, feeling the muted prickle of boot-grip steel under the rugged canvas.

  With a lithe elegance that heated his blood to boiling, Amy stepped out of her own jeans, revealing long, shapely legs and a pair of white granny panties the likes of which could tent half the station.

  “Oh, very sexy,” he growled, low in his throat, and pulled her to him for a fierce kiss, tasting her tongue, devouring her mouth.

  Amy’s fingers came up to cup the base of his skull and rasped against his brutally short hair. “You want sexy underwear, you have to take me out. You want a quickie against the steed, you settle for what don’t ride up my ass while I’m working.”

  Steve grinned against her mouth, then nipped her chin lightly. “I’m not complaining. They look—you look—amazing.”

  Amy climbed onto the stairwell with him, knees wide, bracketing his thighs. She gripped the rails and raised her hips.

  Steve curled an arm around her back to support her, his other hand wandering down the flat plane of her belly and down, fingers teasing around the pale triangle of hair.

  She squirmed, twisting against him, her thighs rubbing against the length of his cock.

  He swallowed hard, forced himself to go slow. His cock had other opinions about that and let him know with a twist of almost-pain along his stomach.

  “There, there,” Amy whispered, shifting her hips again, directing his roaming fingers. She adjusted her grip on the rail, thrusting her breasts forward.

  He took one offered nipple, biting gently and licking at the very tip. The folds of her labia were swollen and he teased the plump skin there, running the nail of his thumb lightly along the split as she wriggled against his fingers.

  Eyes closed, she leaned back hard against his arm, nearly bowed backward, her blond hair tickling against his knees and calves.

  He dropped a hot, wet kiss along her belly, then spread her folds, finding the tiny bud of sensation within, flicking it neatly with his fingertips.

  She spasmed against him almost immediately, the damp skin growing hotter, wetter. Her female scent, rich and pungent, teased his nostrils.

  Steve rubbed his thumb along her clitoris, pressing up and around, circling and brushing against the tender skin, quick then slow as her breath raced in and out of her lungs. He watched her face, his own wanting barely contained as he teased, bringing her closer and closer, then backing off, almost grinning at her soft mewls of frustration.

  She raised up, pulling herself closer to him, trapping his hand between their bodies. “Now, damn it,” she ordered, biting the shell of his ear.

  Her entrance was hot, soaking wet, over him. He curled his hand under her hip, lifted her ass. His cock pressed, eager and with a mind of its own, against her vestibule. He flicked his thumb again, awkward but effective, against her clitoris, rotating his hips slowly, rubbing the head of his cock against her flesh, just the head, just a tease, a taste, the faintest brush.

  She convulsed against him. Her teeth shaped a fiery circle against his shoulder, biting down, stifling her scream against his skin, and at that moment he thrust into her, the paroxysms of her internal muscles tight and feverish over his aching shaft.

  Amy twisted her hips, grinding down on him, bracing herself against the rails. The slide of flesh against flesh, not just up-and-down thrusting like he was accustomed to but a sliding, gliding spiral, her soaked, soft depths against his hard length, a molten dance of skin against skin.

  “That’s good,” he said, gasping the words against her throat, beaded with sweat. He wrapped his arms around her, fingers biting into the small of her back, pulling her closer, closer. He wanted his whole self inside her, every fiber of his being. She was sweet, so sweet, and she shivered against him, mouth hot and wet against his shoulder, her gasps and moans music to his ear.

  “I...yes, now...yes. More.” She arched back, releasing the rails, trusting in his strength, her whole body going stiff and rigid against his, breasts thrust up, glistening with her sweat, hands fisted against her thighs as she trembled.

  Her internal muscles gripped him tight as he thrust against the wicked softness, once, twice, again, and she shuddered as he emptied himself into her. The sensation of heat and release, a tiny bundle of nerves at the base of his cock, expanded, a spark, an ember, and it rushed over him, body ablaze with that single sensation. It couldn’t last more than an instant, and yet it did—forever in a perfect moment.

  “Oh my,” he said.

  “Oh my, indeed.”

  They rested, a tangle of weary, sweaty limbs.

  Her hair was a damp and stringy mess across her face and back.

  He tasted the salt of her skin, kissing her throat and ear. “That was wonderful.”

  “I thought so,” she responded.

  “You never did tell me,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Why you do it…why you’re a firefighter.”

  “Oh, that’s easy.” Amy smirked. “I like big trucks, and I cannot lie.”

  LOST AND FOUND

  Nanette Guadiano

  In every woman’s life there comes a time when she has to make the decision to truly live or merely exist. That time, for me, came five months ago, with the passing of my thirty-sixth birthday. It was like a switch had been flipped inside me.

  Suddenly, my daily routines, my career, my friends, and my lover weren’t enough. The dreams of my youth (having someone I couldn’t live without, making babies, writing my novel, and, fingers crossed, actually getting it published) were alive again like a fire in my gut: a living, breathing entity, swallowing all the oxygen around me, burning me. I told myself I didn’t really have a choice, but that wasn’t entirely true. I could have given up and accepted defeat; I could have chosen a life of mundanity, but the hamster-in-a-wheel gig was killing me. I’d been a walking corpse for far too long. So I made the decision to change things.

  I broke up with Alejandro, my boyfriend of five years; packed up my classroom for t
he last time at the end of May without signing my contract for the next school year; sold my little house for a small profit; donated everything I didn’t need or want to charities; and booked a one-way flight to Italy with the plan of maybe never coming home.

  Now here I am, in a tiny town called Forete, just minutes from Verona. I’ve just arrived in a seventeenth-century Italian villa that I’ve rented for the next three months. Long enough to forget my past, long enough to dream of a future, and—I hope—long enough to finish the novel I started ten years ago. So why am I so afraid?

  I open the windows, fresh air disturbing long-dormant dust motes into frenetic swirls in clumps so large they could pass for snowflakes. Birds chirp. Children play outside on bikes, their Italian words like tinkling Baroque music on a harpsichord. I take a deep breath and sigh. My armpits are wet; I’m exhausted, jet-lagged, and afraid. What have I done?

  On the corner is a small grocery store. My head throbs, but there is no aspirin to be found. Grocery stores here sell only groceries. If I want aspirin or tampons, I am told I have to find a farmacia, a pharmacy. Life is slower here than back home, where superstores have taken over, selling everything from aspirin to tractors. Here, it’s different. I am both annoyed and comforted by this. I don’t have a car and the hour is too late to walk to the farmacia, which is three miles down the road, so I choose a bottle of red wine in place of aspirin. Maybe it will relax me enough to melt my headache. I grab some prosciutto, grapes, and cheese for dinner and I’m off, back to the apartamento, feeling more than just a little homesick.

  Maybe dumping Alejandro was a bad idea. He had seemed genuinely heartbroken when I ended it, said he couldn’t understand why I was leaving him, why I was leaving it all. Didn’t I know he loved me? Really? If he loved me so much, he would want the same things I wanted: marriage and children. But Alejandro was content with the status quo, and I was tired of pretending that this life was enough.