Smokin' Hot Firemen

by Delilah Devlin, Jo Davis

  I wanted things. What was so wrong with that? He had called me selfish. Ironic, considering our lovemaking had become as stale as day-old microwave popcorn. We had become a couple whose idea of kinky was me on top. And oral sex? Forget about it. Getting him to do it was like pulling teeth, and when he did I never came. I wanted passion—crazy, sexy sex. I wanted hair-pulling, mind-blowing, all-out fuck-fests. I would never have that with Alejandro. As if to clear my mental slate, I shake my head. I have to live in the moment. I’m in Italy, for god’s sake.

  I step off the sidewalk and begin to cross the street toward my rental. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a little boy kicking a ball. It bounces into the street and he darts out. My heart freezes in my chest. His mama shouts for him to stop, but he is quick, a little whirlwind of energy, a dizzying mass of light and curls. I turn to reach for him, dropping my bag of wine and olive oil. That’s when I see the car speeding down the narrow street, going far too fast to stop in time. I don’t even have time to scream, let alone go after him. His mama wails to Jesus. A screeching of brakes sounds, and I brace myself for the sound of death, but it does not come.

  Slowly, I open my eyes. A flurry of excitement bubbles all around me. The driver of the Maserati is out of his car, screaming in Italian, motioning with his hands like a ridiculous parody of Woody Allen. The mother runs to her child, who is in the arms of a very tall, very blond, very muscular man in running clothes. The man’s eyes meet mine. They are blue, the color of the Italian sky, il cielo azurro: blue heaven. I look down at my feet, oil and wine pooling like blood around my shoes, like petulant children refusing to play together.

  It’s hard to settle down after the incident with the little boy. I have eaten too much cheese, and I wish more than anything I hadn’t dropped that bottle of wine. The air is hot, but habits are hard to break, and I will not sleep with the windows open on a ground floor. I’m from the city and filled with American fears.

  I spend a good couple of hours trying to write, but I am far too jetlagged, far too restless to sit still long enough to listen to the muses. I try sleeping, but I’m so damn hot, my sweaty T-shirt clings to my breasts. My mind drifts back to the handsome stranger. He was clearly not Italian. His features were almost Nordic: high cheek bones, suntanned skin, light lashes, blond hair, and the sexiest dimple on his chin. The way he held that little boy, such protection, such expertise…and he’d been so fast, like rescuing people was second nature.

  I feel a tug in my womb, a longing I haven’t felt in ages. My fingers drift down to my underwear. Picturing his eyes on mine, his intense and piercing gaze, my fingers explore my cunt for the first time in a long while, slowly at first. I tease my opening with a forefinger. I’m so wet; my pulse pounds against my chest. So much desire; I had forgotten what it felt like for my body to long for completion. My fingers work quickly now, alternating between tiny frenetic movements against my clit to long strokes inside of my warmth. In and out, up and down, side to side; thinking of blue, blue eyes, I begin to forget the heat.

  La Dolce Vita Trattoria, the sign says. Today, I am less jetlagged and in a much better mood, thanks to a good night’s sleep and a little self-love. Maybe I will find an Italian lover while I’m here. I will have my cappuccino and then take a bus to Verona, do a little shopping, some people-watching. The lady at the counter does not speak English, so I reach into my college past as though for spare change and pull out what little Italian I remember. Together, we manage to successfully get me some pizza and a cappuccino.

  Sitting by the window, I try to ignore the screeching of a Roman pop star singing “My Sharona” in Italian on the flat-screen television mounted to a wall. I sink my teeth into the pizza and close my eyes. The sensation is almost sexual, the cheese is so good melting in my mouth: warm, gooey. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything is turning me on. My clit jumps at the memory of the night before. The bell over the door chimes, signaling another customer. I look up, cheese dripping out of my mouth, and I almost choke when I see my handsome stranger. He grins at my messy face, and I feel crimson flood my cheeks. I grab a napkin and wipe my mouth.

  The woman at the counter knows him. Her face lights up and her tongue rattles off in Italian too fast for me to interpret. He returns the banter in her language, but I detect a familiar lilt…British, perhaps?

  “You are new here, am I right?” He stands next to my table, a bottle of water in one hand and a delicious-looking pastry in his other.

  I can’t help but notice how masculine his hands are, fingers thick and calloused. Definitely British. He is dressed for a run. “I just got here yesterday,” I say.

  “May I?” He gestures to the seat in front of me.

  I nod, my gaze drifting back to the woman with the punk hair and whiny voice.

  “American?”

  “Is it that obvious?” I say, turning to him.

  He laughs. “Sorry, but this is Forete. Not many tourists here, usually the same old crowd. Locals. You get your tourists in Verona, of course, but this is a small little village. Not much to see here. So, yes, it’s obvious.” He says something to the woman behind the counter and she smiles her lovely Italian smile. I understand the words “bella,” “donna,” “Americana.” But that’s about all.

  She brings over a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

  “For yesterday.” He smiles. “I couldn’t help noticing you lost yours.”

  “My wine. Yes. I thought that little boy…” I don’t finish the sentence but I see the gravity in his eyes. He thought so, too. “You were so quick. I feel awful. I just closed my eyes and braced myself.”

  “Yes, well. It was lucky, I suppose. The situation could have ended quite badly.”

  I love his accent. I want to place my fingers over his lips as he talks, trace his words with my fingers. His eyes darken as though he’s read my thoughts. I look away. “It was more than luck. Are you a police officer?”

  An edginess appears around his eyes—the eyes of a man who has seen disaster and has known tragedy.

  “No. I’m a fireman.”

  “Ah. I knew you had to be in the rescue business.” I smile. No mistaking the hardness around his eyes now. I have touched a nerve. “Where do you work?”

  “London. I’m on holiday.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Four months.”

  “That’s a long holiday.”

  “I suppose it is.”

  “I’m Anna.”

  “William. So, Anna, what are you doing here in Forete? Why not Rome or Tuscany? That seems to be where Americans like to vacation.”

  “I’m a writer. I wanted to immerse myself in Italian culture, so I picked a place far enough away from the city but close enough for comfort. For obvious reasons, I love Verona.”

  “A writer. What do you write?”

  Now I am on edge. What do I tell him? Nothing, of late? “I’m working on a novel.” Typical response for a victim of writer’s block.

  “You here with family?” he asks, a little too loosely.

  He’s fishing, and I want to bite. “I’m alone,” I whisper.

  “Oh,” he says. He pours wine into our glasses, hands me one and holds his up for a toast. “To holidays.” He smiles.

  “Cheers,” I say.

  We finish the bottle and order another. Time passes quickly and before long, it’s siesta—closing time.

  The lady shoos us away politely.

  “Where are you off to, lovely Anna?” he asks as we step outside.

  “Back to the drawing board, I suppose,” I say, and I actually mean it. Today I think I could write. I would start by describing the way the muscles in William’s jaw move when he isn’t talking, as though he’s holding back the most important part of himself—the roughness around his edges. Next to describe the way his biker shorts hug the sinew and veins of his thighs, the way his hair curls at the ends, like a child’s or an Italian cherub’s. I could write about how I long to have hi
m come inside of me, fill me with his elixir, and about the possibility of a future. I could write a lot of things.

  “Could I walk you home?” he asks.

  “Of course,” I answer. I do not want this day to end.

  We get to my front steps and I pause a moment to fumble for my key. Suddenly, I’m filled with the most overwhelming sense of despair. I don’t want to write about the experience. I want to live it. “I don’t suppose you’d want to come in for a bit,” I hear myself say.

  “I’d love to.”

  Once inside, I open the windows to let in fresh air. My hands shake with nervousness. What do I know about this stranger anyway? He could be a serial killer, a rapist. He could be married. I doubt the wisdom of my decision. He senses the change in me, stays where he is, leans against the wall, and sighs deeply.

  “Maybe this is a bad idea,” I say.

  His eyes cloud over, hooded with desire. He moves forward, and suddenly I am afraid. I don’t know him. Fantasy aside, this is dangerous. I feel my clit jump. I can’t believe I’m turned on, my juices dripping like a percolator. What is wrong with me?

  “Beautiful Anna,” he whispers, voice husky with desire. “Aren’t you tired of playing things so safely? I know I am. I saw it in your eyes yesterday. You’re like me—tired of being afraid.” The outline of his impressive erection presses against his biker shorts.

  My legs tremble now. I want his cock inside of me. I want to squeeze my pussy muscles around it and feel him piercing me.

  He reads my need, senses in me a kindred spirit. I am no longer afraid. He touches my face, tracing his finger along the muscle in my jaw, feeling it relax beneath his fingers. I don’t know what tragedy he saw, what victim he didn’t save, but it’s there—the facts are all there in his body language like pictures next to entries in an encyclopedia.

  I move my hand down his chest, feel his pectorals flex beneath my touch. He breathes heavily now, and I shake with delicious anticipation. My nipples strain against my bra, begging to be sucked. My hands move down to the elastic of his shorts; his erection jumps into my hand like an eel—throbbing and huge. I cannot wait any longer. I pull down his shorts and kneel in front of him like a worshipper, licking his shaft like an ice-cream cone. It is beautiful, thick, and veiny. He groans with desire as I take him in my mouth. I could come right now, the sensation feels so good. I move my head against him as though I’m bobbing for apples.

  His hands are in my hair, and then he’s pulling me up. Alejandro always made me finish. But William, apparently, likes to be teased. Swiftly, so swiftly I wonder if it’s actually happening, he lifts me up, spins us both around, and falls into a chair so that I’m straddling his lap. A fireman’s move, and I don’t know if he does it with all the ladies, but damn if it isn’t sexy.

  He kisses me now, probing my mouth with his expert tongue. I grind against his erection frantically, feeling my desire rising. I am close to coming, but he is not about to let me. As he stands, he lifts me up, flips me over his shoulder like a ragdoll, and walks me to the bedroom. He throws me on the bed, pulls down my panties, gives me a good long stare, and then buries his face in my cunt. He licks me, flicking my clit from side to side expertly as he fingers me with two of those masculine fingers I had been coveting only moments before in the trattoria.

  I’m almost there. I’m so wet, it’s unreal. He begins to drink me, to suck my juices like he’s eating a peach. The sound of his slurping takes me over the edge. I cry out as three of his fingers enter me, darts of fire exploding in my belly; for a moment, I leave my body. He lifts my blouse over my head, and I am amazed at how quickly I’m aroused again at the sight of his erection. I want to feel him, skin on skin. I reach out to pull up his shirt and he flinches and moves away.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” he whispers, shaking his head, unsure.

  I see the burns from his belly button all the way up one side of his torso, like dark pink stucco on a white wall. Vulnerability is there in his face, and I wonder now what tragedy sent him to Italy on a four-month “holiday.” He is beautiful, his burns a testament to his character and dedication to his profession. I reach out to touch him. I feel his intake of breath. My fingers move over his scars like they’re reading Braille. I want this man more than I’ve ever wanted anyone. I lean over and kiss him there, trace his map of skin with my mouth. The healing wound is smoother than I expected.

  He groans and pulls me up, turns me over, and slaps me on the ass.

  My cunt is begging to be filled. “Please,” I whisper, on the verge of tears.

  “Please what? What is it you want me to give you, beautiful Anna?”

  “You know,” I say.

  “I only know what you tell me,” he says gruffly, delivering a series of spankings so hard and fast I’m embarrassed.

  Alejandro and I never talked dirty. Whenever I tried, he shot me down as though I was some sort of degenerate. “I want it,” I whisper.

  “You want what?” He teases, sliding a finger inside of me.

  A whimper escapes my mouth.

  “Tell me, Anna. You can trust me. What is it you want? I’ll give you whatever you want.”

  “I want your cock.”

  He breathes heavily now. He grabs my ass cheeks and squeezes them together.

  My wetness runs down my inner thighs.

  “Where do you want it?”

  I feel his tongue inside my hole. He’s fucking me with his tongue, squeezing my ass cheeks together. I grind against his mouth. “Inside of me. Please. I want your cock inside of me.”

  I feel him position himself behind me. He thrusts deep in me and I cry out; one thrust and I am coming and coming and coming. He bucks against me, forcing me to ride out my orgasm; the movement fuels his desire. As soon as one wave subsides, another comes. He is magnificent. He slides a finger inside my asshole, and I am almost there again. Reaching beneath me, he fingers my clit.

  The touch is too much; tears well in my eyes.

  He flips me over, buries his face in my neck as he pounds me, unmercifully, his dick so hard I know he’s about to come. He lifts his face to mine, and with two deep thrusts and an inhuman growl, he comes, his gaze never leaving mine.

  For several moments, we lay there breathing heavily. Aftershocks tremble through my body. He reaches over, places a large hand over my left breast, and pulls me against his body.

  My eyes close and I inhale his musk and maleness, surprised at my body’s response to this stranger. I wonder why I ever felt afraid. I don’t know him; still, I feel safe. I want to tell him everything about me, and want to know everything about him. But there is no hurry. I listen to the sounds of our breathing, of the birds outside my window and the children playing in the street. I feel my eyes grow heavy as sleep covers me like a blanket. I relax into it. There will be time for all of that.

  TEMPERATURE RISING

  Cathryn Fox

  The room was dark and smoky, with the warm tang of sex hanging heavy in the air.

  With a strawberry daiquiri in hand, Delilah Morgan spun around on her vinyl-padded bar stool. Her eyes took in the Friday night crowd as they relaxed at the Hose, a local watering hole where the firefighters from Station 419 regularly gathered for a game of eight-ball.

  Her salacious glance stopped to linger on three sexy firefighters working their way around the pool table, their athletic bodies, low-riding jeans, and tight backsides sending her thoughts in an erotic direction. As she took pleasure in the delicious sight before her, hot flames licked up her thighs, her skin burning hotter than molten lava.

  She watched them a moment longer, and when their teasing jibes and raucous laughter drifted past her ears, the rich sound resonated through her body and pulled a shiver from deep within. Her pussy moistened with want and she squeezed her thighs together, secretly enjoying the pulsing sensations tugging at her. But there was nothing she could do to hide the telltale hardening of her nipples or the suggestive way they scrape
d against her light summer dress.

  When the front door opened, Delilah drew a fueling breath and strove to pull herself together. Thankful for the distraction, she twisted sideways on her stool, hoping her blind date had finally arrived, but when she spotted the town’s youngest fire chief darkening the doorway—a man whose reputation preceded him—awareness prowled through her bloodstream and spiked her temperature from simmer to inferno.

  Looking like sex incarnate in his fire-resistant pants and suspenders, his heavy coat thrown over one broad shoulder, the man was every woman’s fantasy come true. His fiery blue eyes scanned the establishment. Then, with a slow, sexy movement, he angled his head her way. When their eyes met and locked, her pussy creamed in heated response and all she could think about was how that hard body of his would feel moving over hers, how that sensuous mouth would feel on her skin, and how his rock hard cock would feel ravaging her pussy, fucking her in a way no man had ever fucked her before. She licked her suddenly dry lips, taking in his confident bad-boy attitude and the suggestive look in his eyes as they moved over her body—a look that held all kinds of erotic possibilities.

  There was no question he had a raw sexuality about him, one that made Delilah ache deep in her core. But since he also had trouble written all over him, she turned away before he could see her tight nipples beneath the low-cut dress she’d purchased for this occasion—a dress, she hoped, would seduce her blind date, so she could finally fulfill a lifelong fantasy.

  Even though she had her back to the fire chief, she could still feel him, his hot gaze on her body, as he cut across the wide expanse of floor. She took another sip of her drink to cool the heat zinging through her veins, but when he stepped up to her, pressed his warm mouth against her ear, and said, “The name’s Jonah,” it was all she could do not to go up in flames. His heat reached out to her, and when she pulled his rich, spicy scent into her lungs, everything in her gut said he was the man, the only man, who could help extinguish the long burning fire inside her.