Smokin' Hot Firemen

by Delilah Devlin, Jo Davis

  Assuming that the odor was coming from one of the units above or below me, I turned my attention back to the TV screen. Before the movie could pull my attention fully back in, however, the piercing cry of the fire alarm tore through my apartment. My pulse jumped into my throat and my eyes shot over to the armchair near the window. My cat, Brute—a moody, long-haired twenty-five-pound Maine Coon—had been curled up asleep on the hunter green chair for the past three hours, but now he was fully alert, a sentinel, with his grey ears perked toward the speaker near the front door.

  Our eyes met for a second, and then Brute’s ears flattened against his head. The hackles rose along his back and in an instant he disappeared under the couch.

  “Oh shit.”

  Dropping to my knees, I pressed my face against the rug and glanced into the shadows under the sofa. A pair of narrow yellow eyes glared back. The alarm shrieked incessantly.

  Above the shrill sound, doors opened and closed and hurried footsteps sounded in the hallway. Looking under the couch again, I tried to coax my pet out, but he was resistant. My unease mounted. The scent of smoke grew stronger now, and when I glanced toward the front door, my view seemed hazy. I hoped it was just shaken nerves blurring my vision and not accumulating smoke.

  A new sound suddenly pierced the air: sirens. The sound was faint still, but grew louder as they drew near. I hurried to the balcony door. Sliding it open, I stepped out and leaned over the railing to look down. Twenty floors below me, the sidewalk was in chaos as the residents of my building anxiously spilled out of the emergency stairwells onto the street. They lingered just outside the front entrance, clutching each other or what small items they had thought to grab before evacuating. I couldn’t see their faces, but their movements and body language spoke of their confusion and alarm.

  The sirens still approached.

  My gaze shifted to the end of the block, where it intersected with Yonge Street. Traffic was always steady along this main downtown road, but at the moment it was dead. Not a single vehicle moved along Wood Street in either direction. The reason revealed itself in an instant: a long red fire engine cut through the oncoming lane and pulled onto our street with its lights flashing. A second fire engine followed, as well as one of the small trucks from the firehouse. As the caravan of emergency vehicles pulled to a stop outside our building, the crowd below surged into the parking lot across the street and the sidewalk began to fill with firefighters.

  My heart leapt into my throat, and I quickly dashed back into my apartment. After sliding the door shut behind me, I hurried into the front hallway and threw open the coat closet. In the bottom left corner, under a rolled-up sleeping bag and the spare vacuum filters, was the cat carrier. I pulled the large green container out of the closet, ignoring the rest of the clutter as it spilled out across the floor, and hurried back into the living room.

  Dropping to my knees in front of the couch again, I pressed my cheek against the area rug and searched the shadows for the familiar shape of my cat. It took a moment, but I finally spotted the nervous animal.

  “Here, baby. Come out now, please,” I called hopefully, extending my fingers towards him. I felt Brute press his nose against the tip of my middle finger for an instant, but then he pulled away. My impatience flared.

  Cursing under my breath, I flattened my chest against the rug and extended my arm as far as I could. I felt my hand brush against soft fur, closed my grip around what I hoped was a hind leg, and pulled. An outraged hiss filled the small space, audible even over the continuous shriek of the fire alarm, and I quickly dragged the overweight cat out from under the couch. As soon as I pulled him free, he turned in my grasp and began to claw at my forearm.

  “Ow! Quit it, Brute!” I yelped. Pulling myself up into a kneeling position, I shifted my grip to the ruff at the back of his neck and pressed him against my chest with one hand, then used my free hand to pull the cat carrier closer. Brute’s furious struggling escalated as soon as he noticed the crate. His claws and teeth lashed against my arms, chest and thighs, but I refused to let him go. As soon as the crate was close enough, I opened the door and pushed him forward. I managed to get his head through the opening, but his paws immediately shot out and braced themselves against the rim. I tried to push him forward, but the stubborn animal pushed back.

  The siren outside was still wailing in chaotic harmony with the screaming alarm system inside. I didn’t have time to fight with my cat. I needed to get us out.

  It was time to try another tactic.

  Retracting the cat into the crook of my arm again, I tipped the carrier onto its end so that the opening was at the very top. I leaned forward, gripped Brute under his front legs, and held him above the cat crate, lining up his dangling back legs with that small opening, and dropped him. The shock of being released distracted him from what was below. He fell right through the doorway and into the cage without a protest, and I pounced on the door to fasten it shut before he could try to spring back out.

  There was a moment of stunned silence, and I took advantage of my cat’s confusion to jump to my feet, heft his cage up, and dash for the front door. Stepping out into the twentieth-floor hallway, I was terrified by the light grey smoke filling the air. For a moment I thought of retreating into my apartment, but resisted the fearful impulse.

  I stepped out of my apartment door and squinted up and down the hallway. The smoke seemed thickest near the entrance of the garbage-chute room. I gripped Brute’s heavy carrier with both hands and headed quickly for the staircase at the other end of the hall. The door was slightly ajar; I shouldered it opened and began my hasty descent.

  The air was noticeably clearer in the stairwell. Brute, who had been uncharacteristically silent in the upstairs hallway, seemed to be reviving now that the air tasted less acrid. As I reached the landing for the seventeenth floor and hurried toward the next flight of stairs, he began to howl.

  Brute’s deep caterwauls filled the stairwell, echoing angrily from the penthouse to the basement. I was almost grateful for our delayed evacuation; the staircase was deserted. No one else had to witness my awkward descent with my verbally abusive companion. His volume escalated with each step, masking the frantic slapping of my feet as I dashed down the steps, as well as my panting and cursing as I struggled to hold his carrier steady.

  Inside, he had begun shifting from side to side, trying to look out at his surroundings. His random movements made it difficult to prevent shaking the heavy carrier as I raced down the steps. Already, with his size and weight, I needed both hands to lift the cage. My balance, as I turned the corners and ran down the stairs, was precarious, but my surging adrenaline was doing a great job of keeping my thoughts away from the strong likelihood that I might trip and tumble down the concrete steps at any given moment.

  With relief, I finally reached the bottom of the stairs. Pausing for a moment to catch my breath and readjust my grip on Brute’s carrier, I shoved my hip against the heavy door and pushed it open.

  The door led into the maintenance and storage area of the apartment building. Against the walls leaned snow shovels, bags of salt for the sidewalk, and rolled-up hoses. To the left was a door leading to the ramp entrance for the underground parking garage. To the right was the garbage room, where the garbage and recycling chutes emptied into their sorting bins. Clustered between all these doors were a least a dozen firefighters. As the door slammed shut behind me and Brute erupted in a new cacophony of complaints, every single one of those helmeted heads turned toward me.

  I opened my mouth to speak—without having any idea what to say—but wasn’t given the chance. Instantly, a ring formed around me and a volley of concerned questions filled the room.

  “Are you all right, miss?”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Do you need help?”

  “What’s in the cage?” The last question drew my attention to a middle-aged man standing to my left. His head was tilted toward the carrier and a hint of an amused smile was visib
le under the eye shield of his mask.

  I frowned and shifted the carrier to my other hand. “My cat.”

  “Ahhh.” He was grinning openly now. “He doesn’t sound very happy. Did he give you all those cuts?”

  Glancing down, I took notice of my appearance for the first time. It was Saturday morning and, although it was past eleven, I was still wearing my pajamas. The striped cotton sleep shorts barely reached my upper thighs and rode low on my hips. The matching pink camisole stretched just past my navel, but left a good inch of skin exposed between the hem of my top and the waistband of my shorts. Plain white athletic socks covered my feet, their bottoms a filthy grey from my run down the stairs. No one’s attention seemed focused on my attire, though.

  All eyes were on the blood.

  Dried blood stained the front of my tank top. Above the neckline of the top, numerous scratch marks cut into my chest. They weren’t deep, but more than one was still bleeding sluggishly. Both forearms sported matching injuries, and the tops of my thighs were cut as well. No wonder my appearance had caused such a scene.

  Feeling a warm flush spread over my face, I self-consciously tugged at the hem of my shirt and mumbled, “He was just upset by the noise and the carrier. I’m fine.”

  “Well, the alarm shouldn’t be bothering him much longer,” the smiling firefighter offered. “We’ve already contained the fire in the garbage room, and we’ll be letting people re-enter the building shortly. I’m afraid it’ll be a while before we get the elevators back up and running.”

  I felt a relieved smile spread across my face. “That’s great! I’m not looking forward to carrying him back upstairs, though.”

  A larger man stepped forward from the back of the group and singled out the man beside me. “Jackson, why don’t you help her back up to her apartment? Make sure she’s all right. Sebastian is working on the alarm, and we have everything else here under control.”

  Jackson nodded. “No problem,” he said as he stepped beside me. He reached down to touch his fingers to the handle of Brute’s carrier. “May I?”

  Gratefully, I allowed him to take my burden, then fell into step behind him. He held the door open for me, then took the lead as we started up the steps.

  “What floor are we headed to?” he asked as we began our ascent.

  “Twenty.”

  Jackson grunted and tightened his grip on the carrier. After a few minutes of climbing, the alarm stopped at last. The sudden silence rang in my ears, but the peaceful quiet was short-lived. Brute quickly filled the silence with his own penetrating cries.

  Jackson paused on the next landing and tapped a gloved finger against the front bars of the carrier. “Calm down, buddy. We’re almost there,” he coaxed in a gentle, patient voice, before glancing back at me. “How about you? Holding up okay?”

  His concerned expression made my face feel hot. Flustered, I nodded and hurried past him up the stairs.

  We were both tired and breathing heavily when we finally reached the twentieth floor. I unlocked my door and held it open for the firefighter, then followed him inside. He stopped in the entryway and lowered the carrier to the floor. Straightening, he reached up and removed his helmet.

  He wasn’t quite as old as I had thought. His face was rugged, with dark, coarse stubble spread across his chin and jaw, but his blue eyes were bright. He grinned and I was reminded of a teasing teenager.

  “Should I release the beast?” He gestured at Brute’s cage.

  I laughed. “Give me a minute to get out of the way! He’s going to be mad.” I backed into the washroom, then nodded. As soon as the man released the latch and opened the door, Brute shot out of the carrier with a fierce hiss and disappeared into the living room.

  Jackson chuckled as he joined me. “Mission accomplished with no casualties,” he joked, before a more serious expression crossed his face. “How about I look after you now?”

  “Me?” Following his line of vision, I looked down at my injured arms. “Oh, you don’t need to bother with me. I’ll be fine.”

  Ignoring my weak protest, Jackson moved past me into the room and opened the medicine cabinet. As he began pulling down the supplies he needed, he gestured toward the counter. “Have a seat.”

  Uncertainly, I perched on the edge of the counter and watched as he removed his gloves and coat. He began by washing my arms with a damp facecloth. His touch was gentle, warm, and much softer than I had expected. The intense focus and care he put into the simple action of cleaning my wounds made my face flush and my heart beat rapidly.

  Once the dried blood was washed away, he applied an antiseptic. I hissed at the sting and his deep chuckle filled the small room.

  “Do you need me to blow on it?”

  Blushing, I looked away from his teasing smile.

  Next he moved his attention to my legs. The feel of his hands on my bare thighs made my breath catch in my throat. His touch was professional, and yet it seemed to linger longer than necessary as he treated the cuts in my pale flesh.

  He was standing quite close; I could feel the heat of his large body against my thighs, which were spread to either side of him. Another steady heat was beginning to grow between my legs and spread throughout my body—an insistent, demanding heat that was making my pulse hammer and my pussy swell.

  If he came any closer, I was certain he would feel it.

  As his hand began to move towards the scratch mark on my inner thigh, I reached down to grasp it in alarm. He glanced up and our eyes met. Something in my eyes must have betrayed my dilemma. That teasing grin returned—and although his captured hand lay still, his free hand now began to rove across my other bare thigh, toward my hip.

  “Are you not feeling well?” he asked kindly, but his eyes were shining with mischief.

  I swallowed back the moan that his exploring touch had evoked, and shook my head. “I’m fine,” I replied softly, as I released my grip on his hand.

  He immediately returned his focus to the final scratch on my leg. He folded back the inner hem of my shorts to expose the area, then reached for the facecloth. My pussy grew wetter with each pass of the damp cloth. More than once, his knuckles brushed against my soft mound, and it was all I could do not to moan for more.

  Before applying the antiseptic, he placed his left hand on my hip to brace me as the wet cotton ball came into contact with my irritated skin.

  I surprised us both when I suddenly said, “Blow on it.”

  He looked up at me quickly, then lowered his face close to my crotch. His breath was cool against my thigh, but it ignited an immediate fire in my loins. I spread my legs wider and lifted my hips slightly.

  He blew again. This time he turned his face as he did so, letting his breath spread inward, away from my cut and toward my cunt.

  I was breathless. I spread my legs even wider, but was disappointed when he straightened again. He quickly rekindled my arousal, though, when his gaze fell on my heaving chest. “Just one more area to treat.”

  My hands fell to the hem on my camisole. With more bravado than I had ever imagined I possessed, I lifted the garment over my head and let it fall to the floor. His glance moved over my chest, taking in the shallow cuts first, and then moving on to my flat stomach, small firm breasts, and stiff nipples.

  Despite the hard erection I could feel through his overalls as he leaned into me, Jackson took his time caring for my cuts first. With the same careful attention his hand had shown my arms and thighs, he bathed my upper chest, then gently dried it before reaching for the dreaded antiseptic. This time he didn’t wait for an invitation.

  Even before I had finished hissing, Jackson’s breath was on my bare skin. He blew across my chest, then against the sensitive skin in the shallow valley between my breasts, before his breath ghosted over my left nipple.

  The already-stiff peak hardened further and I let a sweet moan escape my lips. Reaching back, I braced both hands on the cool countertop behind me and arched my back, presenting my chest to Jacks
on.

  His lips closed around my rosebud nipple immediately, sucking hard. His hands gripped my hips tightly and I wrapped my legs around his waist, pressing my body close. The heat at my center burned hot now.

  I ground our groins together and with a grunt Jackson tightened his grip and lifted me off the counter. His lips moved to my neck and his hands slid up my back. I wrapped my arms around his neck.

  Spinning around, he leaned back against the counter, settled me on his hips, and let his hands rove lower. They cupped my backside, squeezing, before one hand slid lower. I felt his fingers push the leg of my shorts aside, then breach the elastic hem of my panties.

  My pussy was wet and waiting for him. His index finger slipped easily between the damp lips of my opening. I moaned as his middle finger quickly joined the first and both fingers began moving. He stroked my inner lips from back to front; the unusual angle of penetration intensified my arousal. My nerve endings danced under his touch as he inched his way slowly toward my clit.

  His mouth found my chest again. While his fingers stroked my inner folds, his lips trailed soft kisses across the space between my breasts before reaching the peak of my right nipple. Pulling it into his mouth, his tongue circled the hard nub, flicking at the tip while his lips applied pressure to the point of contact. He broke the kiss, pulled back, and blew on the now-moist rosebud. The coolness of his breath after the heat of his open-mouthed kiss made me shudder. It was sensual torture.

  With another boyish grin, he moved for the other nipple while his fingers finally reached my clitoris. They circled my pearl, pinching it gently between them. I moaned and begged for more. His blunt fingernail dragged across the sensitive nub, and the washroom echoed with my cries as I trembled on the edge of orgasm.

  I was so desperately close.

  His walkie suddenly crackled to life and a distorted voice called out, “Jackson? We’re done here. You on your way?”

  Jackson looked at me. In his dark blue eyes I could see that leaving was the last thing he wanted to do. Still, he was on duty. Withdrawing his fingers, he lowered me carefully to the ground and retrieved the communicating device. With an apologetic expression, he lifted the walkie to his ear. “Be right down,” he sighed into the mouthpiece, before collecting his discarded clothing.