Dad's Fireman Friend

by Flora Ferrari

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Dom

  The day is finally here, and I can’t wait to watch Brit’s face and see her react to everything I have planned for her.

  That’s what today is all about, Brit. Not about me, even though I’m sure I’ll have a good time at her side. It’s about letting her know just how special she is, and claiming her in the deepest possible sense.

  At the end of tonight, if she doesn’t feel the same way I do about spending the rest of our lives together, then I’ll know I’ve done something very, very wrong.

  I pull the truck up next to the sidewalk a block away from her house, where she insisted I wait to meet her. It seems like overkill. There’s no way her Dad would see us if I just pulled around the corner from his house, but whatever makes her happy is my job to provide today.

  Today, and every day into the future.

  I look into my side mirror and catch sight of her, moving at a slow run, sneakers on her feet but a pair of black heels clasped in her hands. She looks perfect, even like this, hurrying along in case her Dad gets suspicious. She’s thrown a light coat over the dress I bought her. I delivered it to her yesterday at work, and I can’t wait to see how it looks under the disguise she’s thrown on to leave the house.

  “Hey,” she says breathlessly, climbing into the passenger seat.

  I watch her, amused, as she starts fumbling with her shoes to change them over. “Brit,” I say, getting her attention.

  “Yeah?” she stops moving and looks up.

  “You can breathe now.”

  Brit gives me a slow, sheepish smile. “Sorry. I guess I’m kind of nervous about tonight. About making sure it all goes well.”

  I shake my head ruefully. “What am I supposed to do with you? Making sure it all goes well is my job. You’re supposed to just relax and enjoy it.”

  Brit pretends to consider this, tilting her head to one side. Her hair is done up in an elegant bun at the back of her neck, a few loose strands trailing endearingly around her face. “You mean, stop rushing around like I’m on fire? How am I supposed to do that?” she jokes.

  I take one of her hands and press my lips to it. “By letting me take charge,” I tell her. “And trusting that I’m going to take care of everything.”

  “I guess I could try that,” she says, giggling a little with nerves. I want to make sure she forgets about all of that – or at least that she feels excitement, not apprehension. I want her to feel like the most special woman in the whole world.

  I drive us across New York, not an easy feat in this busy city, but I didn’t want her to have to take the subway. Not today, no rubbing up against strangers and smelling their sweat-stained pits in front of her face, no bums waving tattered caps in her face, no loud conversations stopping us from being able to talk properly. No matter if it takes twice as long, today Brit gets privacy and comfort above all else.

  “Where are we going?” she asks. “You’ve kept it a secret all week.”

  “You’ll see,” I tell her, reaching across to squeeze her hand and hold it gently in my lap. If I need to, I can grab hold of the wheel easily, but the traffic is slow. I’m in control. “I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  “I’ll still be surprised if you tell me now,” Brit protests.

  “You’ll see,” I tell her again, grinning. Part of me wants to give the game away, too, because I’m so excited for her to start her magical evening. But the waiting is part of the fun.

  When I pull up outside one of the fanciest five-star restaurants in the Big Apple, and she realizes that we’re actually stopping here and not just peeling out of the traffic, her eyes go wide. “Here?”

  “Here,” I tell her. “Come on, princess. Let’s go.” I flash her a smile and get out of the truck, hurrying around to her side to help her out even as a valet slips into the seat I just vacated.

  “I’m glad I put on the heels,” Brit mutters, looking up at the façade of the famous eatery with a mixture of trepidation and awe.

  I laugh. “Come on. You’ll love it.”

  I lead her inside, the valet setting off with the truck behind us, and immediately we are greeted by a man at the door.

  “Ah, Mr. Tempest. Please, come inside, we have a wonderful table set aside for you tonight,” he says, bowing slightly and gesturing for us to follow him with a polite smile.

  I reach out and take Brit by the hand, leading her along in his wake. She’s looking everywhere with excitement, her eyes flashing from the chandeliers to the fresh-cut flowers along the walls to the tables full of elegant and well-dressed guests. This isn’t my first time here, but I’m enjoying watching her reactions. Catching her excitement vicariously.

  “Oh, Dominic!” another man calls out, the thrill of someone recognizing an old friend. “Welcome, welcome. It’s been too long.”

  He leans forward to air-kiss my cheek, and I turn obligingly. Maurice has been the maître d’ here since it opened. He knows practically everyone in New York City at least, everyone that matters. “Thanks, Mo. I didn’t know if you’d be able to fit me in at such short notice.”

  “Anything for you, Dominic, you know that.” He whisks us around, his dress shoes tapping across the restaurant’s tiled floor as he heads for the private rooms in the back.

  “But doesn’t it take weeks – months – to get a reservation here?” Brit asks in a whisper, stretching up to my ear as we walk.

  I chuckle. She’s right, of course. What, did she think I wasn’t going to pull out all of the stops to make today as special as possible? “Usually,” I say, affecting a casual air.

  “Here you are,” Maurice says, holding a black velvet curtain out of the way for us to step through. “A private room for Madame and Monsieur.”

  As I step through, I turn my head over my shoulder to get a view of Brit’s reaction. Her eyes are like saucers. She glances back once at the splendor of the bustling restaurant behind us, before moving into the elegantly decorated room – just big enough for two chairs, a table bearing a lit candle and a bouquet of roses arranged in an ornate vase, and a floor-to-ceiling window that looks out over the water.

  “Wow,” she murmurs.

  Maurice has a very pleased smile on his face, as he always does when someone compliments his restaurant. “I will return in a few moments to take your orders,” he says.

  I step over and pull out Brit’s chair for her, pushing it in as she sits. Doing the gentlemanly thing. She still hasn’t stopped staring around her in amazement, but I’m already looking at the best view in the house, her. She takes off her coat and I finally get to see how that dress hugs her curves, falling low on her chest, a scoop neck that shows just enough cleavage to tease.

  I already know what I’m going to order. The most expensive bottle of champagne in the house, the finest steak in New York City, and whatever Brit wants. Because tonight, she gets everything she could possibly dream of.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Brittany

  I dab the napkin against the side of my mouth, trying to be dainty and elegant. That’s how I feel like I should be, in here, this amazing place that I would never have seen inside of if it wasn’t for Dom.

  He excuses himself and gets up, heading out of our private room. For just a moment, the chatter out there comes in a little louder, and then the velvet curtain falls back into place and I’m left alone with the gentle piano music coming through the speakers. I sip the last of my champagne, setting the glass back down carefully as I wait for him to return.

  The maître d’ appears instead, sweeping quickly through the curtain and beginning to gather our empty plates. “How was the meal, madame?” he asks.

  “Wonderful,” I say, truthfully. “The best I’ve ever had.”

  His face lights up into a pleased beam, a broad smile underneath a carefully waxed mustache. He hesitates, just about to go through the curtain. “Can I get you anything else?”

  I don’t really know how to answer, does Dom want anything e
lse? “Ask me again when Dom is back?” I shrug, helplessly. I guess we’ll just want to leave, but I don’t know if he has anything else up his sleeve.

  “Do you know why he was able to get a table at such short notice?” the maître d’ asks, leaning closer with a conspiratorial twinkle in his eye.

  “No,” I say, wondering what I’m about to hear. Nothing sinister, I hope.

  The maître d’ leans on the edge of the table for a moment, the plates balanced expertly in his other hand. “I brought my parents here one night, for a surprise on their anniversary. It turns out my father was not supposed to eat rich foods, though he ignored his doctor’s advice as usual. It was all one surprise and one big meal too many. As they were about to leave he had a heart attack.”

  I gasped, my hands flying to my mouth. “Was he alright?”

  “Yes, he was. And I’ll tell you why.” He fixed me with a close stare, his voice dropping low. “The first crew on the scene was Dom and his guys. Dom leapt right in and helped give CPR alongside the EMT. Together, they saved his life.”

  I feel a gentle smile slipping onto my face. “And that’s why you got Dom a table tonight?”

  “That’s why I would get Dominic a table every night,” he says, with a grin. “Thankfully for my job, he asks very seldom. You must be a very lucky woman.”

  “I am,” I reply, thinking about all he has done for me already and all that he likely has planned.

  “My ears are burning,” Dom says, entering through the curtain with a teasing smile.

  “So they should be,” the maître d’ agrees easily. “Would you like to order something else?”

  “Just the check,” Dom says. “Thanks, Mo.”

  It seems like our time at the restaurant is over, and I can’t help but feel a little sad at the thought. Still, not sad enough to stay. It might be the most amazing place I’ve ever eaten in, but I know what will come next – or, at least, I think I do – and I’m looking forward to that even more.

  Dom takes me by the hand again, moving my chair out for me and guiding me across the main room. Although I’ve eaten a full meal, I feel lighter than air. All eyes are on us as we glide by the tables, wondering who we must be that we were in a private booth.

  Dom’s truck is out at the front of the restaurant when we get there, and I can’t help but stifle a laugh at the sight of it. It seems so incongruous against the fancy cars and convertibles that must normally pull up here, but it’s so Dom. If he didn’t have a truck, he wouldn’t be able to cart around supplies to do repairs on his neighbor’s homes or work on his own projects. The snooty people who are customers here might sniff at that truck – but to me, it’s a symbol of what a generous person he is, and how he has spent his life working with his hands.

  No wonder he has those impressive muscles.

  I slide into the passenger seat, and the journey seems to pass away in a daze. I’m full and content, and I could almost drop off into a happy sleep. Almost if not for the anticipation thrumming through me, pooling in my center, reminding me that the evening is nowhere near over yet.

  Dom stops the truck, and I look up to see his house. I realize I’m pouting a little before I can stop myself. It’s not that I didn’t want to come back here, here is fine, but I was wondering if I should expect something a little more.

  He opens the truck door for me and extends a hand. “Madame,” he says, in a flawless imitation of the maître d’. I laugh and take his hand, stepping down and heading for his front door.

  When it opens in front of us, I gasp in surprise. This is not what I expected at all, and I immediately know I was selling him short by assuming that he would ‘just’ bring me to his home. Before he went out earlier, he must have transformed the whole place.

  There are two tall vases on either side of the door, each bearing bunches of red roses. On the floor, petals trail away from us, marking out a path that leads deeper inside.

  Dom calls out the wake-word for his smart home system, and then says. “Start Brit’s evening.”

  Fairy lights turn on all through the house. I can see them everywhere I look as I step through the entrance and inside. Most of them are white, sparkling as they curl around the banister of the stairs. Others are pink or red, creating a warm and cozy atmosphere. All of the other lights in the house are off, giving the same impression as if my way was lit by candlelight.

  “Follow them,” Dom says, smiling and nudging me ahead.

  I take off my shoes at the foot of the stairs, not wanting to climb up in heels, and lift the hem of my dress to avoid tripping. I follow the lights and rose petals, stepping softly up the stairs and along the upstairs landing, where yards of red fabric have been hung to enhance the impression. They lead me into a bathroom, which I’ve never entered before.

  The bath is not just a bath, but a jacuzzi. It’s already filled with hot water, putting steam into the air, as red and pink lights illuminate the interior and the scent of fresh roses rises up. There are petals already dancing in the water.

  “This is for me?” I ask, spinning around to look at Dom, who has followed me every step of the way.

  “All for you,” he tells me. “Here, princess. Let me show you to your bath.”

  He reaches out and draws me closer, slipping his hands behind my back to find the zip that holds my dress in place.

  It parts smoothly, sliding down my back, and Dom hooks his fingers into the straps at my shoulders to pull them down. Gently, looking into my eyes, he moves the fabric away from my body and allows it to drop to the floor. Then he reaches behind me again, fingers gliding over the lace of my bra before they find the catch and unhook it.

  I realize that gentle music is filling the air, a soulful singer over soft piano. It must have been rising slowly since we entered. Dom has it all figured out, his entire home transformed, just for me.

  The water in the jacuzzi stops filling with a sound like a sigh, and I look down to see the water almost still for a moment before jets begin to power on, bubbling across the surface. Dom slides the straps of my bra down, his hands gliding over my arms until it falls loose from my hands. Everywhere his touch travels, it’s like sparks singe my skin. I feel a desperate need for him to touch me more, to touch my breasts and circle his fingers around my nipples like he did before, but instead he goes down on his knees in front of me.

  He looks up, always checking that I’m okay with what he does, as he fits his fingers under the sides of my panties. Smoothly, without breaking eye contact, he pulls them slowly down, over my knees and down the length of my legs.

  It feels strange to be standing here, fully naked, in front of him, while he is still full clothed. Not an unwelcome kind of strange. His eyes finally drop from mine and they lavish attention instead on my body, taking all my curves in, with a kind of reverence that is hard to pin down or explain. I just know that he feels it, and when he looks into my eyes, I feel like a goddess come to earth.

  He stands and takes my hand, and helps me to step away from my clothing and towards the jacuzzi. The water hits my skin with a comforting warmth, just exactly the right temperature. I sigh as I step down into the scented air, find a seat, and sit down.

  The jets are gentle, only providing a gentle massaging effect rather than making it difficult to sit in one place. Dom disappears from my view for a moment and then returns, holding a cloud-like sponge already lathered up with soap suds.

  “Lean back,” he says. I watch him, realizing he’s removed the black jacket and white dress shirt he wore at the restaurant, which made him look like some kind of hot James Bond-type and is now wearing a tight white tee. The buoyancy of the Jacuzzi’s water pushes my legs up, floating to the surface as I lay almost flat on my back.

  My eyes flutter closed as Dom takes my hand in his, lifting my arm to run the soapy sponge up and down my skin. Every touch is gentle and loving. I imagine this is what real princesses used to feel like, when their handmaidens would soap them down like they were the most important t
hing in the land, because they were.

  After my arms, Dom leans across to perform the same ministrations to each of my legs, the sponge tickling the soles of my feet and passing so close to the place I really want him to touch that a shock of heat goes through me. Only when every inch of my legs has been passed over does he allow them to drop back into the water, the soap washed away by the gentle bubbles.

  Dom washes across my shoulders, and I feel my body straining up to meet him, straining for more. His arms are wet to the elbow, even though he lingers outside of the tub. Even though part of me wishes he was in here with me, I know what he is trying to say. That tonight is about my pleasure, my enjoyment. That he is only here to serve me.

  The sponge passes at last over my breasts and I almost sigh with relief. My nipples stand up sharply, ready for his touch. He moves in circles, first around the edge of each breast and then in, in, until finally he teases my nipples with just a brief brush before moving away.

  He soaps down my stomach, each touch agonizingly slow, and then finally dips between my legs. The sponge swipes across my clit, making me gasp and lift my hips, wanting more.

  My eyes are closed, but I feel the sponge slip away, as Dom abandons it in favor of his fingers. They begin to stroke me as they did before, moving in circles around my clit, the rough pad of his thumb making me moan as one of his fingers slips inside me.

  He begins to work in and out, building a rhythm, his thumb never forgetting to work my clit. I want to protest that this is not what we’re supposed to be doing...that I want him, fully, inside me, not just this...but it feels too good to make him stop.

  I buck and arch my hips, unable to control them as Dom’s fingers work me over. His other hand starts to circle one of my nipples, teasing more pleasure from my flesh, an uncontrollable feeling that is somewhere between pleasure and pain but somehow more intense than either could be.

  “Dom,” I gasp, wanting his name on my tongue. He leans forward and kisses me, swallowing my moans, tasting how good it feels as it builds to a crescendo inside me.