Five Alarm Forever: A Reverse Harem Holiday Romance Read online

  "Yeah. It does."

  Firefighting is definitely a male-dominated world. There's locker room talk that puts even your best erotica novel to shame. I've been grabbed at by guys a time or two, but apparently you break one little wrist and people get the message pretty fast that you don't put up with that.

  I can deal with the hornball bros and their sexist bullshit.

  What actually grates me more is being treated with kid gloves.

  Which…isn't what it felt like when Walker literally ordered me to relax and ease into things. My frown deepens. Because under normal circumstances, that's exactly how I would have read it.

  Walker didn't seem to be making it about that, though. He didn't give me any impression that he didn't think I could handle the work, or that I needed protecting.

  He acted like he…cared. Like he wanted me to feel like a real part of the team, and considering everything, that's what bothered me more.

  Yeah. If I still had my department-appointed shrink, I'd write that down as a thing to bring up with her.

  But I don't anymore, so I'm not touching it with a ten-foot pole.

  Oblivious to my inner monologue, Corey leans his shoulder against the wall. "Well, that's not it. You should have seen him when I first started."

  "Oh?"

  "I thought he was going to sit me down and feed me cookies." He shakes his head, clearly fond. "LT likes to take care of his team."

  "Duly noted."

  It's not how most lieutenants I've worked with have operated, but to each his own. My commanding officer on my first assignemnet was the biggest hard ass imaginable. Duke's advice to act confident and refuse to show weakness was a life-saver with him.

  Working under a guy like Walker is going to be…something else. But it is sort of nice to have the confirmation that I'm not the only one he gets all father-figure-y with.

  As I turn back to the duty roster, something catches my eye. I tilt my head to the side, then point at the bit of nearly illegible writing. "Who's…"—I squint—"Street?"

  "Oh. You probably didn't meet him."

  I remember then—there were supposed to be six pros on duty. I knew we were missing one of them back in the kitchen, but figured I'd meet him eventually.

  There's something in Corey's tone, though.

  "Oh?" I ask.

  "Yeah. He, uh. Keeps to himself most of the time."

  That's actually kind of a relief to hear, now that I know how invested our lieutenant is in team cohesion.

  "Walker must love that," I say, half joking.

  Corey's mouth goes pinched. "It's a Thing."

  Yeah, I can hear the capitalization.

  Corey clams up at that point, and I'm not going to push. I file the information away for later, though. For the first time in the tour, the silence that settles over us is awkward.

  Finally, he tips his head toward the hall.

  "Come on, I'll take you upstairs."

  It's the only part of the station I haven't seen yet, so I go along.

  I don't realize the peril of it until we're turning the corner at the top of the steps.

  And really, it's a completely normal crash room. There are about ten bunks. Maybe a holdover from a bygone era when this place was better staffed. Half walls provide a modicum of privacy, but that's about it.

  I've slept in firehouses before—clearly. It's never been an issue.

  But it's been a while. There weren't any twenty-four hour shifts when I was on administrative leave or pushing papers. When I was called in as backup on five alarm fires, I didn't stick around to crash afterward.

  The vulnerability of what I've signed on for in taking this job hits me on a whole new, visceral level.

  You have to trust your team. I told myself I could do that while still keeping my distance.

  But sleeping here with them?

  I tighten my hands against the shiver that wants to rack my bones.

  How am I supposed to do that?

  I'm not even taking into account the sexual vibe running through the place. That only adds another level of tension to the prospect of bunking down here tonight.

  I don't think any of them would try anything. I trust myself to handle it if one of them did.

  But being here in this room in the dark, listening to them breathe, inhaling the scents of their bodies all around me…

  I may have made a terrible, terrible mistake.

  "You've got your pick of the ones in that last row," Corey says, walking past me, pointing at the bunks. His shoulder brushes mine, and another current of confused wanting swirls inside mine.

  My voice cracks, my throat suddenly gone dry. "Great."

  He turns to me, still smiling. Still clueless about all the mixed up emotions and desires making my head swim.

  Except maybe he's not.

  Twin lines appear between his brows. "You okay?"

  "Yeah," I say automatically. "Fine."

  He regards me for a second. The lines stay firmly in place. "All right. Well, that's the tour."

  "Great," I say again.

  "You wanna settle in here or…?"

  "Yeah, sure." It'll just be following orders, right?

  And I could really stand to sit down for a minute.

  "Cool. Then I'll just be…" He gestures at the stairs. "Unless you need anything?"

  I shake my head hard. No, definitely not. "I'm good."

  "Okay, then."

  He's still looking at me funny. Fuck, I've let my Big Dick Energy slip, along with any pretense of being the hard ass I want these guys to perceive me as.

  Straightening my spine and throwing back my shoulders, I force a quick, tight smile. It's not much, but it's enough to get him off my back.

  With a nod, he bounds back down the stairs, leaving me alone in this cavernous space.

  And that's good. That's exactly how I prefer to be.

  Staggering to a bunk in the corner, I let the exhaustion of keeping up this front overwhelm me. I sink to sit on the edge of the thin mattress. I drop my head into my hands.

  What the hell am I going to do?

  Walker ordered me to take some time to settle in, but how? This bunk is only mine until eight AM tomorrow. What does he think I need to do up here? Style my hair?

  There are manuals to read downstairs. Maybe some more HR paperwork to fill out or training videos to watch, or God knows what else.

  For a hysterical moment, I consider really following the letter—if not the spirit—of his order. My lieutenant wants me to take care of myself and become part of this unit?

  I have the crash room to myself. I could lie back on this bed and open up my jeans. Shove my hand beneath the denim and get some fucking relief.

  Sexual tension has been swirling through my veins ever since I caught sight of Jaquan on top of the engine. It only grew at Sal's appreciative perusal. At Walker's easy confidence and his warm, male scent. At Corey's smile.

  Fuck. I squeeze my thighs together.

  Maybe I should.

  Only which guy would I even fantasize about? If I'd met them at a club, I'd take any one of them home.

  My pussy throbs at the idea of Jaquan kissing all down my body, of Sal at my back, his mouth at my ear, his firm muscles pressed against my spine. They'd both be hard against me.

  And then there's Walker. He has those good boy looks that make you think he'll probably prefer missionary in the dark, but what if he's a bit of a freak? Would he like to tie me up?

  What would he look like, on his knees in front of me, his lips wet from my soaked pussy?

  How would Corey fuck? Jesus—no way, but could he be a virgin?

  An image sweeps across my vision of his head tipped back in ecstasy as he pushes inside me for the first time.

  And then there's the mystery man. Street. Is he as hot as the rest of these guys? Could he fuck as deeply or as rough?

  Shit.

  I force my eyes open. When did I even close them?

  My pussy is an infe
rno between my legs, my nipples tight and aching to be touched. A hot flush creeps up my neck as I twist the bedsheets in my hands.

  Fuck it. No way I can go back downstairs with this need thrumming through my veins.

  I whip my head around, confirming I'm really alone.

  Then I flop backward. With a flick of my wrist, I undo the button on my jeans and slide my hand inside. I groan and let my eyes fall closed again. My simple, black cotton underwear are soaked through. My scent fills the air.

  Will they pick up on it? When they climb these stairs tonight, will they be able to tell what I did here?

  Will it make them hard?

  I rub at my mound through the wet fabric and bite back another low moan. God, that feels good. Slipping my hand beneath the waistband of my underwear, I finally make contact with my own slick flesh. I'm swollen and hot, ripe.

  I'm no prude, but the last six months haven't exactly been conducive to going out and getting some. My life has been too much of a mess. Disappointment and betrayal rocked my mood and my confidence and my sex drive, too. I've gotten myself off here and there, but not regularly and not recently.

  And that's all too obvious as I circle my fingertips around my fat clit. My breaths speed with the sparks of pleasure that radiate out from that one point of contact. My pussy clenches down. It's been so long since I've gotten fucked, and I'm suddenly desperate for a thick cock, to get filled good and deep. The emptiness inside claws at me, but I don't have time to do anything about it.

  Shoving my hand in my panties is one thing. Stripping half naked right here to fuck myself with my own fingers is another.

  Ninety percent of my attention is on the hot waves of sensation throbbing through my cunt. But the other ten percent is focused on listening for the faintest sound of anyone making their way up the stairs.

  I could pull my hand out and close my jeans in a second if I needed to. The pink on my cheeks and the speed of my breath might give me away, but I could pretend to be composed.

  But Jesus—what if they did walk in on me, my pants stripped off, my dripping pussy on display, my fingers buried in all that needy, desperate flesh?

  I rub harder, my lungs heaving as new licks of pleasure surge through me.

  Would they stand there? Would they watch?

  Or would they want in?

  The achy need hits a fever pitch as that image steals across my vision. I hammer at my clit mercilessly, every muscle in my body tensing.

  Shit—all of them standing over me, their dicks out.

  Waiting their turn to fuck me raw…

  And that's it. It's over.

  I bite down on a scream as my pussy explodes. The sharpness of my release leaves me breathless and stunned. My cunt shivers and clenches, but that emptiness inside is cutting. Disappointment colors the pleasure.

  Shit.

  As my orgasm subsides, I pull my hand out of my pants and open my eyes.

  That'll take the edge off, sure. But it didn't satisfy me.

  What will?

  Especially when I have to work with these guys for the next twenty-two hours.

  When I have to work with them day after day after day.

  When they're here in this building right now, waiting for me.

  The haze of pleasure fades. Shame crowds in to take its place.

  Sitting up fast, I dart my gaze around. Fortunately, I'm still alone. That's just sheer luck on my part. Fantasizing about them walking in to find me touching myself and wanting a piece might have been red-hot. But the reality would probably be anything but.

  Moving fast, I put myself back together, refastening my jeans and standing. I retreat to the bathroom on the other side of the room—you know, where I should have done my dirty fantasizing in the first place. As I wash my hands, I can't bear to meet my own gaze in the mirror.

  I have to get my head on straight. I have to concentrate on the job.

  No matter how sexy and inviting my new co-workers might be. No matter how lonely and untouched I've been these past few months.

  I'm here to do the work I've spent my life training for. If I fuck it up, I won't get another chance.

  Turning off the tap, I take a deep breath. I force my shoulders back and my spine straight.

  I'm going to walk downstairs like everything is normal. I'm going to stay calm. I'm going to stay detached.

  And I'm going to pray to fucking God that they don't realize what a giant mess I am inside.

  3

  Eventually, I do put on my big girl panties—soaked as they may be—and head back downstairs. I'm a little worried that someone is going to be able to tell what I got up to in my bunk, but my arrival on the ground floor is entirely anticlimactic.

  Hesitating at the foot of the stairs, I consider my next move.

  I'm still under strict instructions from my superior officer to take my time settling in and getting comfortable. So what if, after everything that happened back upstate, I'll never really be comfortable in a firehouse again? So what if all my insanely hot new crew-mates are causing another, different kind of discomfort?

  I do what makes sense to at least follow the letter of Walker’s law, if not its spirit.

  In the same back office where Corey and I had our little chat, I go through what's left of my hiring paperwork. I skim the station's rules and regulations, then the logs for the past few weeks' worth of shifts.

  None of it is exactly groundbreaking.

  When I can't come up with any more busywork to do back there, I head to the locker room.

  Corey toured me through this place earlier, and he showed me which locker would be mine. My stuff is already stored in there, and I don't really have a lot of reason to return, other than…

  Walker did tell me to make myself at home here. And I'm hesitant to do it, but he's going to see right through me if I don't…

  I stand there for a minute, staring down the long row of beige metal doors. Each one has a piece of tape at the top of it and a name written in black sharpie over the tape.

  Except mine.

  I gaze at the empty space on the painted metal.

  The person who preceded me on this shift didn't meet some tragic end or anything. There's no dramatic twist to be dragged up once his identity is revealed. He was just some guy whose wife got a job upstate, and they had to move, leaving an opening, and nobody wanted to come to Butt-Fuck Egypt to fill the slot except me, so ta-da. Here I am.

  He's not coming back. His ghost isn't haunting the place, literally or metaphorically.

  And yet that unclaimed spot he left behind feels like it has its own presence. Or maybe it's that claiming the space as my own means admitting to myself that I'm really here. This is my home now. My future.

  Fuck it.

  I reach up to the top of the lockers where Corey put the roll of tape and the marker. Unceremoniously, I peel off a strip and tear it free. I slap it on the top of the locker, right where everyone else did. I cover up five layers of stripped-off, dried up tape with a fresh one. I uncap the marker.

  I pause with the tip hovering just above the tape.

  Flashes of memory bombard me.

  Doing this on my first day of my first shift at my new house. The excitement that flooded me, because this was it. The big time. All my practice and training, all my dreams.

  Watching Duke, on my last day, tearing my name off.

  I grit my teeth and swallow a wave of bitter bile.

  Whatever. It's just tape. Walker and his crew can yank it off whenever they want to, and it won't hurt me a bit. Not after the way Duke did it.

  So I do what I do. I dive right in.

  In bold strokes, I spell out CHAPMAN. My writing isn't the neatest, but in big caps, it's pretty clear.

  When it's done, I cap the sharpie and put it back where I found it. I step back and look at my name, right next to the names of the other guys I've met so far today; right next to the name of the one guy who I still haven't.

  I'm part of this crew
now, at least on some level.

  No matter how wary I am of them, I'm not going to let them down.

  With that accomplished, there's really not much else I can claim to have left to do, so I head toward the common area. As I approach, the scent of roasted garlic and tomatoes wafts toward me. My mouth waters, but my pulse quickens.

  Shared meals are part of firehouse life. The alarms could start blaring at any minute. No one can be off-site during their shift, so there's no running out for a quick burger or anything. Some of the best cooks in the world are veteran firefighters, who spend their time between calls perfecting their recipes.

  My old crew used to have the best fucking lunches in the entire world. Gutierrez and O'Shea were geniuses in the kitchen, and I got to be pretty decent myself.

  How many afternoons did we spend, arrayed at the tables in the station, laughing and watching TV, wolfing down chili and roast beef and this barbecue chicken thing that was almost as good as an orgasm—almost.

  It was one of the things I missed the most, after.

  In the here and now, I turn the corner to find Walker pulling a casserole dish out of the oven. Corey is hauling plates down from a cupboard while Jaquan digs around in the fridge. Sal stands at the counter, sipping a Coke.

  So he's the first one to spot me.

  "Hey." He lifts his soda can to me. "You're in for a treat. Not every day LT whips up his grandma's spaghetti bake."

  Did he know I have a weakness for pasta? Even from across the room, it looks amazing—all gooey and cheesy.

  Walker sets the dish down and slips off his oven mitts. He flashes me a warm smile. "Hope you're hungry."

  I stop, frozen in my tracks.

  Shit. He did this for me. I'm sure they always have good meals, but he went to this extra effort to try to welcome me into their fold. To be kind.

  Only I can't. I just…can't.

  After my last department turned their backs on me, how can I sit down in fellowship with this one? How can I get to know them and become their friend? How can I accept anything from them?

  I glance desperately from the steaming hot spaghetti bake on the counter to the locker room, where my sad ham sandwich awaits me. There's no comparison.

  Because my sad had sandwich I can go eat alone on the stoop behind the garage. The meal Walker made for me…