The Willow Creek Civic Center has never looked this fancy—string lights swagged across the ceiling, rented ferns pretending to be a forest, white tablecloths hiding sins. The banner over the stage reads First Responders Benevolent Fund, and someone decided to put tiny gold helmets and red hearts at every place setting, like we're prom royalty.

I smoothed my dress three times before I walked in. It's black, slinky, knee-length, with a slit that says I'm respectable until I sit down, and it says just kidding. My heels are the kind you only wear when you're trying to prove a point.

I can feel eyes on me, not just his, but the weight of his gaze is a brand, searing through the crowd straight to the pulse hammering at the base of my throat.

Across the room, Kai Hart is already proving his: charcoal suit, white shirt, sleeves rolled once at the forearms like he's seconds from carrying me out of here over his shoulder. And the tie I told him to bring? Dark blue, silk, knotted neatly. He catches me looking, drags two fingers down the front of it like a promise.

I hate my body for the way it answers.

My skin prickles under his stare, a slow burn that pools low in my belly, like he's already touching me, already unraveling me with nothing but a look. I shift my weight, and the silk of my dress brushes my thighs, reminding me how little separates me from ruin.

Our table is a mix of fire and EMS: Bennett and Henderson on one side, Janelle and Josh on the other, the mayor's wife floating in and out like she's auditioning for a reality show. Old Man Harper has somehow secured a seat at our elbow and is already three gin and tonics deep.

"Fancy," Kai murmurs as I sit. He drags my chair closer with one hand like it weighs nothing. He smells like cedar and aftershave and trouble. "You clean up okay, Sinclair."

"You'll cry when we take your little sticker off your helmet," I whisper back, smiling at the mayor like I'm not vibrating. "Try to keep it together."

"Couldn't if I tried," he says, and his palm lands on my knee.

Friendly. Public. Nothing to see here.

Except the heat jumps in my chest, because his thumb is rubbing idle circles through the silk. Light. Thoughtless. Devastating.

His touch is a live wire, sparking where his skin meets mine, and I swear the room tilts, the chatter fading to a dull hum as my body fixates on the slow, deliberate drag of his thumb. It's too much and not enough, and I'm already aching for more, my pulse a traitor that throbs in places he hasn't even touched yet.

Dinner begins: salad with dressing I will never identify, speeches about heroism, more speeches about fundraising, and a slideshow that includes a photo of me covered in mud from the relay. Laughter rolls through the room. Someone elbows me; someone else whistles. I give a tight wave, cheeks warm from the attention.

Kai's hand hasn't moved.

"Stop," I breathe without looking at him, the word catching behind my smile.

"I'm literally being still," he says, and his thumb rolls one aching inch higher.

The movement sends a jolt straight to my core, my thighs clenching instinctively as heat blooms where I'm already too sensitive. I press my lips together, fighting the urge to shift in my seat, to chase the pressure he's teasing me with.

The keynote starts—Chief Martin doing his annual we do more with less, thank you for the less—and the lights dim a little more. I cut a glance at Kai. He's focused on the stage with that straight-backed, good-soldier posture that makes people hand him awards—and at the same time, his fingers have slid under the hem of my dress like they own the right of way.

"Don't," I whisper, and my voice betrays me by sounding nothing like a no.

"Rule two doesn't expire till eight a.m. tomorrow," he murmurs. "You never said anything about hands."

Heat shoots low and constant, a fuse he's been threatening to light since he sat down. I place my napkin in my lap, very demure, very I am a pillar of this community, and clamp my thighs around his wrist.

The pressure of his wrist trapped between my thighs only makes it worse, his warmth seeping into me, making my pulse stutter as I fight to keep my face neutral. My body is screaming for him to move, to give me more, and the effort to stay still is a delicious kind of torture.

He exhales a laugh so soft I feel it more than hear it. "That's your best barricade, Sinclair?"

"Public indecency is still a crime."

"So is teasing a firefighter with a slit that left the station unlocked," he says, and then his knuckles slide higher.

His knuckles graze the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, and I bite back a gasp, my nails digging into my palm under the table. Every nerve in my body is alight, straining toward him, and I'm terrifyingly aware of how close he is to discovering just how much I want this.

The first course arrives. Servers glide. Silverware clinks. I stab a cherry tomato as if it insulted my ancestors and chew with exaggerated focus while his fingers trace the inside of my thigh. He's not rushing. He's not even pretending to be innocent about it. He's hunting, patient and relentless, kneading a path upward until he finds the thin band of my panties and hooks two fingers under it like a thief lifting a window.

The tug sends a shiver racing up my spine, my breath hitching as he toys with the edge, threatening to pull it aside. My hips twitch before I can stop them, a silent plea he doesn't miss, his fingers pausing just long enough to make me want to beg.

I put my fork down because I don't trust my motor skills.

"Kai," I warn, turning my head just enough to show him what he's doing to me.

He keeps his eyes on the stage, the picture of civic responsibility. "Yes, Violet?"

"Behave."

"Say please."

I hate him. I hate how the word please blooms in my mouth like sugar melting. I don't give it to him. I reach for my water, hand steady as a surgeon's, and take a long drink while he slides one finger where I am slick and needy and absolutely not in control.

The intrusion is slow, deliberate, and so perfectly angled that my entire body tightens, a coil of heat winding tighter with every subtle movement. I'm wetter than I thought possible, and the way his finger glides against me feels like he's claiming every inch of my sanity.

My eyes slam shut, just for a beat, lights blooming against the inside of my lids. I set the glass down with care.

"Eyes open," he says softly. "Smile for the donors."

I smile. It probably looks like a grimace. Janelle leans across the table and whispers, "You okay?"

"Pepper flake," I croak. "Went rogue."

Bennett lifts his glass to me in sympathy.

Kai curls his finger inside me.

The motion is a slow, deliberate curl that strokes a spot so deep I nearly choke on my own breath, my core clenching around him as pleasure spikes sharp and relentless. I'm drowning in it, in him, and the fact that we're surrounded by people who have no idea makes my blood burn hotter.

My napkin wrinkles in my fists. The slideshow clicks to a photo of the new brush truck, and the room claps; I clap too, because apparently my body has decided to outsource all its decision-making to him while maintaining a thin veneer of professionalism.

"Good girl," he murmurs, and the praise lands exactly where his fingers are working me open. He adds a second, stroking slowly, patiently, finding every angle that makes me want to crawl into his lap and forget my name.

The stretch of his fingers is exquisite, a slow burn that has me biting my lip to keep from moaning, my thighs trembling as he works me with a precision that feels like he's memorized every inch of me. My body is a traitor, arching into his touch under the cover of the tablecloth, desperate for more even as I fight to stay composed.

A volunteer photographer appears at the end of the table. "Group shot?"

"Happily," the mayor's wife trills, already standing.

"Don't you dare," I hiss, teeth barely moving. "Kai—"

He withdraws so quickly I could cry. His hand returns to my knee, gentleman-light, while we stand and squeeze together. His shoulder brushes mine; he leans in like a lover for the camera and whispers, "I'll give it back."

The loss aches, my body throbbing with unmet need, and his whispered promise sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through me. I can still feel the ghost of his fingers, slick and sure, and it takes everything in me not to press myself against him right there in front of the flash.

The flash pops. We sit. The room eats. The servers clear. My heartbeat is in my ears, my throat, my wrists.

I'm hyperaware of every inch of my skin, the silk of my dress suddenly too tight, too hot, clinging to me like it's conspiring with him to drive me insane. My pulse is a relentless drumbeat, and I'm certain everyone at the table can hear it, can see the flush creeping up my chest.

Main course. I cut chicken I won't taste. He starts again like nothing interrupted him, pushing silk aside, filling me with one sure claiming stroke that knocks the air from my lungs. I grip his wrist—don't stop—and he obliges, slow and deep, knuckles pressed against the crease of my thigh, palm grinding my clit in deliberate, maddening passes that make polite conversation something only other people are capable of.

Each stroke is a calculated torment, his fingers curling just enough to make my vision blur, his palm pressing with a rhythm that has me teetering on the edge of oblivion. It's indecently slick; the clatter of plates barely covers it, and the knowledge that he's doing this to me in a room full of people makes my head spin with reckless, filthy want.

Old Man Harper leans around Bennett and squints at me. "You look flushed, darlin'. That chicken too spicy?"

"Just warm in here," I squeak. "Great event."

"Hydration," Kai says, so sincere the table nods on instinct. "Very important."

He tips my water glass toward me with his free hand. I drink because I need cover, because my mouth is dry, because if I don't, I will make a sound that gets us escorted out by the same volunteers who put gold helmets at the centerpiece.

The cold water does nothing to cool the fire raging under my skin, and when his fingers shift, spreading me wider, I nearly drop the glass, my thighs quaking as I fight to keep my expression neutral. I'm unraveling, piece by piece, and he's watching me come apart with that infuriatingly calm smirk, like he knows exactly how close I am to losing it.

The lights dip another shade for the dessert auction. The emcee is calling out pies, cakes, and social media sponsorships, like this is Vegas for church folk. A chocolate lava cake the size of a hubcap goes for two hundred bucks to Mrs. Halloway, who immediately sends two slices to our table like a fairy godmother with boundary issues.

"Have a bite," Kai whispers. "You'll like it."

"I'll kill you."

He lifts his free hand, offers me a forkful. I open my mouth to tell him where to put it, and he slides it in, fudge and heat and sweetness landing on my tongue at the exact moment his thumb circles my clit just right.

The combination is devastating—rich chocolate melting in my mouth as his thumb presses with perfect, unrelenting pressure, sending a shockwave of pleasure so intense I nearly sob. My body clenches around his fingers, desperate and greedy, and I'm certain the entire table can see the way my chest heaves, the way my eyes flutter before I force them open.

The noise that tries to leave my body is criminal. I drown it with chocolate.

"Look at me," he says.

I do, because I'm weak for him when he uses that voice. His eyes are dark and satisfied; his mouth is soft and cruel. He's reading me like a map. Tracing every place I want with the kind of patience that makes you feral.

His gaze locks onto mine, and it's like he's stripping me bare right there, his eyes promising things his hands are already delivering. My core pulses around him, each slow thrust of his fingers pulling me closer to a precipice I can't avoid, and the way he watches me makes me feel like I'm his entire world, his only mission.

"Breathe," he murmurs. "Pretty and quiet. You can do that."

I nod. I want to make him eat that smug, ruinous calm. I want to climb into his lap and make it impossible for him to form a sentence. I want—

His fingers curl and press in a way that steals the want and replaces it with need.

The pressure is relentless, his fingers hitting that perfect spot with a rhythm that has me trembling, my body begging for release even as I fight to keep it together. Every nerve is screaming, my clit throbbing under his palm, and I'm so close I can taste it, sharp and sweet like the chocolate still lingering on my tongue.

"Now," he whispers. "Give it to me."

I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to sting. My thighs shake under the tablecloth; my heels dig into the carpet. The room blurs at the edges—lights and clink and the emcee making a joke about gluten—and I shatter around Kai's hand with a stifled breath that isn't a sound and absolutely is. It rushes through me, hot and helpless, and I hold his wrist like a lifeline while he keeps me grounded, riding every tremor until I sag against the chair.

The orgasm is a tidal wave, crashing through me with such force I'm sure I'll break apart, my body clenching so tightly around his fingers it's almost painful. He doesn't stop, drawing out every pulse until I'm gasping silently, my vision spotting as pleasure consumes me whole.

"Atta girl," he says again, softer, and eases his hand away.

The absence of his touch is a cruel shock, leaving me aching and empty, my body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure that ripple through me, demanding more even as I struggle to catch my breath.

I sit there, demolished in black silk, tasting chocolate and victory and him, while Josh across the table argues with Henderson about whether a pie should legally be allowed to contain rhubarb. I can't feel my knees. My pulse is a warm hum under my skin.

Kai wipes his fingers discreetly with a napkin and then—because he's a menace—he knots the napkin at his wrist; his gaze flicks to the tie like a promise, then at me, and smirks.

"Do not," I mouth.

"Later," he mouths back.

We make it through a raffle, three more speeches, and a standing ovation for a scholarship fund. I pretend to be normal. I even thank the volunteers with a voice that doesn't shake.

Outside, under the awning, the night is cooler than it has any right to be. People are saying goodbyes, hugging, and exchanging leftovers in foil. The air smells like rain and clean linen and the now-fading sugar-high in my bloodstream.

Kai stands close enough that his knuckles brush mine. "You handled that well."

"You're a terrorist," I say, because honesty feels like the only oxygen I can find.

"Compliment taken."

"Don't get cocky."

His grin is slow and obscene. "Little late."

I swat his bicep, and he catches my hand, thumb pressing into the center of my palm. The pressure shoots straight through me. My body remembers every inch of his patience. I should go home. Shower. Sleep. Not text him at two in the morning like a woman who didn't just fall apart under a table next to a centerpiece of fake ferns.

"Sinclair," he says, the word a low invitation, "come by the station later."

"Why," I say, already knowing the answer.

He leans in so no one else will hear. "Because I'm on the ladder truck tonight and I can think of three places to put that tie if you're brave."

The image hits so hard I have to lock my knees.

"Work rules," I say, grasping for sanity. "Don't you have any?"

"I do." His mouth curves, wicked. "Don't get caught."

Headlights sweep the lot as someone pulls away. Janelle calls my name; I wave. For a second, it's just us in the shadow of the awning, two idiots who cannot stop lighting matches.

He lifts my hand to his mouth. Doesn't kiss. Just breathes against the inside of my wrist like he's getting drunk on it.

"Text me," he says.

I step back because if I don't, I'll step into him. "You'll have to earn it."

"I always do."

The door swings open; the mayor's wife spills out with a laugh and a to-go box. We separate like magnets flipped the wrong way, smiling too brightly. We're good at this. We're terrible at this.

My phone buzzes when I hit the sidewalk.

Kai: Ladder bay. Midnight. Bring your mouth.

Heat runs right through me, clean and total. I type back before I can think better.

Me: Bring the tie.

I slide my phone into my clutch, heart in my throat, legs suddenly very awake for someone who just survived a five-course meal and a covert crime.

"Paramedics are hotter," I whisper to myself, and head for my car, already counting down.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter!! 🤞🤞