If self-control had a Yelp page, mine would have two stars and a warning label.

We didn't plan a date tonight; we planned laundry. Adulting. I've got a basket of clean scrubs on my couch, the A/C is humming like a lullaby, and Kai is sprawled in my favorite chair like a six-foot emergency—bare forearms, T-shirt that has no business fitting that well, and an expression that says he knows exactly what happened on this couch last time he was here.

Unfortunately, so do I. Hence the laundry. If I keep folding, I can't climb him like a ladder.

"Stop staring," I mutter, pairing socks like I'm defusing a bomb.

"I'm not staring," he lies, then proceeds to stare. "I'm... observing."

"Observing what?"

"How you fold," he says, way too casually. "You always smooth the corners. Thoughtful. Bossy. A little controlling."

"Wow," I say, deadpan, "it's like you read my performance review."

He grins, lazy and lethal. "Here's mine: you're thinking about taking me apart, but you're pretending you're not."

I throw a sock at his face.

He catches it without looking. Smug. Infuriating. Hot.

"Okay," I announce, standing because sitting makes me feel trapped with my own hormones. "New rule."

Kai's brows lift. "Oh? More rules. The EMT sets rules, the firefighter breaks them; I've seen this episode."

"One last bet," I say, and his eyes light up like I just handed him a matchbook. Our bets always end... badly. And by badly, I mean very, very well. "Winner picks—" I wave a hand, searching for something sufficiently terrible, "—literally anything for the rest of the night."

"Anything," he echoes, interest sharpening. "Define."

"Creative freedom," I say sweetly. "Location, soundtrack, choreography. If you lose, you do what I say with zero backtalk. If I lose, I do what you say, and I will not complain even once."

He sits forward, forearms on his thighs, the picture of a man who is both trouble and the solution to it. "And the game?"

"No touching," I say, and watch his pupils darken. "Twenty minutes. Same room. Words allowed. Eyes allowed. Hands... not."

He tips his head like a predator scenting the wind. "You want me to talk while I can't touch you."

"Scared?"

He laughs, heat and thunder. "Of you? Constantly. Set the timer."

I grab my phone from the coffee table. "Siri, set a timer for twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes, counting down," my phone chirps, way too cheerfully for what is about to be sheer chaos.

"Rules addendum," Kai says, lifting a finger. "No props."

I look around at the completely innocent room that suddenly feels like a trap. Props? Me? "I don't even own props."

His gaze dips, takes a slow tour of my legs. I did put on heels because I thought we were going out for tacos before we bailed for laundry. Four-inch ankle straps, glossy black. Kai noticed the second I walked in. He's been the picture of patience about them. Barely.

"No props," he repeats, eyes on the heels.

"Fine," I lie.

"Second addendum," he says. "You can't leave the room."

"Fine."

"Third," he says, wicked now. "If you break first, I get to choose the first position."

My mouth opens, closes. "Wow. You're very confident."

He winks. "I've seen me."

The timer ticks. Nineteen: fifty-eight.

We take positions like boxers. He lounges back in the chair, wide and relaxed, legs spread just enough to be a problem. I sit on the far end of the couch, tuck one leg up, try to look like the kind of woman who can outwait a man who's literally made a career out of being calm under pressure.

Nineteen: twenty.

Kai clears his throat, slowly. "So," he says, voice dropping into his I'm-about-to-ruin-you register, "you remember the relay? When you looked back and called me 'Grandpa' and nearly ran out of the handoff zone?"

I refuse to look at him. "Vaguely."

"I remember," he says. "The way your breath caught when I pulled you back. The way you smelled like heat and victory and—"

"Disqualified," I say, almost choking. "Scent memories are illegal."

"Really?" He slouches deeper, the picture of sin at rest. "Why? Afraid I'm right?"

Eighteen: fifty-five.

"Tell me again," he says softly, "what happens when you lose."

I stare at a very interesting spot on the wall. "I do what you say."

"Good," he murmurs, and somehow that single syllable drags across my skin like a mouth.

I cross my ankles, heel strap biting sweet at my skin. His eyes flick down and back up in one slow pass that feels like a hand.

He smiles like he heard my breath stumble. "You wore those for me."

"I wore these for tacos."

"You wore those," he says, voice turning silken, "so I'd have to watch you walk to the kitchen."

"I'm not going to the kitchen."

"Shame," he says. "I was going to ask you to bring water. For safety."

"You're a firefighter," I say. "Hydrate yourself."

He laughs, deep and rough, and shifts just enough that the denim at his thigh pulls tight. I am not looking. I am absolutely not—

I look. Tiny, treacherous glance. He catches it, and his smile goes lethal.

Seventeen: forty.

He drapes an arm over the chair back, casual as a cat in sunlight. "You know what I'd pick," he says conversationally, like we're discussing the weather. "If I win."

"No," I say. "And I don't want to know."

"Liar." He takes a breath that moves under his shirt in rude ways. "I'd put you on your knees on that couch cushion, hands braced on the back, heels still on—don't interrupt me, Sinclair—and I'd lean in so close your hair would tickle my jaw. I'd tell you exactly how you're going to behave for me. And you would."

"Incorrect," I say, voice strangled. "I'm unruly."

"You're obedient when you want to be." His gaze warms. "Which is my favorite thing about you."

Sixteen: fifty-two.

I need counter-fire. "If I win," I say, syrup-sweet, "I'm making you do the whipped-cream calendar shoot. In August. No A/C."

"Thought we retired the whipped cream," he says, but his mouth tips like he's imagining anyway.

"Who said anything about using it on you?" I purr. "I was thinking you could hold the can while I—"

"Violet," he warns, voice turning gravel. "Watch it."

"Timer's still running, Captain."

We stare at each other. The A/C hums. Somewhere outside, a dog barks. Inside, my entire nervous system does jumping jacks.

Fifteen: thirty.

He shifts again. The chair creaks. "Permission to use my words?"

"Words are allowed," I say, instantly regretting it.

"Good." He licks his bottom lip, almost lazily. "Drop your hair."

"I... what?"

"Drop it," he says, softer. "I want your hair down."

It's not touching. It's not. I slip the elastic from my messy knot and shake out my ponytail, curls falling against my shoulders. Kai's pupils flare like I just undressed.

"Better," he says. "Now—cross your legs."

"They already are."

"Tighter."

I cross them tighter. He watches my thighs press, and the burn in my cheeks climbs.

"Now lean back," he murmurs. "Let me see your throat."

"I hate you," I whisper, and do exactly what he asks.

His eyes go heavy. "I know."

Fourteen: ten.

I need to hit back or I'm a goner. I sit up, slowly, and unbutton the top button of my blouse. His gaze drops. I undo another. And another. Not touching him. Touching me. Legal. Bare skin meets cool air, and I swear his control flickers.

"Stand," I say softly.

He blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Stand up," I repeat, all innocence. "Or are you worried about balance?"

He rises, towering and unfair, and I bite back a very undignified sound. He waits. I gesture, sweet as poison. "Turn."

He turns. Broad back, shirt stretching. Tattoo peeking at his sleeve. I hum thoughtfully, and his shoulders move like he's bracing for impact.

"Good," I say. "Now sit."

He does. The corner of his mouth is fighting a smile. "Bossy."

"You like it."

"Told you," he says. "Performance review."

Twelve: fifty-nine.

He slouches deeper, spreads wider, and whatever oxygen lived in this apartment packs a bag and leaves.

"Say you want me," he murmurs.

"No."

"Say it and I'll lose."

My heart buckles. "You're lying."

"Probably." He grins, all teeth. "But wouldn't you like to find out?"

I glare. If I move, I'll touch him. If I don't move, I'll combust.

The group chat notification pings—because of course it does.

Henderson: Who's taking bets on your bet

Paige: I've got 18 minutes on Violet

Jess: 12 on Kai (no offense, big guy, we all know about your voice)

Bennett: I'm outside your building, I can hear the timer through the door (kidding, maybe)

I turn my phone facedown. "We are never telling them about this."

"Agreed," Kai says, eyes glued to me. "Sinclair?"

"What, Hart?"

"Come here."

"No."

"Violet." My name in that register is a felony. "Come here."

I stand on principle. Not obedience. Not because he asked. Just because my legs forgot how to sit. I take two absolutely nonchalant steps closer and stop outside his reach.

Ten: forty.

He smiles up at me like I've already lost. "Spin."

"Why?"

"Because I asked nicely."

"I don't do nice," I say, spinning anyway. My skirt swishes around my thighs, and his jaw flexes like a man praying for strength. When I face him again, he looks very, very done.

"Nine minutes," I say brightly.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Sinclair."

"What?"

"Drop one heel."

"I—what?"

"Kick one off," he says, voice a little rougher. "Slow."

I narrow my eyes. "Pervert."

"Correct," he says. "Do it."

It's petty to give him what he wants. It's pettier not to. I slide the strap free and let the shoe dangle, then fall. The tiny thud of it hitting the rug is obscene. Kai inhales like I just moaned in his ear.

"Other one," he says, voice gone wrecked.

"Earn it."

He laughs once, breathless. "Okay." He clears his throat, recovers enough to ruin me on purpose. "You remember the shower," he says softly. "Steam and soap and the way you—"

"Illegal!" I yelp, because I am a coward. "Flag on the play."

"Fine," he says, smiling slowly. "New play." His gaze drifts up my legs. "Imagine me kneeling right here, mouth where your pulse skips—don't look at the timer, Violet—my hands on your hips, holding you still while I—"

"Timer's paused," I say desperately, grabbing my phone.

"It isn't," he murmurs. "You just want it to be."

Seven: twelve.

I'm going to lose. I know it; he knows it; the A/C knows it. I need a Hail Mary.

"Take your shirt off," I say, and his brows flip up. "What? It's hot."

"You said no touching, not no strip tease," he says, amused, but his hands hitch at the hem, and suddenly there's nothing between me and the muscles I had my fingers dug into last night. He tosses the shirt to the chair arm and reclines again like a sin advertisement.

"Better?" he asks.

"Horrible," I croak.

"Come sit in my lap."

"No."

"On the ottoman," he amends. "Two feet away. I'll only talk."

I should say no. I say yes, because I want to die. I slide onto the ottoman, knees against his. Not touching. Not technically.

Six: forty.

"Look at me," he says.

"I am."

"Closer."

I lean an inch. He doesn't move. The tension threads tight between us like a live wire.

He smiles, slow and mean. "You're shaking."

"I'm vibrating with contempt."

"Say you want me."

"Hate you."

"Same thing," he says easily. "Violet?"

My name again. I am not strong enough for this man.

"Breathe," he whispers. "In... and out."

I do. Idiot body.

"Good girl," he says.

It's a tiny, stupid compliment. It lands like a meteor.

Five: fifty-five.

I break.

I don't even pretend. I lunge forward, grab his jaw in both hands, and crash my mouth to his like fire seeking oxygen. He's already moving—hands at my waist, a shocked laugh breaking against my lips—before he drags me into his lap and the timer is face down on the rug and we are absolutely, catastrophically done.

"You lasted fourteen minutes," he manages, voice rough, mouth hungry. "I'm impressed."

"Shut up," I pant, already tugging at his belt. "Congratulations on your win, Captain. Pick the position and shut your very pretty mouth."

"Copy that," he says, and his laugh goes sinful.

He flips me without standing, strong hands and an easy lift, setting my knees on the couch cushion just like he described earlier—forearms braced on the back, hair falling forward, one heel still on because he's ridiculous and I'm worse. The second his mouth finds the side of my throat, I gasp and then remember why we made the dumb rule in the first place: because touching is an avalanche. Once it starts, there's no stopping it.

"Say it," he murmurs, breath hot at my ear. "Say you want me right now."

"Obviously," I hiss, because dignity died five minutes ago. "I want you. I want—"

"Everything," he finishes, wrecked now too. "You get it."

The words tumble out between our mouths and hands, and the kind of heat that makes a woman forget how to spell her own name. He lays out the night in that low, boss voice—what he'll do first, what he'll do second, where he'll use his hands, how I'll beg when he takes his time—and I agree to all of it, mindlessly, joyfully, because who needs language when his teeth are at my shoulder and his praise hums in my chest like a second heartbeat.

Somewhere, very far away, my phone timer starts trilling. Somewhere, even farther, our friends are probably arguing in the group chat about who technically won. In here, the only score that matters is the way he laughs against my skin when I mumble, "Fine, paramedics are hotter," bait, because nothing winds him tighter than losing to EMS.

"Louder," he says, grinning against my jaw.

"In your dreams," I gasp, and then I forget words altogether for a while.

Later—breathless, boneless, face down on a pile of clean scrubs I now have to rewash—Kai kisses the back of my neck and mumbles, "Fourteen minutes. New record."

"Shut up," I say into cotton.

"You owe me," he adds, smug and sweet.

"Uh-huh." I reach back blindly and squeeze his thigh. "Round two. New bet."

He goes very still. "What are the rules?"

"No rules," I say, turning my head enough to meet his eyes. "Just us."

He looks at me, something soft and dangerous moving in his face. Then he tips me onto my back and smiles like a man who could happily lose every bet for the rest of his life.

"Copy that," he says, and proceeds to make sure we both lose spectacularly.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter!! 🤞🤞