Burned(33)

Phina gets up from the couch stands next to me. “So? Get to know him. Ask him every single question you can think of until it’s all out in the open.”
“You didn’t see the look on his face when he left. He was hurt and he was angry and I don’t think he’s going to forgive me for pushing him away. He doesn’t even know what’s going on with Jordan and me. For all he knows, I took Jordan back after he left.”
Phina shrugs. “Well then, put on the hottest piece of lingerie you own, storm into the fire station and explain it to him. He’s a man, Finnley. Just show him your tits. That will distract him long enough for you to speak your piece.”
While I work out the details of the plan brewing in my head, Phina and I go into the kitchen, filling our arms with dishes, bowls, serving platters and coffee cups before making our way outside. In the middle of my driveway at ten o’clock on a Monday night, my best friend and I laugh and cheer as we break every single piece of wedding china I own. Sure, I’ve got a mess to clean up when we’re done, but I feel much better than I did an hour ago.
My heart is brimming with the need to discover everything there is to know about Collin and my body is burning with the desire to feel his hands on me again. I think about the black lace push-up bra, matching thong and garter belt with black lace thigh-highs that has been sitting in a Victoria’s Secret bag in the back of my closet for over a year
I think I finally found the perfect place to wear it. Hopefully, Collin lets me near him long enough to show it to him.
As I slam a salad bowl on the driveway and watch the pieces scatter, the anticipation of seeing him again, of having him inside me, is hard to ignore. I can already feel his hands sliding up my legs to unhook the garter belt and his face between my thighs, his warm breath seeping through the lace of my thong.
Please, God let this plan work.
I’ve already become addicted to him and I’m pretty sure there isn’t a rehab facility anywhere in this world that could cure me.

Chapter 12—Let the Sparks Fly

THE LOUD, EAR-PIERCING screech of a whistle next to my ear sends a bolt of pain straight to my temples. I turn to scowl at D.J. as he smirks at me, the whistle still dangling from his lips.
“Sorry, Captain. Was that too loud for you?” D.J. asks with an innocent look.
I should have known better than to drink the night before weekly drills at the station. As the captain of Franklin Ten House, I’m not required to run the drills with my men, but most of the time I do. Under normal circumstances, I’m out there with them in the bay running advancing hose drills, shoulder carries with two-hundred pound test dummies, cradle carries, ladder sprints and a multitude of other drills designed to keep the men in shape and provide a little healthy competition. Today, however, I’m perfectly fine holding the stopwatch and letting D.J., our Incident Commander, run things. If he blows that whistle anywhere near me again, though, I’m not going to be responsible for my actions.
“Alright, boys, that’s a wrap!” D.J. shouts to the group of guys bent over, gasping for air after the last timed run. “Martinez and Johnson, you guys had the slowest times tonight so you’re on kitchen duty. Get your asses inside and make me a pot pie!”
The two men groan and everyone else starts a little good-natured ribbing as they all make their way inside.
When it’s just the two of us left outside, D.J. turns to me, crossing his arms over his chest and staring me down. “Alright, out with it. You never drink the night before a shift and you sure as hell never give up a chance to whip everyone’s ass with your stellar ladder climbing skills. What’s been going on with you this week? I’m pretty sure you’ve been hung-over every f*cking day since last Monday.”