A Serving of Forever (Lights Camera Insta-love 3)

“I’m fine,” I say, my voice raw from smoke. With an effort, I climb to my feet, my lack of equilibrium causing me to weave. Another one of my fellow firefighters rushes over to steady, me, but I push them away. Don’t they know the only thing I need in this world is my wife?

We married five years ago, two days after we met, and we’ve never spent a night apart, unless I’m working a twenty-four. I go with her to the fancy restaurants she reviews for the Times and I’ll admit it, she’s turned me into a goddamn foodie. I know what a crostini is now and I’m man enough to admit it. Even my sisters, who have become Quinn’s best friends, say things like, it has a nice kick of citrus that pairs well with the texture.

And there I am, nodding along, trying to arrange a perfect bite on my fork.

We still drink bodega coffee, though.

The reminder of my first date with Quinn sends a shard of pain into my side. Jesus, I almost left her tonight. I almost left her and the girls. Five more seconds.

There’s a screeching of tires and I glance to the curb, only to find my wife diving out of her car in a white, shortie nightgown. She’s barefoot and her glasses are crooked—and she is the most exquisite creature in the universe. With her hands covering her mouth, she scans the abundance of medical and fire personnel, searching, her eyes finally landing on me.

Her relief is almost painful, it’s so immense, but it matches mine. Me too, sweetheart. And then she’s running toward me on the sidewalk, tears streaming down her beautiful face. I’m worried as hell she’s going to step on broken glass or something, but thank God she makes it to my arms without incident, leaping and wrapping her arms around my neck.

“Desmond, they called me. They called m-me a-and they said to come down here right away. Are you okay? Oh my God. I was so scared.”

Someone on my crew must have called Quinn, proof I’ve made no secret of my complete and utter obsession with my wife. There are times I can’t make it through a whole shift without meeting her in my truck, out in the parking lot, borderline starved to get my come inside of her. Pacing like an animal until the second she arrives and I can fill her pussy up. There’s no telling how many kids we’re going to have at this rate, but I’m cool with a dozen if Quinn is up for it.

“Sweetheart.” I bundle her close, inhaling the perfect scent of her neck. “I’ve got soot all over me. Your beautiful skin is going to get filthy…”

Those are the words that come out of my mouth, but she hears the subtext. She hears the anguish in my tone and knows tonight could have been bad.

Most of all, she knows I need her.

Now.

“Good.” Quinn goes up on her toes and whispers in my ear. “Make me filthy.”

She’s over my shoulder before the invitation fully leaves her mouth and I’m striding around back of the neighboring building, reminding myself over and over that we extinguished the fire and she’s safe there. She’s safe. Nothing can hurt her.

When we reach the deserted back alley, I shrug her down off my shoulder, a strangled groan leaving my mouth when she locks those sexy legs around my hips. Fuck. It gets better every time with this woman. She makes me insane. I lust for her. I worship her.

Her fingers are busy on my fire jacket, getting it open and shoving it off my shoulders, leaving me in fire pants, suspenders and a white T-shirt soaked with sweat. Like I told her, my arms are slick with soot, along with my face, my neck. “Sorry about this mess…”

“Oh yeah,” she says tremulously, sarcasm breaking through her need. “You’re a real turn off looking all strong and heroic like this.”

My mouth moves into a lop-sided smile and we breathe through a laugh together. But my amusement dies almost immediately and suddenly I can barely swallow. “Oh God, I love you so much.” I crush her against my chest, bury my face in her hair. “I almost…Christ, Quinn, I almost—”

“But you didn’t.” Her voice catches. “Now show me how alive you are.”

We burst into motion, Quinn pushing the suspenders off my shoulders, me ripping down the zipper of my pants. Shoving down my briefs. My wife gasps at the sight of my hard cock—never fails to have that reaction. God love her, those eyes are like a kid on Christmas, her nimble fingers trembling on my chest in anticipation.

Five years later, I still feel guilty as sin for taking Quinn’s virginity like a fucking savage in a nightclub, of all places, and I’ve spent every day since trying to make up for it. I’ve taken her to fancy hotels, I’ve doused our bed in flower petals and I’ve chilled enough champagne to open a liquor store, but the guilt remains. And apparently I’m not going to make any headway getting rid of it tonight, because here I am, pressing my angel of a wife up against a filthy building and kissing the breath out of her.