Free Burnin' Up Memphis: Firehouse 69, Book 1 by Delilah Devlin

had remained intimate, respectful, even when he’d called her slut .
    He’d given her what she’d wanted— no, needed —and never taken a thing from her, except perhaps the pleasure of knowing he’d given Britney pleasure.
    Coop wanted to be like that. Wanted to see Moira’s eyes flare with pleasure and respect. He wanted her to trust him. For her to know that if she fell through the roof, he’d catch her.
    He bowed his head, dropping it to lie against her shoulder to hide his face, seeking privacy while he came to terms with his emotions.
    Grief was still there at the fleeting, unwanted thought of that roof and the black cloud of smoke that had burned his eyes to tears. He hadn’t failed Danny. He knew it in his heart. Danny’s death had been out of his control. Lack of control was the crux of his problem.
    The woman beginning to quiver beneath him was a gift he didn’t deserve, but one he wasn’t about to refuse. She was giving him the means to take back control, if only for the short time they’d come together. She was willing to let him take charge, take her wherever he wanted in any way he desired. She’d offer him only her unequivocal submission.
    The thought was combustive to his libido, but also a sweet balm to his soul.
    He lifted his head to find her wide silver-gray eyes staring at him. “Close your eyes, baby. I’ll be right back.”
    He left her after arranging her with her knees raised and splayed, her hands stretched above her head. She’d sighed with relief when he’d stretched her arms, groaned when he’d slightly hyper-extended them. Her nipples were rigid pricks, and he gave one a tweak before he rolled off the bed.
    After washing his hands, he gathered a couple towels Christa hadn’t bother taking because they were tattered at the edges. He found his flat hairbrush. A glance at the mirror brought him still for a minute. The man he’d been was reflected there—in the cocky tilt of his jaw, in the dark gleaming eyes.
    Back inside the bedroom, he searched his closet, reaching a hand to pat one high shelf until he found the nylon rope he’d used for rappelling when climbing rock faces had been for fun rather than for work. He found a tie the same color as her silver eyes. Then he walked back toward the bed.
    He liked how she looked, her chest quivering with anticipation. Her pussy moist. He flipped the slats of the blinds to let more sunlight inside, and then bent to grip the bed frame, scraping the posts along the bamboo floor to move the bed to the center of the room where it belonged. A stage for him to play on.
    “Don’t look.”
    She bit her lower lip and then let it go. “I won’t. Sir.”
    This time, the word didn’t strike him as obscene or even silly. His cock bobbed. Obviously, part of him approved.
    He went to work, climbing onto the bed on his knees and tying the rope to one post. He wound it around her wrist, not so tightly she couldn’t escape if she really wanted to, but enough to give her the sensation of being trapped and controlled. “Roll onto your belly.”
    She moved quickly and didn’t complain when her arms crossed. He wrapped her wrists together and then moved to the opposite post to loop the rope over it and drop the remaining coil to the floor. Then he straddled her soft bottom and slid the tie beneath her face. He tied it behind her head and sat back, staring at when he’d done.
    The sight of her, wrists bound and blindfolded, tightened his balls, brought them uncomfortably snug against his groin. He climbed off her body and reached to the floor for the hairbrush.
    He’d work his way up to this, the same way Anton had worked his way up to dripping molten wax atop Britney’s sweet curves.
    Hardening his voice, he said, “Come up on your knees.”
    Her fingers tried to clutch the rope, but the ends leading away were stretched too far to the sides, so she leaned into the binding and came up on her knees, moving up the bed to relieve the strain on her