Page 19 of Wild Fire

At all.

I move to wipe the back of my mouth with my hand.

My head feels slightly better, and words are starting to form in my brain. I look up at AJ, my vision clear as day.

It’s him.

It’s really him.

Mr. Hot Firefighter.

And suddenly a fresh wave of nausea hits me that I know has nothing to do with alcohol

Because this? This is a new fucking low, even for me.

“Come on,” he says as he helps me up, pulling me against him. I bury my head against his chest as the shame and guilt start to surface.

AJ shifts me, and then I feel something tighten across my chest. I close my eyes, my stomach flipping. I pray I don’t throw up again.

“I’m never drinking again,” I murmur. I feel warmth on my thigh, followed by a comforting squeeze, and I can’t fight the darkness any longer, so I let it pull me under.

Chapter Seven

AJ

“You’re just doing your job,” I tell myself. Though, last I checked, bringing a drunk man back to my house was not part of my job. I swore the last time I went to Shadows—last week—would be the last time, when Jackson asked if I’d sign off on his workshop on negotiating hard and soft limits as a sub so he could apply it to his sex therapy certification, I couldn’t say no. Not every person that teaches at Shadows is certified, but if they aren’t, they are usually in the process or they have some sort of applicable experience that qualifies them. Like Jackson, who technically is a licensed counselor. But the last person I expected to find at the club tonight was Nate fucking Barrett.

Especially in the arms of that fucking snake, Beck. Which means his keeper, Michael probably wasn’t too far away, waiting like a damn shark for his switch to bring him his fucking dinner. I don’t even want to think what might have happened to Nate if I hadn’t showed up. Michael Barry is a fucking asshole with a CNC kink—consensual non-consent, like me—except he prefers to watch other people fuck his partners before he does, because he’s also got a voyeurism kink and a bit of a cum fetish. And it just so happens that he’s one of the best lawyers in the city. Which means he knows just how to keep his nose clean, even when his hands are fucking filthy. And don’t even get me started on Beck, whose daddy owns the construction company that built Shadows & Sin. Both of them are assholes who think being a dom gives them a free pass to be an asshole. It doesn’t.

Which is why they hang out on the club level and stalk the crowd for curious newbies and cute young men who don’t know any better.

Like Nate.

I don’t even want to think about what could have happened if I hadn’t found him on my way out. It took every ounce of control in me to not punch fucking Beck square in that dumb face of his and lay him out on the damn floor, but I know the fucking asshole likes to be roughed up and punished, and I wasn’t about to play into his fucking hand. Especially because he’s been contracted to Michael for a while, and I don’t need to catch shit for reprimanding another man’s sub, or starting a fight on the club level.

I should have taken Nate wherever he’s staying, but I’m not sure he even knows where he is or who I am right now, so I doubt he’d be able to tell me where that is. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I carefully unbuckle him and maneuver him out of my truck, into my arms. His head lolls against my chest and he groans, and I worry he’s going to get sick again. So I make haste and bring him inside the house, straight to my bedroom. I lay him down carefully on my bed, propping the pillows up so he’s elevated in case he does throw up again, so he won’t choke on his vomit.

“AJ…” His voice is barely a whisper.

I stop at his feet, my hand halfway to removing his shoes.

“Yes?”

He lets out another groan, pouting those perfect, plump lips of his.

Even though he looks wasted as hell, he still looks damn beautiful; those long eyelashes fluttering against his skin, his dusty brown-blonde hair all mussed from a night of drinking, falling across his brow.

“You saved me.”

“Of course I did,” I say, slowly moving to take off his shoes as he lets out a low sigh. The words that follow sting more than they should. “That’s my job, Nate.”

He pouts again, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I can’t help but think about what it would feel like to bite that bottom lip of his. Take it between my teeth while I press him against the wall and punish him for being careless. Reckless.

I let out a growl and push the thought aside because that’s not why I brought him here.

“Lift your legs,” I order, so I can help him undress. There’s a few vomit stains on his jeans and his shirt, so I’ll have to toss them in the wash as soon as possible. He doesn’t answer me, so I repeat myself, this time more firmly.

“Lift your legs, Nate.”