Fire Escape

Chapter One: Community Service

The fire was supposed to be harmless.

Just a tiny dorm trash fire--lit with a scented candle, some makeup wipes, and an empty wine bottle. Zara hadn't meant for the curtains to catch. Or the smoke alarm to short out. Or for half the building to evacuate at 2 a.m. in their pajamas.

But whatever.

It was *fine*. No one got hurt, the room smelled like vanilla coconut, and honestly, the firemen looked kind of hot dragging hoses around campus. Except now her father's lawyer couldn't get the charges wiped, and she was stuck doing community service. With the fire department. For three weeks.

As if she was going to mop floors in a place that smelled like burnt testosterone and rubber boots.

"Ugh. This place reeks," Zara muttered, arms folded tight over her Chanel sweater as she stepped into the firehouse. Her boots clicked dramatically against the concrete. "Is it always this... ugly?"

Her boyfriend, Chase, laughed--slick-haired, smug, dressed in a perfectly ironed polo. "Babe, relax. You'll survive. Think of it like a social experiment. Rich girl infiltrates blue-collar land."

Zara rolled her eyes. "That's not funny. I touched *metal* on the way in."

"Tragic," Chase said flatly, clearly bored.

The firehouse was everything she hated. Loud. Sweaty. Red metal lockers lined one wall, a fire pole gleamed in the corner like something out of a stripper movie, and half the guys were walking around in either soot-streaked pants or tank tops that did *not* pass her aesthetic standards.

Zara sniffed. "Where's the manager or whatever? I want to get this over with."

"Captain's on call," Chase replied. "But one of the guys is supposed to show you around. Don't give him hell, alright? He's ex-military or something."

She opened her mouth to reply--something sharp and sparkling--when the door at the back swung open.

And then she forgot what air was.

He walked in like he *owned* oxygen.

Six-foot-something, dark hair cropped close, tan skin kissed with sweat and soot, a black shirt stretched tight over his chest, clinging to carved muscle. His jaw looked like it had been shaped by gods and then cracked on purpose. Eyes like ice and fire at once. He didn't glance at her. He didn't need to. The air bent around him.

Zara's mouth went dry.

Chase smirked, not noticing. "Zara, meet the guy you'll be shadowing. This is Logan."

Logan finally looked at her. Slowly. Like he was deciding if she was worth acknowledging.

His gaze swept down her legs--tight white jeans, thigh-high designer boots--then back up. "You're the dorm fire?"

"I *started* the dorm fire," she corrected haughtily. "And it wasn't that big."

"Still dumb," he said flatly. "Let's go."

"I--excuse me?" she sputtered. "I don't even know who you are. Do you, like, clean the trucks or something?"

He walked right past her.

Chase gave a low chuckle. "Good luck, babe. I've got golf in twenty. Try not to set anything else on fire."

She scowled at his back as he walked off, then turned and stormed after Logan.

"Hey! Hello? I'm not done talking!"

"You talk a lot," Logan said without looking back.

She narrowed her eyes. "And you don't talk enough."

"Good. Maybe we'll cancel each other out."

She followed him through the building, throwing insults under her breath, but he didn't flinch. Didn't stop. Didn't even glance her way. And that was the problem.

She was used to men falling over themselves.

Not ignoring her in white jeans.

Not *commanding* her like a general in heat.

Not making her want to yank his shirt off just to see if the rest matched.

Which, she was starting to think, it did.

"Okay, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" she snapped as they reached the back lot.

Logan picked up a mop and shoved it into her perfectly manicured hands. "Start with the garage. Don't get your boots dirty."

She blinked at him. "I'm not a janitor."

"You are this week."

Then he walked off again, and for a second, all she could do was stand there, holding the mop like it had personally insulted her.

Zara Reyes had never mopped anything in her life.

But this man--this Logan--had just walked into her world like a wrecking ball made of testosterone and gravel, and for reasons she couldn't explain, she felt *alive.*

She stared at the mop. Then down at her boots.

Then after him.

This was war.

And she was going to win.

---

Chapter Two: Dirty Work

Zara was sweating. Sweating.

She'd been pushing that stupid mop around the firehouse garage for nearly an hour, and her arms were burning, her back ached, and her suede boots had officially crossed over from *couture* to *crime scene.*

"This is abuse," she muttered to herself, glaring down at a black streak across the concrete floor. "I'm calling my lawyer. Or Vogue."

From across the bay, Logan watched her silently as he cleaned tools and stacked hoses. His sleeves were rolled up, thick forearms flexing with every movement, veins visible like ropes under his skin. He hadn't looked at her since handing her the mop.

Which was honestly more offensive than the mop itself.

She jabbed it against the ground with unnecessary force, sending a splash of dirty water across the concrete. It splattered up her jeans.

"Oh, come on!"

Logan didn't move. "Don't stab it. Glide it."

Zara whipped around. "I wasn't stabbing it. I was... mopping aggressively."

He walked over, slow and deliberate, his boots heavy against the floor. He stopped just behind her. Close enough to feel, not close enough to touch.

"You've never worked a day in your life, have you?"

"Wrong," she said hotly, spinning to face him. "I once helped fold napkins at my aunt's wedding. For, like, thirty whole minutes."

He didn't even blink.

"Folding napkins isn't work."

"It is if they're linen."

His eyes dropped to her chest. Then her lips. Then her eyes again. "You think your mouth makes you intimidating?"

"I think my mouth makes me fabulous."

Logan's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But close enough to enrage her.

She scowled and turned away, swinging the mop too hard and nearly toppling the bucket. She caught it just in time, muttering curses under her breath.

He stayed behind her.

Not helping.

Not moving.

Just watching.

And she could *feel* it. His eyes on her backside. On her waist. The tension between them was thick now, too thick, like the heat in the room had changed.

She hated it.

She hated that she noticed how big he was. How quiet. How solid. That every time he looked at her, it felt like he saw right through the layers of sarcasm and money and perfect hair.

And worse, she hated that part of her--deep, low in her stomach--kind of liked it.

"You missed a spot," he said behind her.

She clenched her jaw. "Oh, really? Did I miss a spot? Wow, thank you, Captain Obvious."

He took two steps closer. Now she could feel his body heat behind her. His voice dropped lower.

"You've got a lot of mouth for someone doing a piss-poor job."

She turned again, defiant, nose tilted up. "And you've got a lot of nerve for someone who smells like smoke and ego."

That half-smile returned, slower this time. "Smoke and ego?"

"And maybe pine. Or sawdust. Whatever man-scent you're going for."

He leaned in, eyes locked on hers, voice calm.

"I think you like the smell."

She froze.

The words hit her like a spark. And suddenly, she realized she hadn't moved back. That he was right in her space. That her heart was hammering in a way it absolutely shouldn't be.

"I think you're delusional," she whispered.

Logan didn't break eye contact. "And yet you haven't stopped staring at me since I walked in."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You don't want to mop," he said, stepping around her toward the bucket. "You want attention. Just not the kind you're used to."

She gawked at him. "I am used to attention."

"Yeah." He looked back over his shoulder. "From soft-handed boys who'd fall apart if you raised your voice."

"You don't even know me."

"I know enough."

She wanted to slap him. Or throw the mop at him. Or maybe shove him against the fire truck and kiss the arrogance off his face.

Instead, she stood there, fuming. Red cheeks, clenched fists, soaking boots. He turned back to his work like the conversation never happened.

She glared at his back.

She hated him.

She hated how infuriatingly calm he was. How his arms flexed when he tightened a valve. How he hadn't flirted or begged or groaned when she walked in looking like a fashion editorial. How he didn't care.

And most of all, she hated that her thighs were pressed a little tighter together than before.

This was going to be the worst three weeks of her life.

Or the hottest.

Maybe both.

**Chapter Three: Hose Duty**

Zara was rethinking her life choices.

Not because she'd started a dorm fire with a scented candle. Not because she was currently being forced to mop oil stains like some kind of street urchin. No--she was rethinking her life because Logan had just assigned her *hose duty.*

"Hose duty?" she repeated flatly, hands on her hips. "Do I look like someone who handles hoses?"

He was crouched by the fire truck, forearms flexed as he pulled a long, coiled red line from its storage bay. "You look like someone who needs to be humbled."

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"You can't talk to me like that."

He didn't even glance up. "I just did."

Her blood was boiling. Her thighs too, unfortunately. Zara crossed her arms and strutted over, hips swaying with the kind of practiced elegance you couldn't fake.

"You think you're such a badass, don't you?" she sneered.

Logan stood up slowly, the massive hose over one shoulder, looking down at her like she was a puzzle with too many pieces. His gaze dropped for half a second--just long enough to take in the dip of her waist, the curve of her hips under tight denim.

Then back to her eyes.

"I think you need to stop running your mouth and start running the rinse line."

She gave him a sweet, poisonous smile. "Make me."

The silence stretched.

Then Logan dropped the hose to the ground. Hard. It thudded next to her boots, spraying a few drops of leftover water across her jeans.

She gasped.

"You just--!"

He stepped in close. Really close. His chest brushed her arm. His voice was quiet now, dangerous in the worst way.

"If you keep mouthing off like that, princess, I'm going to put that smart little mouth to better use."

Zara's breath hitched.

There it was. The electricity. The tension that had been sizzling between them since the second he walked in the room, now crackling hot and undeniable.

"You're disgusting," she whispered, voice slightly breathless.

"You're wet."

"I'm *sweating*."

He smiled.

"You sure?"

She didn't answer.

Couldn't.

Not with how her body was reacting. Not with the way his voice had gone deep and slow, like velvet wrapped around sin.

He stepped back before she could say something dumb. Or worse, moan.

"You'll be rinsing down the trucks," he said, all business again. "Try not to break a nail."

She grabbed the hose nozzle like a weapon. "Try not to stare at my ass while I do it."

He didn't reply.

But as she turned toward the truck and leaned down to aim the hose--arch in her back, perfect little bratty sway in her hips--she could feel his eyes burning into her.

She couldn't help it. She wiggled a little more than necessary.

Petty? Maybe.

But she was still a spoiled, mouthy little princess--and if Logan thought he could break her that easily, he had another thing coming.

Even if part of her *wanted* to be broken.

Even if her panties were sticking to her thighs like glue.

Even if she had no idea how she was going to last three weeks without exploding.

Behind her, Logan was coiling the second hose, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. She was a pain in the ass. A spoiled, bratty, impossible little snob.

And he wanted to bend her over the side of that truck and shut her up for good.

Maybe soon.

But not yet.

Not until she *begged.*

**Chapter Four: The Wrong Kind of Fantasy**

The country club was gleaming as always.

Gold-trimmed menus, crystal chandeliers, bored servers in bowties. Zara sat at the round table with her perfectly polished nails wrapped around a mimosa glass, surrounded by exactly the kind of people who were supposed to matter--her father, her overly Botoxed mother, and her boyfriend Chase, the king of smug.

"You should have seen me at tee nine," Chase was saying, sipping his whiskey like he owned the place. "Crushed it. Didn't even need the three-wood."

"So impressive, darling," her mother purred, dabbing at her lips. "And Zara, how's your little... firehouse thing? Are you still being punished like a common criminal?"

Zara rolled her eyes. "I'm not scrubbing prison toilets, Mother. Just mopping floors and spraying hoses with sweaty men who don't know what moisturizer is."

Her father grunted. "Maybe it'll build some character."

Zara stared at her salad like it had insulted her.

Because as much as she wanted to whine about how *disgusting* the firehouse was, her mind wasn't on dirt and hoses. It was on one man.

One giant, calloused, maddening, dominant man.

Logan.

Even now, in this glittering room full of her own kind, her legs were pressed tight under the table because every memory of his voice--the way he stood behind her, that smirk, that threat to use her mouth--still buzzed through her body like electricity.

He was filthy. Rude. Poor. Rough.

And the way he looked at her made her *ache.*

She barely touched her food. She smiled and nodded when needed, but the whole time her mind was caught in one loop: Logan's voice. Logan's size. Logan's hand grabbing her chin and shutting her up with a look.

And when Chase kissed her cheek later and told her goodnight, she barely heard it. She didn't even say goodbye to her parents. Just got into the town car, rode home to the mansion, and slammed the bedroom door behind her.

She needed to *breathe.*

She needed something *else.*

Zara dropped her purse on the floor, kicked off her heels, and stared at herself in the giant gold-framed mirror. Silk dress. Diamond earrings. Perfect lips. A goddess.

But the girl in the mirror looked... needy.

She pulled the dress over her head in one swoop and tossed it aside, standing there in expensive lace panties and nothing else. Her nipples already pebbled from the memory of his voice.

She climbed into bed and lay flat, legs parted, one hand grazing the inside of her thigh. Slowly. Testing.

She closed her eyes.

And imagined him.

Not Chase.

Not any of the suit-wearing Ivy League boys from her world.

Logan.

Sweaty. Shirtless. Voice like thunder and gravel.

She slid her fingers down her panties, already soaked, and let out the tiniest gasp.

Logan wouldn't be soft with her.

He wouldn't whisper praise.

He'd tell her what to do. Grab her wrists. Bite her shoulder. Say things no one else ever dared.

She teased her clit, slow, lazy circles, biting her lip.

He'd bend her over the truck.

Call her *princess* in that filthy, taunting tone.

Tell her to shut up while he made her scream.

Her fingers moved faster.

And in her mind, he was between her thighs, growling about how wet she was, how bratty and desperate she'd become. He'd spread her open, watch her squirm, and say--

"You gonna cum for me, rich girl?"

She whimpered.

"Yes," she whispered to no one.

She imagined his tongue, his teeth, his rough hand over her mouth to muffle the sounds as her orgasm built. The pressure coiled, hot and dangerous, until her back arched off the silk sheets and she cried out, legs trembling, fingers soaked.

She came hard.

Harder than she had in months.

Panting. Shaking.

She lay there, eyes closed, hair tangled over the pillows.

Spent.

And ashamed.

Because the only thing worse than touching herself to a man like Logan... was knowing that tomorrow, she'd see him again.

And she'd want more.

**Chapter Five: On Her Knees**

Zara arrived ten minutes late.

Deliberately.

Logan hadn't texted. Hadn't called. Hadn't even *glanced* at her last shift unless it was to bark another condescending order. So if he wanted to play stoic and silent, fine. She'd show him just how unforgettable she could be. In heels.

Today's outfit was a threat and a promise--tight little white tennis skirt, sleeveless crop top with no bra, and those thigh-high designer boots that made her legs look obscene. Her lips were glossy, her perfume sweet and smug, and her cherry-red manicure gleamed under the firehouse lights.

She strutted into the garage like it was a runway.

And sure enough--heads turned.

"Holy shit," one of the younger firefighters muttered to his buddy near the rig. "That's the rich girl doing community service? That's *punishment*?"

"Forget the fire, she's gonna burn *me* down," the other snorted. "I'd let her walk all over me."

Their laughter echoed.

Zara caught it. So did Logan.

He was crouched by one of the trucks, checking under the chassis, his shirt riding up just enough to show the V of his lower abs. She couldn't see his face yet--but something in the air shifted. Tightened.

He stood slowly. Looked up.

And she saw it.

His jaw was set. His eyes cold. But there was something else--some sharp, flickering heat she hadn't seen before.

Possession.

He walked past the other guys without a word, but the silence was *loud.* They shut up immediately, exchanging glances like kids who knew they'd pushed too far.

Zara sauntered closer, unfazed. "Miss me?"

"You're late," Logan said flatly.

"Fashionably."

"You're mopping the back bay. Then detailing the inside of engine seven. Floors, panels, everything."

She smirked. "Detailing? You mean getting on my knees?"

He didn't flinch.

"Exactly."

Her lips curled. "You sure you want me on my knees that badly?"

His eyes dropped, just for a breath. Down her body. Back up. Voice rough.

"You couldn't handle what I'd do to you if that were the case."

The air turned thick.

She stared at him, flushed but grinning. "You're disgusting."

"And you're desperate."

She opened her mouth to snap back, but he was already walking away.

"Start with the cabin," he said over his shoulder. "Try not to get distracted by your own reflection."

She fumed as she stormed toward the truck. She climbed in and got to work--barely--wiping the dashboard with slow, exaggerated swipes. And she knew damn well he was watching. Even if he pretended not to.

Ten minutes later, she was on her knees inside the truck, reaching under the seats in a very compromising position, when the truck door opened.

She didn't need to look.

She *felt* him.

"You really don't know when to quit, do you?" Logan's voice was low, amused, and far too close.

"I'm just cleaning," she said innocently. "Like you asked. Or do you only like when girls kneel for other reasons?"

He climbed in beside her. The space felt instantly smaller. Tighter. Her thighs pressed together out of instinct.

"I think you like provoking me," he murmured. "Because you want to see what happens when I stop being polite."

She glanced over her shoulder, lips parted. "Who says you're ever polite?"

His stare was burning now.

"You want to be punished, don't you?"

She didn't answer.

Didn't have to.

He reached past her, pulled the door shut behind them with a heavy slam.

"Wipe the seat," he ordered. "While I watch."

She turned back, breath shaky, cheeks flushed, and wiped the leather with shaky strokes. She swayed her hips, just a little. Enough to keep the game going.