Brave, bold, and dangerously sexy, firefighters are every woman’s fantasy. Meet three hot heroes who take scorching desire to a whole new level . . .
The Firefighter Wears Prada by Rachelle Chase
When fashion designer Delta Ballantyne asks firefighter Evan Marshall to model her sexy line of men’s underwear, she can’t stop the sizzling fantasies running through her mind, beginning with sophisticated foreplay . . . and ending with the ultimate climax . . .
Too Hot to Handle by Susan Lyons
Executive Jade Rousseau needs to find a fake fiancé to parade around her company’s social events. When her friends bid on red-hot firefighter Quinn O’Malley at a benefit auction, Jade knows the man has to be hers – and she can’t wait to feel the passion . . .
Playing With Fire by Jodi Lynn Copeland
Ever since Erica Donelson’s ex-husband left her, his former best buddy, firefighter Lincoln Gabriel, has been there for her. But before long, their warm friendship heats up to a burning lust that won’t be denied . . .
Oh. My. God. There he is.
Delta Ballantyne nearly stumbled in her spiky heels. At the sight of Evan Marshall in the flesh, she felt like a toddler, taking her first step in her Jimmy Choo slingbacks. Tightness clenched her chest, squeezing the breath from her lungs and pushing heat to her abdomen. Dizziness invaded her head, threatening to topple her.
She paused, giving her body time to adjust to the shock – and her eyes a chance to look their fill.
Across the street, Evan stood in front of the fire station, turned slightly away from her, talking to a group of firefighters. Though they all wore station uniforms, to Delta’s prejudiced eye, only his fit him perfectly, as if designed by Giorgio Armani himself. The midnight blue shirt was wrinkle-free, as was the top of the matching t-shirt, visible underneath the two unbuttoned white buttons. The fabric hugged his perfectly honed chest before disappearing inside impeccably creased pants of the same shade – pants that traced muscular hips and tantalized with hints of well-built thighs.
God. He was even sexier than his photo.
Her breathing quickened, signaling her body’s inability to return to equilibrium.
She had to get a grip. She was at San Francisco Fire Station #27 for business, not sex.
Business. Business. Business.
Using the words as her mantra, she took another step. This time, her foot was steady.
Good. That was it. She just had to remember her priorities.
She continued forward, picturing her new line of men’s underwear. The image of Evan in the new Playing with Fire undershirt flickered in her mind. But, as she stared at Evan, the image vanished. In its place, he stood shirtless and she stood speechless – admiring his powerful chest with her fingertips. She ran her hands over his smooth skin, letting his nipples caress her palms. Her own nipples tightened in sync with his. Her gasps echoed his. As her hands moved down, over his abs, the hard muscle quivered under her touch, begging her to slide lower, to dip her fingers under the waistband of his pants—
Evan turned his head toward her, capturing her gaze.
Delta gasped, startled by the irrational belief that he’d read her mind.
His gaze flitted over her – a guy’s natural instinct to check out a woman who enters his line of sight, too quick to be insulting, but long enough for him to form an impression.
The impression was must’ve been favorable, for sexual awareness flared in his charcoal-brown eyes, before his expression became inscrutable. His look was intense, the effect deadly. It seemed to pierce her skull and swirl through her mind, stealing all oxygen.
Once again, she felt light-headed and breathless.
Business. Business. Business, Delta chanted as she continued forward – fortunately, without missteps. At her arrival, conversation stopped.
She forced a polite-yet-friendly smile and greeted everyone before turning to Evan. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant Marshall. I’m Delta Ballantyne.”
Delta held out her hand.
Evan’s gaze flickered to her hand and his lips twitched, as if something about it amused him. “Good afternoon, Delta Ballantyne.”
His hand wrapped around hers. The friction from his palm, slightly work-roughened, against hers, shot a ripple of lust up her arm. The visual of her small hand lost in the grasp of his bigger one, coupled with the firmness of his grip, sent a flutter of femininity to her stomach.
“What can I do for you?”
Oh, you can take that hand that’s igniting little tremors inside me and draw little circles with your fingertips against my wrist, then slide under the cuff of my silk Marc Jacobs blouse and—
The echo of his words pierced through her fantasy-fog as she withdrew her hand. The lack of contact restored a bit of functionality to her brain. And with it, a flicker of confusion.
“I’m here for our 3:00 meeting.”
Had Donnye gotten the day wrong? “My assistant scheduled a 3:00 meeting with you to discuss the details of my offer.”
“Your assistant didn’t talk to me. But it would be my pleasure . . .”
He dropped his gaze to her breasts.
The air swooshed from her lungs.
He continued downward, his gaze circling her hips.
Heat rushed to her stomach.
As his eyes lingered on her bare legs, it was as if a hundred silken threads brushed against her skin. A flash of dizziness shot through her head.
His gaze reversed direction, repeating its knees-to-rubber-inducing inspection.
He finally looked into her eyes. “To discuss your ‘offer.’”