The Firefighter Returns as a Quintillionaire King

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Alex's mind raced, but he kept his expression calm. "Be my guest, but I literally just opened the door thirty seconds ago. Haven't even gone inside yet."

The men hesitated. Time was wasting, and their prey was getting away. Finally, Scar-face jerked his head toward the stairs. "Fourth floor. Move!"

They thundered past him toward the stairwell. Alex waited until their footsteps faded before closing the door quickly and locking it. 

He engaged the chain and the deadbolt, then leaned against the door, exhaling shakily.

"Thank you," a breathy voice said from behind him.

Alex turned to find the woman attempting to stand, but her legs wouldn't cooperate. She slid down the wall, ending up on the floor with her legs sprawled awkwardly. Her face was flushed bright red, her pupils dilated.

"Oh no," Alex muttered, recognizing the signs immediately. He'd seen enough bar incidents during his firefighting career to know what he was looking at.

He approached carefully, kneeling down beside her while keeping a respectful distance. "Hey. Can you hear me? Do you know what happened to you?"

The woman's eyes struggled to focus on him. "Drink... at the bar. Felt wrong. Tried to leave..." Her words were slurred, barely coherent.

"Okay, listen to me. You've been drugged. Those men who were looking for you—were they the ones who did this?"

She nodded weakly, then her hand shot out and grabbed his shirt with surprising strength. "Hot. So hot. Why is it so hot?"

"That's the drug." Alex tried to pry her fingers loose gently. "You need to stay calm. I'm going to call for help—"

"No!" She pulled herself closer to him, her grip tightening. "No hospitals. No police. They'll find me. They know people. They said they know people everywhere."

"Ma'am, you need medical attention. This isn't—"

But before Alex could finish his sentence, the woman lunged forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him off balance. They tumbled onto the floor together, her body pressed against his.

"Please," she whispered, her lips dangerously close to his ear. "Make it stop. Make the fire stop."

Alex's heart was racing for entirely different reasons now. The woman was beautiful—even in her drugged state, he could see that. High cheekbones, full lips, and a figure that her professional clothes couldn't quite hide. Her perfume was intoxicating, mixing with the heat radiating from her flushed skin.

"Ma'am, you need to let go," Alex said firmly, trying to maintain some semblance of control. "You're not in your right mind. The drug is making you—"

"Touch me," she murmured, her hands sliding down his chest. "Please. I need... I need..."

Her lips found his neck, and Alex felt his resolve wavering. It had been months since Lisa had touched him like this. 

Months of sleeping in the same bed with a wall of ice between them. Months of rejection and cold shoulders.

And now here was this woman—this gorgeous, desperate woman—literally throwing herself at him.

"This is wrong," Alex said, but his voice lacked conviction. "You're drugged. You don't know what you're doing."

"I know exactly what I'm doing," she breathed, though her unfocused eyes suggested otherwise. Her hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. "I want this. I want you."

Alex grabbed her wrists, trying to stop her, but she was surprisingly strong for someone in her condition.

 She pushed him onto his back, straddling him with a forwardness that was both alarming and undeniably arousing.

"Ma'am—" Alex tried again, but she silenced him with a kiss.

It was messy, uncoordinated, desperate. She tasted like expensive wine and something bitter—whatever they'd slipped into her drink. But beneath that was something else, something that made Alex's blood run hot despite his better judgment.

He should push her away. He should call for help. He should do the right thing.

But when was the last time anyone had done the right thing for him? When was the last time anyone had wanted him, needed him, chose him?

Lisa had abandoned him. She'd left him to die. She'd brought another man into their home and expected Alex to just accept it. She'd made it perfectly clear that he meant nothing to her.

The woman in his arms moaned softly, her hands tangling in his hair. "Please," she whispered again. "Don't make me beg."

Alex took a deep breath, his last thread of resistance fraying. The woman was intoxicating, her body warm and willing against his. 

Those men were still out there, looking for her. He couldn't take her outside. 

And she was already climbing all over him, her inhibitions completely destroyed by whatever drug was coursing through her system.

He looked into her hazy eyes and made a decision that probably made him a terrible person. But right now, after everything he'd been through, he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Okay," he whispered, his hands finally moving to her waist. "Okay."

The woman smiled—a beautiful, drugged, grateful smile—and kissed him again.

And Alex Carter, the good guy, the hero firefighter, the faithful husband, finally stopped trying to do the right thing.