When the blaze dies, the real fire begins.
Anthony, soot-streaked and spent from the inferno, stays behind in the ruins of a warehouse. He knows the flames weren’t an accident. Someone lit them with intent. Someone wanted to be seen.
And when he finds Andrew, the arsonist still smouldering in the shadows, their collision is inevitable. Heat shifts from ruin to flesh, punishment to hunger, until fireman and firestarter are bound together in a dark ritual of control, surrender, and desire.
The fire was out.
But the heat still pulsed.
The alley behind the warehouse hissed with dying steam, the last of the blaze tamed by chemical rain and adrenaline. Burnt metal groaned in protest. Water pooled at Anthony’s boots, thick with ash, smoke curling lazy in the air like it didn’t know it had lost.
He stood alone now.
Helmet gone. Jacket open. Chest slick with soot and sweat, each breath rising slow through the ruin.
The others had gone. Sirens faded. The engines rolled back toward the station.
Anthony had stayed behind. Something kept him.
Maybe it was the scent, gasoline sharp under the char.
Maybe it was instinct. A feeling, clawing at his spine.
Or maybe it was fury. Still alive in his blood.
His hand flexed. Gloves off. Fingers scarred. Dirty.
The blaze was intentional. He knew it before they even rolled in. The way it danced. The way it waited. It hadn’t just been destruction. It had been art. Someone had wanted to watch.
And now the fire was gone. But that someone?
Still here.
He moved deeper into the alley, slow, boots splashing through the sludge. The scorched walls leaned in, whispering. A smashed barrel leaked something black into the dirt.
Above him, a torn metal awning still dripped. The last breath of heat licked his torso, dragging across skin that refused to cool.
He didn’t call out.
He didn’t need to.
He could feel it.
Someone was watching him now.
A single sound behind a collapsed stack of crates. Too clean to be the building dying. Not quite retreat. Not quite approach. A breath held, then broken.
Anthony turned.
His muscles coiled.
The air around him shifted.
Something was about to catch.
And this time, it wasn’t going to be the building.
There.
A flicker in the soot-hung dark.
Too solid to be smoke, too still to be wind.
Anthony stepped forward, boots silent now. All the noise had drained from the world except the heavy rhythm of his breath. He was closer than he should’ve been, deeper into the husk of the building’s bones.
And then
Eyes.
Watching him through the wreckage.
Wide, sharp. Not afraid.
Hungry.
Anthony held the stare.
And the man didn’t flinch.
No bunker gear. No turnout coat. Just skin streaked with ash and a tattered tank clinging to one shoulder, singed off at the edge. Dark curls plastered to a sharp jaw. Lean frame crouched in the shadows, one palm pressed to the blackened brick like he belonged to the ruin.
He looked like the fire itself, wild, grinning, and too beautiful to trust.
Anthony didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
Because the other man rose.
Slow. Intentionally.
Like heat rising from the street.
And when he stepped out of the shadows, the rest of him came into view. The body was tight, wiry, hard angles and temptation. Soot clung to every muscle. A long slash of fresh ash ran down his neck like a lover’s mark.
“Didn’t think you’d stay behind,” he said, voice gravel-laced and low.
His grin curled up like a lit match.
Anthony didn’t answer.
His eyes dropped, catalogued: the dirt, the singe marks on his palms, the heat still radiating from his skin.
This was the one.
He knew it now.
The matchstick mouth. The gasoline scent. The fire that hadn’t come from the walls, but from him.
“You light it?” Anthony asked, voice flat.
The man didn’t move.
He just tilted his head, like the question amused him. Like maybe the truth didn’t matter.
His fingers flexed against the brick. A tell.
And then he said, soft and deliberate
“I knew you’d be the one they sent.”
The air between them ignited, even without flame.
Anthony took a step forward.
So did the arsonist.
Drawn together not by accident.
But by design.
Anthony closed the space between them.
Not fast.
Not gentle.
Each step was a promise.
“You proud of this?” Anthony asked, voice low, flinty.
The man smiled with his mouth closed.
“No one died.”
“Not this time.”
The grin didn’t falter.
“You stayed.”
Anthony was close now.
Close enough to feel the warmth still rolling off his skin.
Close enough to smell smoke in his hair.
Close enough to grab him.
But he didn’t.
Not yet.
“What’s your name?”
A pause.
Then, “Andrew.”
Like he was offering a spark.
Anthony nodded once.
The name sat rough on his tongue.
“Why’d you do it, Andrew?”
“I like what fire makes people become.”
The answer wasn’t flippant.
It was reverent. Almost sacred.
Andrew looked up at him, those filthy-lashed eyes catching the last rays of orange sun filtering through the busted roof. He tilted his head again. Not like a challenge. Like submission dressed as play.
“You look better like this,” he said.
“Dirty. Sweating. Furious.”
Anthony reached out.
Fist closed around the collar of what remained of Andrew’s shirt.
Yanked him forward.
Their chests hit.
Anthony didn’t kiss him.
He didn’t speak.
He let the silence stretch, heavy and thick.
Andrew’s breath caught.
Anthony could feel it, the way his body reacted to being taken like that.
The way his pulse jumped beneath the skin.
“You think you’re in control,” Anthony said softly.
Andrew smiled.
“No. I think you’re about to take it.”
Anthony’s hand slid lower.
Fingers brushing down Andrew’s chest, across the line of grit and muscle, stopping just beneath the ribcage.
Andrew didn’t flinch.
He tilted forward, as if offering himself.
The shirt tore when Anthony yanked again. What little fabric had clung to his shoulder fell, fluttering down like a charred leaf. Bare skin revealed itself slow. Smoke-streaked, scar-dotted, beautiful in its ruin.
Their breath tangled.
Close enough now to taste it.
“You came back here to find me,” Andrew said.
A whisper. Not smug, not afraid. Just true.
Anthony’s thumb traced a line through the soot on Andrew’s side. He dragged it slow, deliberate, until clean skin emerged beneath the filth.
“You think this is a game?”
Andrew leaned his head back against the wall. His throat exposed. Sweat slid down from his jaw.
“I think this is what you want.”
The words hit something deep.
Not anger. Not denial.
Recognition.
Anthony moved in closer.
Pressed his body to Andrew’s.
Let him feel the weight of him, the burn still pulsing through his core.
There was no gentleness in his touch.
But there was clarity.
He ran his palm up Andrew’s side, then over his chest, slow enough to feel every breath stutter.
Their eyes locked.
Neither blinked.
Andrew’s hands twitched at his sides, aching to grab, to be grabbed.
But he didn’t move. He waited.
Anthony’s voice was gravel.
“You don’t run from this.”
“I didn’t come here to run.”
Silence stretched again.
Long. Hot. Pressed between them.
Then Anthony’s mouth was at his ear.
He didn’t kiss.
He didn’t bite.
Just breathed.
And whispered, “Good.”
The air turned.
Thicker now.
Not just smoke, not just steam.
Something heavier.
Consent.
Need.
The slow, sacred slide toward surrender.
Anthony’s fingers dipped lower. Traced the waistband of Andrew’s jeans. Not inside. Not yet. Just there. Pressing. Testing.
Andrew’s breath hitched. His body arched subtly, barely a movement, but it spoke louder than anything he could have said.
Want me.
Take me.
The heat between them surged again. Not the wild fire of destruction. This was contained, focused, hotter.
Anthony pulled back half an inch. Studied him.
Ash clung to Andrew’s collarbone. His chest heaved, skin slick, neck arched like he wanted to be marked. He stared back without blinking. Eyes wide open. Daring.
“You want to pay for what you did?” Anthony asked, voice rough, low, vibrating between them.
Andrew nodded, slow.
“Say it.”
“I want to pay for it.”
Anthony’s knuckles brushed the exposed ridge of Andrew’s hip.
“How?”
Andrew’s mouth parted.
He tried to speak.
Failed.
Tried again.
“You tell me.”
Anthony’s hand shot up. Gripped the side of his throat. Not squeezing, just holding. Claiming.
The arsonist melted under it.
“Good answer,” Anthony murmured.
Buttons strained. Zippers itched.
Neither of them moved to strip.
Not yet.
The tension was everything.
And it had to stretch.
Tighter. Tighter.
Anthony pressed him against the wall.
Full body.
No space between.
Andrew’s legs parted slightly. Invitation.
The world around them disappeared.
No sirens.
No ruin.
Only this moment.
Only this touch.
Anthony leaned in, mouth at the edge of Andrew’s jaw.
“If I take you,” he said slowly, “you don’t get to pretend it was an accident.”
Andrew shivered.
“It’s not,” he whispered.
Anthony reached for his belt.
🔥 THIRST: SEASON ONE 🔥
The club, the bodies, the hunger. Every encounter a pulse, every story a flood.
Inside you will find an exclusive you cannot get anywhere else: Between Floors. Two men, stuck in an elevator, pressed skin to steel, the rush turning to fuck before the doors ever open.
👉 Get Thirst Season One now. Drink deep, come undone.
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