“It’s the stereotype, right?” He shed his jacket and ran a hand through his hair, tousling it. The woman smiled encouragingly and let him talk. “Powerful guy, has it all.” His shirt joined his jacket; his fingers and his speech slowed. The woman didn’t mind – he was sculpted under the shirt, sleek, and clearly a bit nervous. “But he doesn’t have any place to put ‘it all’ down. He doesn’t have any place to not be in charge.” His fingers lingered on the button to his pants.
The woman counted silently to three, waiting for the moment when he looked at her, when he looked for an answer. One, two… there. She stepped forward, gently moving his hand away from his waistband so that she could take over. “Yeah, it’s the stereotype. And that’s for a reason.” She unbuttoned him, unzipped his fly, and with the same slender fingers pushed his pants down to his ankles. “But every theme has variations. Mmm, every song has a bridge.”
“Every rose has its thorn?” he teased.
“And every night has its dawn.” From her knees at her feet, she smiled up at him. “And sometimes, a powerful man needs to let go. Yes?”
He let out a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a plea. “Yeah. Yeah… yes.”
“Then… let go. I’ll be here to catch you, and I’ll be here to put you back on your feet.”
As the fireman sank slowly to his knees, the woman reached out, both hands, to hold his shoulders. Sometimes, they needed her to put out flames.
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