Page 137 of Promise Me Not

His pace quickens, his hips raising with each long pump, and then his eyes widen, his muscles growing tight, and I clench my eyes closed, my own hand moving faster.

A second wave is about to crash.

“I don’t think so, baby,” he groans. “Let me see you.”

I listen, and when his free hand falls into the space between us, I press mine into it.

“All I’m thinking about is you.” He squeezes, flipping our hands so his is on top, shoving our fisted connection into the couch as pleasure bursts within us, and I can see it.

His body pressing me into the bed. Burying me beneath his large frame. He’s so big.

Everywhere.

And I want him all over.

His hold starts to shake, and I pant into the air.

Our eyes are locked, the girl on the TV screams, and we both shake, hips jolting, bodies shuddering.

Long white ropes pulse from his dick, and I stare, the twisting and turning in my belly a full-blown whirlpool. I might drown.

Suffocate.

My lungs are drained, my body so tight it feels like it might snap, and then it does.

It shatters into a million tiny pieces, every single one laid out at his feet like I’m a peasant making an offering to the king.

I wait for the awkward silence to follow, but it never comes.

Mason sits up, shuffling around a bit as he cleans up, and then we’re lying side by side, tucked in each other’s arms, the movie still playing in the background.

I’m not sure how much time goes by, but when I wake in the morning, I find that I’m alone.

With a frown, I sit up, stretching, and follow the sounds coming from the kitchen.

As I reach the threshold, my feet pause, the sight a soothing, settling one.

Mason is sitting at the table, Deaton’s high chair pulled in close, a baby spoon pressed between his fingers.

He notices me instantly, his eye snapping up to meet mine.

The man smiles, and I feel it in my soul.

“Looks like mama’s awake, little man. What do you say? Should we tell her about our plans?”

Our plans.

His and Deaton’s and mine.

Heaviness falls on my chest, but hovering above it is a little white light, a soft tendril of what could be. Or maybe of what is.

I smile and step into the room. “Okay, boys. Lay it on me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Payton

Now,November

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