Page 54 of Black Roses

Her hips grind and gyrate in a punishing rhythm that causes sweet, hot friction to build between us. I can’t get enough of her flesh. My hands, my lips, my mouth, my tongue—they chronicle every inch of her, all the while sending up prayers that this not be the last time I ever feel her like this.

I want her to feel how I do every time I look at her. I want her to feel the desperation. The passion. The all-consuming need.

I want her tofeel.

I don’t think she has in a long, long time.

My fingers dip beneath the waistband of her jeans, running along her supple stomach from hip to hip. I slowly unbutton them, carefully watching her face for signs of panic, being ready to retreat in an instant.

She doesn’t stop me. In fact, every movement her body makes urges me on; her hushed, needy noises fanning the flames and fueling my desire. My eager fingers find their way through her soft curls and under her panties to find them soaked through.

But then her legs stiffen and clench shut, and a distressed sound of pain echoes off my walls, completely gutting me. My eyes snap up to see that her head has fallen back onto the couch and her eyes are tightly closed.

“Piper, look at me.”

I still my hand, but leave it on her sex. “It’s me. Only me.” I maneuver my other hand behind her neck, angling her head forward. “Open your eyes, sweetheart. Watch me worship you. It’s just me,” I repeat. “I want it to be only me. Always.”

Her eyes meet mine and I’m floored by the emotion. Slow waves of realization cross her face. I look deep into her, far into the reaches of her being. I recognize that look. I can almost see her fighting her demons. I can almost see her slaying them.

In an unhurried, but purposeful movement, her legs relax and fall open once again. I glue my eyes to hers, holding her with my stare; imploring her to take what I want so desperately to give her. I’ve never looked at a woman as I’ve pleasured her. And, my God, the intensity of it is so overwhelming I have to pause before I move again. Before I can even breathe.

My fingers begin to explore as I drag them through her wetness, moving them up to coat her pulsating clit. Her breath hitches when I hit the engorged bundle of nerves, circling my finger around and around. I grind my hips into her thigh, applying much needed pressure to my throbbing erection.

“Only me, sweetheart,” I remind her over and over again. I don’t want her mind wandering away to anyone else—anythingelse. My voice becomes a chant, a chorus telling her how beautiful she is and what she does to me. I tell her to let go.

Her legs tense again, but her eyes tell me it’s in a good way this time. Her breathing becomes ragged, her throaty noises more audible until she stiffens completely, crying out muddled exaltations of pleasure.

Watching her orgasm is like witnessing a flawless pass to completion. The sweet spiral of pigskin as it leaves my hands, flying a pristine arc through the air and falling effortlessly into the hands of my receiver.Fucking perfect.

Her sexy screams, her smoldering gaze, the sweet friction of rubbing myself against her—they all culminate and throw me over the edge right along with her. And for the first time since middle school, I come in my own goddamn pants.

I remove my hand from her pants and cup her face before crushing my mouth on hers, thanking her with my kisses for the gift she’s given me. Her hands come up to cover mine, accepting my bid of gratitude. Her fingers slide over my hands and grasp my wrists, her thumb absentmindedly tracing my scar over and over.

When I pull away, she takes a moment to catch her breath. Then, keeping my hand in hers, she turns it over and touches the red raised flesh once again. “How did it happen?”

My eyes briefly close, savoring the significance of this moment. She’s going to win the battle against her past. And it starts now, by letting her into mine.

I stand and pull her up with me. “Let’s get cleaned up. Then I’ll tell you.”

chapter twenty-one

piper

We lie on his couch, my head resting on his thigh; Mason methodically fingering locks of my hair. I’m more relaxed than I can ever remember.

Maybe it’s the powerful orgasm I just experienced. Maybe it’s the strong blue eyes looking down on me. Maybe I’ve turned a corner.

Maybe.

“So.” He breathes out a long, tumultuous sigh. I suspect what he is about to say is something very personal and private. “You pretty much know the gist of it. They died in a crash. I was driving.” He pauses, and although I’m not looking at him, I can feel his head shake from side to side. “I was sent to a temporary home until they could find a permanent place for me to live.”

“It must have been horrible. I’m so sorry.” I strain my neck to make eye contact so he understands that when I say‘I’m sorry,’I mean it. It’s not just a platitude. It’s not just a thing I say when I hear something unpleasant. I hope my eyes convey it’s deeper than that. That I understand the meaning of pain. Heartache. Utter destruction.

He nods. “It was. Losing my parents was unimaginable. But what came after was almost worse.” He grabs my hand and holds it against my chest, rubbing his thumb across each of my brightly-painted fingernails.

His face is etched with sorrow and my heart hurts for him. I know how hard it must be to talk about a traumatic experience. Maybe I should have kept my big mouth shut. Why did I even ask him? It’s not fair of me. Not when I know I can’t share my own past. “Mason, you don’t have to. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s fine,” he says, squeezing my hand. “It actually helps to talk about it sometimes.”

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