Page 48 of Mason

I claw at his back, arching, moaning, completely fucking lost in him.

Mason grits his teeth, his pace punishing, his hands gripping me like I’m something precious—something his.

His voice is low, wrecked, as he commands me to come for him.

I’m already there.

My body tightens, my pleasure cresting hard and fast until it shatters through me, sending me spiraling into pure bliss.

I sob his name, my body trembling, and Mason follows right after—a harsh groan breaking from his lips as he spills inside me, his entire body locking up before he slumps against me, breathless.

For a long moment, neither of us moves.

My heartbeat thunders in my ears, my body still pulsing with aftershocks, completely wrecked.

Then Mason exhales, his mouth brushing against my temple.

"Fuck, Shelby."

I manage a weak sound, my fingers still tangled in his hair.

His grip loosens, his thumbs rubbing slow, soothing circles into my thighs, as if he’s reluctant to let me go.

Slowly, he lifts his head, his eyes dark, intense, satisfied as he takes in my flushed skin, my swollen lips, my utterly ruined state.

He smirks—the cocky bastard.

I roll my eyes, but I can’t fight the smile creeping up my lips.

Then, Mason pulls out slowly, lowering me onto unsteady legs.

His fingers trail down my sides, his touch softer now—like he’s still memorizing me.

I swallow, my throat dry, my mind still hazy from the high.

His smirk lingers, but his eyes are watching me carefully.

Then he leans in, lips brushing my ear, his voice gravelly, teasing.

“Did you really think that just one night with you was going to satisfy me?”

I should be getting ready.

I should be stripping out of Mason’s clothes, stepping into the shower, rinsing away the last remnants of the night before.

But instead, I stand at the window, watching him.

Mason is in the backyard, his broad frame bathed in the early morning light, a steaming cup of coffee on the table beside him, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he talks on the phone.

There’s something magnetic about the way he moves—all quiet power and effortless control.

I don’t know what it is exactly, but it pulls me in, keeps me watching, makes it impossible to look away.

He’s focused, one hand braced on his hip, his head tilted slightly as he listens, the low rumble of his voice drifting through the open patio door. I can’t make out the words, but the tone is unmistakable—firm, commanding, sharp enough to cut.

Whoever’s on the other end of that call is either following orders, or they’re about to regret not doing so.

I told him I needed to shower and change, assuming he’d be in a hurry to leave.

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