Page 58 of The Masks We Break

My back leaves the table in an attempt to close the space between us, but his free hand presses me down, sliding to the column of my neck. His thumb traces a vein before skimming down to the edge of my dress. He forces it down, smirking at my loud gasp, watching as my exposed nipple puckers in the cold air.

He leans forward, sucking it into his mouth, swirling his tongue before nipping down. The pain infuses with pleasure, and I arch into him, hoping he can read me in this moment.

And he doesn’t disappoint. His fingers pick up a brutal pace, his thumb whirling around my swollen clit, the cool metal tingling the nerves. He bites again, only this time harder, and I can’t stop the buildup.

It rips through me like a tsunami, storming through my nerves, setting everything on fire. My muscles clench around his fingers, squeezing them so he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t leave.

A strange type of high floats around my head, lifting me up to the sparkling stars above us. They’re stark against the night sky, and while bright on their own, dim in comparison to the full moon resting in the middle.

It dominates everything.

It’s breathtaking.

Blaze’s fingers slow down as my body finishes spasming around him, waiting until I’ve ridden the waves, before slipping out, and fixing my dress. His other arm wraps around my back, pulling me to his chest as he stands at the edge of the table. I feel him pressed against me, but my limbs feel suspended, only driven by him moving them himself.

Deep hums fill the space as he strokes my hair, leaving periodic kisses on my temple. It’s subtle at first, but as the sky above me retreats, the stars fading, I become more aware of his warmth. Of his tight hold.

Soon, the only gray orb I see, is the one gazing down on me, reading my soul.

TWENTY SEVEN

“How do I pronounce this, puppet?” I trace my finger over the word for the third time, my brows furrowing. Remy twirls around, wiping her hands on her tight jeans, the sight making my pulse falter. Her hair is tied back, but plenty of stray hairs have come loose, begging me to tuck them back in place. A dusting of flour covers her small nose, and a little smudges the side of her gold frames.

I bite back a smile as she forms her perfect lips to enunciate, “Banh SAY-oh.”

“Hmm. SAY-oh,” I repeat the words.

“Yes!” Her excitement echoes in my kitchen, filling it with her light. “Thank you again for doing this.”

I scrunch my face, feigning mock annoyance. She’d asked me the night of the gala if I’d help her make a few recipes she wanted to try. I’m no Gordon Ramsay, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to deny her anything after the observatory. Watching her melt under me is becoming an obsession. The way her chest stops moving when she holds her breath, trying to feel every sensation I give her. Or how she squeezes her toes so tight, they pop.

And this last time...she’d reached another realm almost entirely—her mind completely detached from her body after her orgasm. Another fucking thing eating at my skin, whispering how perfectly we click, our pieces fitting together seamlessly. But I have to shove it down, reminding myself that in the end, when I can’t give her what she really wants, she’ll leave.

Which I suppose is a good thing. Because even though I’ve fucked up an entire contract, I can’t seem to justify letting my favorite distraction go.

I swallow around the knot in my throat and swat her ass, smirking at the way she yelps. “Don’t thank me for helping you cook.”

She sticks out her tongue before turning back around to the stove. “Alright, how much?”

Handing her the measuring utensil, I saddle behind her, keeping only an inch of distance between us. “Half a cup. Then swirl it around before adding the shrimp.”

“Yes, sir,” she murmurs.

I dip my head into the crook of her neck, skimming the delicate skin with my nose, a warning in my voice. “Careful.”

Her breath hitches, but she nods, pouring in the batter, then silently tipping the pan to coat the bottom. I hold out the small mixing bowl with our cooked shrimp and watch as she adds in a few. She waits almost too long, and I nudge her. “Flip it over.”

“Oops.” She grabs the handle, tipping the pan to get her spatula positioned under the crepe, and flips.

Remy gasps, bouncing on her toes. “I did it!”

“You did. Now take it out, baby.” I lean a heavy porcelain plate her way, guiding her elbow as she slides it out of the pan.

Inspecting the street snack against the picture in the book, I note how unbelievably well she did. When I turn to give her praise, I stop, a tightness taking over my chest.

Silent tears stream down her cheeks from the corner of her eyes, a soft smile on her mouth. I reach out instinctively, gripping her hands in mine. Instead of asking, I wait, allowing her the time she needs to either talk it out, or let it pass.

She squeezes my fingertips, her eyes trained on the ground. “T-this was my mother’s book. I um...” She trails off for a moment, wiping one side of her face on her shoulder. “My dad and I had a fight recently, and I took her recipe books. H-he’s never let me make anything in it. It’s like he doesn’t want me to have any part of h-her.” She hiccups, her tears falling faster.

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