Page 83 of Shattered Promise

Then he nudges a stool over with his foot and sinks onto it. The move is so deliberate, so quietly confident, that my mouth goes dry.

I brace my hands behind me, heart thudding so hard I swear it echoes off the walls. My sundress is already rucked high on my hips, and Mason wastes no time, dragging his palms slowly up the outsides of my thighs, fingertips pressing into the soft curve where they meet my hips.

His eyes flick up once, catching mine.

“Let me make you feel good,” he says.

It’s not a question or a line. It’s a plea.

And then he leans in and presses his mouth against the inside of my knee—one slow, reverent kiss. Then another, higher this time, and then another, and I forget how to breathe. He’s mapped me with his hands and now paints the same circuit with his lips, the kind of worship that makes every nerve in my body sing.

My thighs shake with the effort to keep still. He’s patient, but I am not. I want to beg, but I want to see what he’ll do if I hold out just a little longer.

He gets to the soft crease at the top of my thigh and pauses, lips parted and breath hot where I ache and ache for him. His hands splay out, gentle but insistent, holding me open as he draws his nose up the slick seam of me—just a preview, a tease, not even a taste yet.

“Fuck, baby,” he says, voice gone ragged, “you’re dripping.”

The words almost undo me. My head tips back, eyes squeezed shut, the fan overhead blurring into a spinning mess of light and shadow.

He licks me in one slow, flat stroke up the center, and my hips jerk off the bench, a raw, desperate sound torn from my throat before I can bite it back. He laughs, a low, dark rumble, then does it again, slower, savoring. He eats me like it’s his last meal—a slow, greedy mapping of tongue and lips, every flick calculated to make me shatter.

He’s relentless. If I try to close my thighs, he pins them open, a big palm splayed over each knee. If I try to squirm away, he pulls me back, mouth sealed and working me until I’m shaking so hard I have to clutch the workbench.

“Wait—Mase,” I gasp, breath hitching as I tug on his hair to pull him back. “I want—to come—with you—inside me.” It takes effort to get the words out, my breath hitching every time he sucks my clit in his mouth.

His mouth slows, a lazy kiss to my inner thigh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I rasp, tugging harder at his hair until he looks up at me. His pupils are blown, lips slick and parted, jaw shadowed dark.

He stands so fast the stool skitters across the concrete, metal legs screeching. His body cages me against the bench, hands braced on either side of my hips, and for a second there’s nothing but the sound of both of us breathing, wild and uneven.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice so rough it barely sounds like him.

“I want everything. I want to taste you, I want—” The words tangle in my throat, but I don’t look away. I just slide my hands up his chest, palms skimming the ridge of muscle beneath his shirt, and then I push gently until he gets it. He steps back, just enough for me to hop off the workbench, bare feet hitting the concrete.

He’s breathing hard, eyes never leaving my face as I drop to my knees in front of him. The move is deliberate, a slow slide down, and I steady myself with both hands on his thighs. He goes perfectly still, like he’s bracing for impact.

I look up and see him blinking down at me, jaw clenched, like he can’t decide if he should haul me up or let me stay. I want him to let me stay. For once I want to be the one who drives him out of his mind.

I don’t bother with his zipper at first. Instead, I palm him through his jeans, feeling the hard, impossible length of his cock straining behind the denim. I drag my nails up the seam and watch his eyelids flutter, the veins popping in his forearms as he strains against the workbench behind me.

“Abby,” he groans, and the sound of my name hits low in my belly.

I work the button open, slow and teasing, then tug the zipper down. He’s not wearing boxers—because of course he’s not—and his cock bobs free, flushed and thick and longand pierced.

32

ABBY

The glintof silver at the tip catches the light—he has a piercing, a barbell threaded through the underside, underneath the head of his cock. That’s definitely new since I last saw him like this.

My pulse flips, a jolt of curiosity and hunger overriding every other thought. I want to touch it, taste it, see how it changes the way he feels in my mouth.

I wrap my fingers around the base, marveling at the weight and heat of him, the skin stretched tight and flushed dark. Mason’s eyes slam shut, head tipping back as I stroke him slowly, tracing the pad of my thumb over the cool metal, then the velvet-soft skin just beneath. He hisses, the sound sharp, and when I swirl my tongue around the head, tasting salt and metal, he groans, hands flexing so hard on the workbench I hear the wood creak. He looks down, eyes wild and blown, and just the sight of him—utterly undone, desperate, trying not to lose control—makes me want to drag it out forever.

But I can’t. I want him inside me, want to feel the stretch and heat and the way he fills me so deep it aches. I hollow my cheeks,taking him deeper, the cool shock of the barbell slick against my tongue, and he lets out a broken sound, hips jerking forward.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice frayed at the edges. “You look so fuckin’ good like that.”

---