Page 96 of Shattered Promise

I glance up at the yearning in his voice. He’s watching, really watching, and the attention twists something exquisite between my ribs.

My fingers slide the toy over my knee, a useless stalling gesture. I feel ridiculous, exposed, more nervous than I’ve been in years. But the thought of him seeing me like this—unraveling for him alone—overrides everything else.

It makes me feel bold.

I tilt my chin up. “What about you? What if I want you toshow me?”

He drags his teeth over his bottom lip, and it feels like a taunt. He lifts one of his bare shoulders up in a shrug. “I don’t have any toys to play with.”

I meet his gaze with a slow, measured smile. “Use your hand. Show me what you like.”

A flash of something dark and delighted sparks across his face. He doesn’t hesitate—just shifts the phone in his palm so the angle catches the lazy sprawl of him on his bed, sweatpants already tented in a way that makes my mouth go dry.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice thick velvet.

I swallow. My tongue feels too big for my mouth. “I want to watch you touch yourself,” I say, the words shaky at first but growing steadier as I speak them aloud. “I want to watch you wrap your hand around your cock and stroke it for me. I want to see what you look like when you come thinking about me.”

My cheeks flame, but I hold his gaze, even through the blip of shitty service, making the video blur for a few seconds.

Mason’s expression shifts into something less controlled, more wild andhungry. I watch the line of his jaw flex, watch the way his gaze drops to my thighs and then back to my face, like he can’t decide where to rest his gaze.

“Alright, baby. I’ll show you everything.” He slides his hand beneath the waistband of his sweats and strokes himself a couple of times, deliberate and slow. He frees his cock, holding my gaze the entire time. “Your turn, Trouble.”

The toy vibrates softly in my hand, a low hum that travels up my wrist and settles somewhere behind my sternum. I drag it over the hem of my dress, bunching the fabric slowly up my thighs, and I have to close my eyes for a second just to breathe through the tornado of nerves and heat. I can hear Mason’s breath over the speaker, that shy stutter in it as he watches me.

I push the dress higher, until the crease of my hip is exposed, and then I slide the vibrator up the inside of my thigh. My hand shakes, but I don’t let myself back out.

The first touch of vibration is startling, even though I’m the one controlling it. It takes a second to settle into the sensation—a low, insistent thrum against the softest part of my skin. My breath hitches, loud and embarrassingly raw, and I glance at the phone. Mason hasn’t blinked. His jaw is clenched, lips parted, the camera catching the slow jerk of his hand around his cock.

His voice cuts through the speaker, lower than before. “Do you have your headphones?”

The question throws me for a second. “Yeah, I think so. Why?”

“Put them in,” he murmurs.

Excitement pitches my stomach sideways and I scramble for my purse, fingers shaking as I tug out wireless earbuds and put them in my ears. The sound sharpens instantly. His next breath, the rasp of it, feels like it brushes the shell of my ear.

“Good girl,” he whispers.

“God,” I breathe out, goosebumps cascading over my skin.

“Is it good?” he asks through a chuckle.

I nod, unable to speak. My pulse hammers in my throat.

“Let me see you, baby.”

The words make me ache. I tilt the vibrator higher, angling it so the tip presses right where I’m the most sensitive. My hips jerk. The sound that slips out of me is half-laugh, half-moan, and it’s so honest I want to hide my face but I don’t. Not this time.

I let my head tip back. Let my eyes flutter closed, because if I watch myself in the little thumbnail on the phone, I’ll lose my nerve.

Instead, I listen to the sound of Mason’s breathing, the ragged rasp of it as it flares in my ear.

“Fuck, Abby.”

The low, needy way he says my name. The bass of it vibrates in my chest, a matching frequency to the pulse between my thighs.

I slide the toy over my clit, lighter pressure at first, just enough to make my legs tremble. My other hand fists the sheets, knuckles white. I try to keep it elegant, to make it look how I think he wants it to look—slow, sophisticated, like a woman who’s always in control.

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