Page 75 of Shattered Promise

“What am I going to do with you?” I whisper, my voice raw against the space between us.

Her breath ghosts against my mouth in a shaky exhale. Then her soft lips press to the corner of mine.

“Everything,” she breathes.

The last thread of restraint snaps clean in half. I drop my hands to the back of her thighs and lift her.

A sharp gasp slips from her lips as her arms wrap around my neck, her legs around my waist. I take advantage and slant my mouth over hers, our tongues tangling like we’ve done this a thousand times.

I groan into her mouth, and she tastes like wild honey and sleep, and the edge of a secret, like I’ll never get enough of her, not if I kissed her for a hundred years. Her mouth is warm and yielding, her tongue chasing mine with a hunger that’s almost feral. And I can’t stop, not when she’s making these tiny desperate noises, not when her hands are fisted in my hair like she’s drowning and I’m the only thing keeping her afloat.

I walk her blindly down the hallway, until her spine hits the wall next to my bedroom door, and she gasps again, her thighs tightening around my hips. Her hips roll, and I have to adjust my hold on the curve of her thighs, notching her center against my dick, and I can feel the heat of her through my athletic shorts.

She whimpers against my mouth, and I nearly lose it right there, but I make myself slow down, grinding her gently against me until her head thumps back against the wall and her lips part on a shaky moan.

I kiss down her jaw, bite her earlobe, and breathe her name like a curse. "Abby."

She shudders and digs her nails into my shoulders. "Mason, please." Her voice is ragged in my ear.

Her teeth scrape that sensitive spot underneath my ear, and it feels like shoving my hand in a live socket. The electric pulse goes straight to my cock, and my hips reflexively arch into her.

Fuck.

I think I groan. I don’t know. Everything is heat and breath and the damp echo of rain against the roof.

I peel her off the wall and open my bedroom door with my foot. I set her down on the edge of my bed, but she doesn’t let go—her legs stay locked around my waist, pulling me with her as she leans back. And I follow, because what else am I going to do? Now that I’ve got her in my arms, I don’t know how I ever lived without the weight of her there.

I flatten my forearms on either side of her head, our mouths never losing contact. It’s the hottest fucking kiss of my life. All teeth and tongue and the ache of years lost between us.

We break apart only because we have to, both of us gasping for breath. Her eyes are wide and glassy, mouth swollen and bitten red. She looks at me like she’s starving, and I want to feed her every last inch of myself.

She fists both hands in my shirt and yanks me down, crushing our lips together until I taste blood and longing and something darker, all at once.

I’m afraid I’m already addicted.

29

ABBY

Mason’s handsskim under the hem of my borrowed henley, fingertips dragging along the base of my spine, and I gasp into his kiss—half breath, half disbelief.

It doesn’t feel like he’s exploring, it feels like he’s coming home. Like he already knew the rhythm of my body, and had just been waiting for permission to move in time with it.

I wrap my legs around his waist and tug him against me. I need something to ground me, to match the fire that has taken root behind my ribs and now burns in open bloom.

He groans low in his throat as he pulls back and I feel his mouth slip from mine, dragging open, hungry kisses along my jaw and down the column of my throat. His hands roam everywhere at once—palming my hips, then spanning my ribs, then sliding my shirt up so his thumbs brush the undersides of my breasts.

His stubble scrapes my skin in a way that’s almost cruel, and I arch against him, desperate to get closer, to feel every inch of him. He nips at the spot under my jaw, then soothes it with his tongue, and my whole body shudders in response. I want to tellhim to slow down, to savor this, but the words get lost in the haze of his mouth on my skin.

He peels the shirt up, inch by inch, and I raise my arms, letting him slide it over my head. The room is cold, the air prickling across my skin, but his hands never leave me. He stares, just for a moment, and I feel my cheeks flush hot under the scrutiny.

“I knew you’d look good in my shirt,” he says, voice hoarse, “but I didn’t know you’d look even better out of it.”

I snort, but it gets strangled into a gasp as he finds my nipples and rolls them between his fingers, gently at first and then with a pressure that makes my whole body stutter.

He palms my breast, thumb circling slowly until I arch into his hand, and then his mouth is on me—hot, open, wet. He licks a stripe over my nipple and bites it, just hard enough to make me whimper, then kisses the sting away.

I don’t even care that my body is humming too loud, or that I’m squirming under him, or that I’m basically begging. The only thing I care about is Mason’s hands, his mouth, the low, hungry noises he makes against my skin. I feel him everywhere—his palms mapped to my body, his hips pressing hard between my thighs, his breath warm and fast against my chest.

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