Page 76 of Shattered Promise

He pulls back, just enough to look me in the eye. His pupils are blown wide, wild, and there’s a question in the set of his mouth, the way his hands are still on my ribs.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says, voice graveled and low. “I need you to tell me, Abby.”

I shake my head, and my hands fist in the front of his shirt. “Don’t stop,” I whisper, and I mean it with every piece of me.

He exhales, shaky and relieved, and crashes back into me—this time slower, deeper, his tongue searching my mouth like he’s starving for the taste. His hands are everywhere, greedy andreverent, at once rough and careful as he learns my body in real time.

He kisses lower, trailing his mouth down the line of my neck, collarbone, the slope of my breast, until he takes me fully in his mouth. I feel the wet heat of him, the scrape of teeth and the gentle, maddening pull, and I arch up, fingers tangling in his hair and maybe yanking a little. And then he’s moving lower, skimming his hands down my waist as he kisses a trail over every inch of bare skin. My body is lit up everywhere he touches, a bloom of heat and want that leaves me shaking and desperate.

He pauses at the waistband of my sweatpants, his breath a hot pulse against my stomach. “Okay?” he asks, voice softer now, almost reverent. I nod so hard my teeth nearly clack together.

He slides them off slow, peeling them down my hips and legs, and his hands stroke the backs of my thighs as he trails kisses lower, and then lower still.

He looks up at me, eyes molten, and lets out a low, broken laugh that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest for years.

“No panties, baby?” he says on a half-laugh, half-growl. “You’re fucking killing me.” And then he’s back at my knees, spreading them with hands that are suddenly not gentle at all.

I’m nervous—a little self-conscious, bare in every sense, more naked than I’ve ever been in front of anyone in a long time. But then he runs his hands up my calves, slow and sure, and kisses the inside of my knee like it’s the answer to a question I never knew I’d asked.

“I didn’t—” I bite down on the words. My breath catches when the cool air kisses my bare skin. “They were wet.”

“This perfect cunt was just waiting for me, wasn’t it, baby?” His eyes lift, dark and hooded, a slow grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Wrapped up tight against my sweatpants, like a present just for me.”

He moves with this deliberate kind of focus, like he’s memorizing every inch, every quiver, every sound I make. His hands bracket my thighs, opening them wide and looking at me.

“I’ll remember this image for the rest of my goddamn life,” he rasps out. “You, spread open and bare, just for me.” His voice is more gravel than breath, full of heat and disbelief, and something deeper—something reverent.

I feel his words, like a brand. Low in my belly and between my thighs. He bends his head and drags his mouth along the inside of my thigh, breathing hot over skin so sensitive it feels like a live wire. His stubble rasps as he kisses and bites his way up, slow and greedy, and I’m already trembling before he even gets close to where I want him.

My legs try to close around his shoulders, but he just laughs quietly and pins them open, palms branding my knees to the mattress.

He takes his fucking time. Kisses the hollow where my thigh meets my hip, licks a line up the inside, then stops, hovering just above, his breath a humid shudder over me. I feel his lips soften, then purse, then ghost over the wet heat of me. He breathes me in, and the sound that slips from him is almost anguished.

The first stroke of his tongue is slow—so slow I think I might cry. He licks up, flat and wide, then circles my clit, gentle at first, then harder, rough with stubble and want. He groans against me and the vibration punches through my core, radiating everywhere at once. My hands fly to his head, digging into his hair, holding him there like I could ever let him go.

“Mason,” I gasp, or maybe I just think his name, but it’s the only word left in my vocabulary.

He must like it, because he starts working me with his tongue in these precise, torturous circles, then flicks, then sucks, then back to slow, maddening sweeps.

There’s nothing fair about how good he is at this—how quickly he can turn me inside out, how he actually pays attention to every twitch and sound and gasp. I can’t grab enough air, can’t hold on to a single thought except more.

He keeps me pinned, one big hand spanning my hip to keep me right where he wants me, the other slipping down, sliding between my legs and teasing the slick, aching place he’s working me toward.

The first press of his finger inside me is careful, almost tentative, but even that light stretch sends a raw, involuntary sound up my throat. He groans into me, the sound hot and primal, and then he adds a second finger, curling them just so, and my whole body bows off the bed.

“Fuck, Mason.Fuck,” I practically yell.

He lifts his head, mouth slick and jaw dark with stubble, and pins me with a look so hot it could cauterize. “You gotta be quiet, Trouble,” he rasps, thumb rough as it slowly drags across my clit. “Or we’re gonna have to stop. You don’t want to wake up the baby, do you?”

I shake my head, breathless. He drags his fingers out of me slowly before sliding them back in, holding me on the edge. My pulse pounds everywhere at once.

“Good,” he says, and dips his head again, but this time he works slower, lazier, as if he’s testing my silence.

He fucks me with his fingers, slow and deep, his tongue never letting up. I’m panting now, so desperate I can barely keep my eyes open, but when I do, I see him watching me from between my legs and I know I’ll never want anything else in the world but him looking at me like that.

His hair is messy from my fingers; his lips are swollen, shiny with my arousal, and when I moan again, he slides his free hand up my stomach and presses it to my mouth, muffling any sound I might make.

“That’s it,” he says, voice soft but iron underneath, “let go for me.”

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