Page 84 of Shattered Promise

He gathers my hair in one hand, pulling it into a makeshift ponytail, the motion gentle but commanding. His other hand cups my jaw. He guides me, slow at first, letting me set the pace, but when I look up, his mouth drops open, lazy and awed, and he loses the thread of control he’s been holding so tight.

“Fuck, Abby.” The words bleed out, raw and reverent, as I slide my mouth farther down his length, the weight of him heavy on my tongue. I flatten my palms against his thighs for leverage, feeling the muscles jump and tense beneath my hands.

“Fuck, baby, I’m not gonna last,” he rasps, voice strangled, and I can hear the plea in it:don’t stop, don’t ever stop.

I don’t. Not even when he starts to guide the rhythm, one hand still fisted in my hair, the other brushing a tear from my cheek as I take him deeper.

“Shit,” he breathes, voice raw. “You’re so good, Trouble. So fuckin’ good.”

My fingers flex against his thighs, nails biting into the firm muscle. I want more. I want all of him. But he’s unraveling too fast.

He mutters something unintelligible, all gravel and need, and then he’s pulling back. Before I can speak, his hands are on me, hauling me up like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around his waist on instinct, dress shoved up around my waist. Our mouths crash together—hot and desperate and soaked in the echo of everything we’ve been holding back.

The kiss is messy and fucking perfect. My lips are swollen, jaw aching, breath stolen, but I don't care.

He stumbles backward until his knees hit the only chair in the garage, and then we’re dropping together. I straddle him,knees braced on either side of his hips, hands planted on his shoulders. He’s still holding my ass, fingers digging in so tight I know there’ll be marks tomorrow, and maybe that’s what I want. To be reminded that I’m not dreaming this, that he’s real and he wants me just as much as I want him.

He tugs the straps of my sundress down, exposing one breast, then the other, his eyes dark and hungry as he cups them with both hands. His thumbs drag over my nipples, rolling and pinching until I whimper, rocking against the hard length of him, desperate for more.

The bay door is still open. Heat bleeds in through the light. The whole world could walk by and I wouldn’t move.

“You good?” he asks, voice low.

I nod once, then press my forehead to his, breath shuddering out of me. “More than good.”

“Abby.” He says my name like it means something. Like it’s the only thing he trusts right now. His thumb traces a slow line up my spine, over the back of my neck, anchoring me there. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” I whisper against his lips. “I want you.”

His hands slide under my thighs, and he lifts me just enough to line us up. The blunt head of him presses hot and insistent against my slick entrance, and I feel his whole body tense—like he’s holding back with everything he’s got.

He noses along my jaw, voice rendered to a raw whisper. “Take it slow, Trouble. Let me feel you.”

I steady myself with both hands on his shoulders. His eyes are locked on mine, pupils blown wide, and I see the exact moment he loses the last scrap of composure. I sink down, inch by inch, the stretch so exquisite I have to bite my lip to stop myself from moaning.

His thumb tugs my lip free, and then his mouth is covering mine, swallowing my groan of pleasure.

He fills me, utterly, the piercing dragging a new, impossible friction inside me. I brace my knees harder around his hips, hands scrambling for purchase along his shoulders, my nails digging half-moons into the cotton of his shirt. The stretch is overwhelming in the best way. The way I know I’m going to be feeling him for days.

Mason’s hands never stop moving—he traces the line of my jaw, the slope of my back, the trembling arch of my breasts. His mouth finds my collarbone, then my throat, and when I rock down, grinding myself against him, he growls, “Jesus Christ, you feel so fuckin’ good. So tight. Like you were made for me.”

The world narrows to him and me, just this moment.

His hands guide my hips, anchoring me with every roll forward, his breath breaking uneven against my throat. I shift higher, then drop back down and his groan rips through the space between us—rough and raw and entirely undone.

“Fuck, Trouble,” he pants, lips dragging along the shell of my ear. “You ride me like you were made for this.”

My body pulses around him, sharp heat licking down my spine at the sound of his voice—filthy and reverent all at once.

“You hear me?” His hands tighten, fingers digging into the curve of my ass as he thrusts up into me from the bottom, deeper now,harder. “This sweet little pussy was fucking made for my cock.”

A soft, startled moan tears from my throat, my nipples pebbling like his words pinched them. Goosebumps flash across my skin even in the summer heat, the air thick and humid and heavy with want.

Mason slides one hand between us. His palm presses flat to the front of my stomach, grounding me, his thumb finding my clit in tight, controlled strokes.

“Just like that,” he murmurs, voice reverent, almost coaxing. “Let me feel you.”

A sharp cry wrenches from my throat, and his hand holds me steady, hips locked beneath mine, his other arm anchoring the small of my back like he’s setting the rhythm, like I’m his to position exactly how he needs.

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