Page 57 of Tempest Blazing
When I finally pulled back to look at him, his dark eyes were fierce with protective love. Water droplets clung to his eyelashes, and his usually stoic expression was soft with concern.
"Better?" he asked quietly.
I nodded, then rose on my toes to kiss him. It was meant to be gentle, grateful, but the moment our lips met, something ignited between us. The kiss deepened, desperate and hungry, and I poured all my need into it—the need to feel alive, to feel pleasure instead of pain, to reclaim my body as my own.
"Mason," I breathed against his mouth. "I need... I need to feel good. I need to feel something other than what they made me feel."
His hands tightened on my waist, and I could see the war playing out in his expression—desire battling with concern.
"Are you sure?" His voice was rough with want and restraint. "After everything that happened—"
"Because of everything that happened." I pressed closer, feeling his body respond despite his hesitation. "I can let go like this because I'm in your arms. Because I feel safest with you."
Something shifted in his expression then, the protective warrior giving way to the man who loved me. His hands slid up to tangle in my wet hair, and when he kissed me again, it was with a reverence that made my knees weak.
"Then let me make you feel good," he murmured against my lips. "Let me remind you that your body is yours, that pleasure is yours to claim."
The hot water poured over us, steam wrapping around our bodies as Mason's mouth found mine again. His lips moved against mine with a possessive tenderness that made my heart skip.
One large hand cradled the back of my head, fingers tangling in my wet hair, while the other slid down the slick curve of my spine to press me closer against him. I could feel the hard length of him against my belly, but he held himself perfectly still, letting me set the pace, letting me take what I needed.
I broke the kiss, gasping for air, and his mouth trailed fire down the column of my throat. He found that sensitive spot just below my ear**—the one that always made my knees weak—**and sucked gently.
"God, I missed this," I whispered against his shoulder, my voice barely audible over the spray. "Missed feeling like myself."
"You're perfect," he murmured back, his breath hot against my throat. "Every inch of you. Mine to worship."
A broken moan tore from my throat, echoing off the tile. His teeth grazed my pulse point, rough enough to send sparks down my spine.
Every touch was deliberate, reverent, like he was mapping territory reclaimed. His fingers traced the damp line of my collarbone, erasing the phantom memory of the collar's bite, before drifting lower.
He cupped my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. He groaned, the sound low andvibrating against my skin as he dipped his head. His mouth was magic—hot, wet, relentless.
I arched into him, a whimper escaping me, my hands flying to his broad shoulders for balance. "Don't stop," I breathed. "Please, Mason, don't ever stop."
"Never," he promised against my skin, his voice rough with emotion. "I'll never stop loving you like this."
Heat radiated outwards, building with each lick, each gentle bite.
Then those hands were sliding down, over the swell of my hips, gripping with gentle strength. I knew what he intended a split second before he moved. Mason sank to his knees on the wet tile.
His dark eyes locked with mine, fierce and tender. One hand slid down my thigh, calloused fingers rough against my soap-slick skin, gripping just above my knee to nudge my legs apart. The other palm flattened low on my belly, holding me steady. An anchor.
"Look at me, Tess," he murmured, the command soft but absolute. His voice rumbled through the steam, deeper than the water's patter on tile. "I want you to see who's loving you."
"I see you," I whispered, my fingers threading through his wet hair. "Only you. Always you."
He leaned in, his breath warm against the apex of my thighs, ghosting over the dark curls wet against my skin. My breath hitched, anticipation coiling tight in my belly. And then his mouth was on me—hot, wet, devastatingly precise.
His tongue claimed me with sure, hungry strokes. Not tentative, not exploratory. He knew me. Knew exactly how I needed to be touched.
Electric. Devastating. Circles and flicks and broad, flat pressure that built pleasure into a knot behind my navel. My fingers clenched in his wet hair. Not pushing, just holding on as the world narrowed to the feel of his mouth.
The water streamed over his broad shoulders, and my gaze caught on the powerful lines of his back—the raised, pale ridges of scars that mapped his history of standing between me and everything that wanted to break me.
Each one a testament. Each one proof.
He was on his knees, tasting me, giving me pleasure. But there was no submission here. Only fierce devotion. Only power, held perfectly still for me.
