Page 11 of Masked
I can’t stop myself from chuckling at how creepy that would’ve sounded if the roles were reversed. But I can feel his want in the palm of my hand, pulsating and eager.
“Trust me, Baby Doll, I like it more than you realize.”
Staying within what I’d deemcomfortable, I pinch the point of his bandana and lift it high enough to expose his sharp jaw, stubbled cheeks and eager lips. Still, to maintain some kind of anonymity, I cover his eyes to keep from getting a full glimpse of his face.
“Are you ready?” I whisper.
My response comes with the Cowboy flinging himself forward, and his hands wrapping around my midsection. He pulls me closer, our bodies, mouths and souls colliding in a heated embrace.
There’s nothing gentle about this. It’s an explosive release of the tension building up in both of us since the moment we met. My eyes fall shut, and I release his mask to fully lose myself to him.
Adding my second hand down his body, I start stroking him through his jeans. He groans into my mouth, allowing one of his hands to snap behind my neck and lock me into the kiss, while the other caresses my breasts on its way lower.
His fingers find their way to my over-eager pussy, caressing me through the layers.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he groans against my lips. “Soaked straight through your clothes.”
Hearing him say it is so damn hot.
“And it’s all your fault,” I reply, not giving him a second to breath before locking our lips together again.
This time I keep him as long as I can. Writhing in bliss from his wriggling and shaking from my touch, and his own that sends bolts of electric joy coursing through my veins.
But when time comes to escalate this to the next level and I part from him, my jaw smashes through the damned table. In the fray of our violent make out session, his bandana came undone and fell to the floor somewhere.
The missing wrap leaves me staring at the man who hours ago stood over my dad, bloody and beaten. His face stern, eyes hard, jaw clenched, staring back at me with the same intensity from the restaurant.
“It’s . . .” I stutter the word out a few more times than I’d like, staring awkwardly at his face. “You.”
Gawking is an understatement. I’m looking at him the way one would an alien. Confused and cautious by what’s in front of me, but too intrigued by what’s on display to pull back and run.
“It’s me.”
“Oh God, what have I done?” Rising panic claws at my throat from deep within my bowls. It stifles and chokes me, as those fears that felt banished a moment ago come crushing in around me like violent high-tide waves pushing and pulling me deeper into the current.
I knew I saw him earlier on the dancefloor. Should’ve suspected that he’d make his move.
Blinded by him being a savior, I let my instincts slip. Latched onto him like a pathetic little puppy because I didn’t want to face another horrible man.
At what cost?
“Nothing,” he speaks calmly, as if trying to convince me that I hadn’t just face fucked the devil incarnate. “Everything. Fuck, Taylor, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Then don’t tell me anything. I don’t want to hear it anyway,” I sigh, feeling my heart shatter into a thousand tiny pieces in my chest.
It’s just like me to make a stupid, life shattering decision on a whim. Boasting about how I do everything in my power to stay cautious and safe, when I’ve made two terrible decisions in the span of a few hours.
Somehow, for the longest time after disappointment crushes all the fight out of me, I stay seated beside him. Further apart now, still eyeing the brute who treated my dad like a punching bag, but still here none-the-less.
Half hoping this is a dream, that I’m going to wake up any second now with the day redone. Rickon saving the day without the disgusting business earlier in the night and our happily ever after kicking off right.
The cold truth is that it isn’t.
I’ve fucked up and it’s time to face the music.
5
RICKON
