Page 13 of My Masked Savior
The visual of her spread out like that, coming undone, shatters whatever control I had left. My release barrels through me, white-hot and devastating. Cum spurts across the snow in thick ropes, painting the frozen ground while I bite down on the inside of the mask to keep from making too much noise.
"Shit." The word comes out strangled as another pulse hits. "Fucking hell."
My hips jerk forward, hand still stroking, milking out every last drop while I imagine something completely different. Not my cum wasted in the snow like this, but pumped deep inside her instead. Filling that tight little pussy until it drips down her thighs, marking her from the inside out.
The image makes my cock twitch even as the orgasm fades, still semi-hard in my palm.
I picture her on that bed, legs spread like they are now, but my cum leaking out of her swollen cunt. White against all that pretty dark caramel skin, proof that I'd been there, claimed her, bred her properly. She'd look fucking incredible like that—used and full and mine.
"Christ," I mutter, finally looking down at the ruined panties in my hand. They’re completely soaked with my release. But I’m not throwing them away. Instead, I shove them back in my pocket.
They’re mine now. Marked. Just like she is going to be.
I tuck myself away with shaking hands, my piercing still sensitive as it drags against my zipper. "Get it together, D."
Morgan moves on the bed, reaching for something. A tissue box appears, and she cleans herself up quickly. The post-orgasm haze seems to hit her because she yawns, stretching like a cat before pulling the comforter up over her body.
The lamp clicks off, plunging the room into darkness.
I stand there in the cold, breathing hard into the mask, watching the dark rectangle of her window. My heart pounds against my ribs, adrenaline and arousal still coursing through my veins even though I just came harder than I have in months.
This obsession's getting worse. I should leave, drive back home, put distance between us before I do something really stupid.
But I don't move. Just keep watching that window, imagining all the things I want to do to the woman sleeping behind it.
7
MORGAN
On Christmas Eve, I don’t wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Instead, I’m bleary-eyed and creased from sleeping on my face. I groan at my reflection, then blush when I remember what I did last night. I couldn’t get Damien out of my head all week. Images of him sweating and straining invaded my thoughts at every chance. It should be illegal to be that handsome. And it should be illegal to want someone you’ll never have with this much intensity. I can’t believe I touched myself in my old bedroom like a high schooler discovering her first spicy books.
I splash my face with icy cold water, brush my teeth, then undo my bun, shaking out my curls. There—I look almost human again. Though I’m pretty sure sleeping after thirty should come with hazard pay. Or maybe it’s the sleeping alone that’s the problem. I bet Damien would want to get some exercise in before bed every night.
Ugh, there I go again.
You’re just a patient to him, Morgan, that little voice thatMarco created in my psyche says to me. It’s the voice that tells me I’m worthless, useless, too needy, too frigid.
“No!” I growl, slamming my fist down on the edge of the sink before grabbing onto it with both hands. Just because I returned to Madison for Christmas doesn’t mean I’m returning to the girl I was when I ran from here, bruised and scared to death.
“Sweetie?” Mom calls from outside my childhood bedroom. “Breakfast is ready!”
I take a deep breath before shouting back: “Coming, Mom!” The déjà vu makes me shake my head. How many times have we had this exchange? Sometimes I wish I could go back to my childhood, before… everything.
After changing into leggings and an oversized Christmas sweater, I plaster on a placid smile and walk into the kitchen. Guided by that need for a mom’s comfort every child has, I duck under my mom’s hand for a side hug. She smiles down at me, still stunning despite her short hair turning white and lines decorating her porcelain skin.
Dad looks up from his newspaper and smiles at us, the lines at the sides of his eyes deepening with the motion. “Sit down, child,” he says with his baritone voice. “Tell me about New York. Are you showing everyone they’re no match for the Cole work ethic?”
Blushing, I extricate myself and take my seat in the usual place: to my dad’s left, across from where my mom sits. She’s waving a spatula now as if shooing away Dad’s words.
“Forget about that,” she croons. “Tell us if you met anyone nice.”
My blush deepens as I fidget with my fork. I hate having these conversations. How do I tell them I’ve been terrified of letting anyone close since I left here broken?They have no idea what happened to me, something I still feel guilty over half a decade later.
“No one special, Mom,” I murmur, praying she’ll let it go.
“Mmm,” she muses with pursed lips.
“Leave the child alone, baby,” Dad chastises, coming to the rescue. “She’ll settle down when she’s good and ready.”
