Page 24 of Dirty Ink

Rachel

Then…

I took Mason through the theatre back to my dressing room. I knew the way well, of course. I ran it every night before my show. Every night after. I could run it in the dark. Run it in towering heels. Run it with a million different people shouting for me.

But moving down that corridor with Mason, our mouths clashing, bodies ricocheting off the walls like pinballs, giggles and groans echoing down the hall, I felt like all those other times had been a charade. This was the real way. With Mason. With our hearts pounding in rhythm. With our needs rising up in us, as inescapable as the tides.

We tumbled into my dressing room, my legs wrapped around Mason’s waist, my skirt lost somewhere in the hallway. The floor lamp in the corner cast a soft pink glow over the room. Mason didn’t seem to notice as he yanked down my top, sending my breasts spilling out. “Fuck, your tits are perfect.”

I didn’t correct him. Didn’t say that they weren’t as perky without a bra. Didn’t say that my nipples could be smaller, the skin tauter, not to mention my stretch marks and the freckles on my cleavage from too much time in the hot Nevada sun. Because in that moment, as he groaned into my cleavage, as he lapped at my nipples, they felt perfect. They were perfect.

Blinded by my breasts in his face, Mason ran us into a rack of boas in shades of rose and lavender and citrus. Knocked over racks of tulle dresses. He was wrecking the place. But I didn’t care one bit. My giggle was lost in a groan as he gently bit my nipple, testing my limits.

He let out a low hum. “You like that, baby?” His rough Irish accent making my head spin.

“Harder,” I begged in response.

This time, his growl came from the depths of his throat. He lowered his head again, licking and biting harder so that flashes of pain came like lightning in a storm of pleasure.

My big mirror reflected the two of us amongst it all. Amongst the sequins and glitter. Amongst the velvet and leather. Amongst the fishnet and the lace and the masks on silk strings. The sight of us sent a rush of heat through me.

Fuck, I needed him naked—now.

I slid my hands down his chest, revealing in the hard muscular plains, down the defined bumps of his abs, a new wave of need coursing through me as I followed the V down. Jesus Christ, this man was an Irish god. I slid my hand lower and found his thick hard length. My head spun. Lucky Irish. Lucky me.

I stroked at his length, wondering if um, now was too early to pull it out, drop to my knees and suck it.

“Not yet.” He let out a groan as I opened his zipper and slid my hand in. Jesus Christ. He was smooth and hot and perfect in my hand. “Shite. I won’t last long if you—”

I grinned against his mouth, dizzy with power, and kept stroking him.

He let out a feral growl, backing me up till my back collided with a wall covered with fluffy feather fans, knocking several of them off. He pinned my wrists above my head as I thrashed against him.

“Naughty girl. I said, ‘Not yet’.”

I fought against Mason, but he held me there, pinned against the wall. I could feel his hard cock as he pressed himself up against me. I let out a moan, desperate to feel him in my hand, my mouth, my aching pussy. Fuck, he could claim my ass if he wanted to. I wanted all of him.

In the dim light I could just make out his wicked smile as he pressed his lips to my ear.

“I think you need to be punished.”

I stopped my struggling. Stopped my fighting. “Punished?”

His eyes flashed wickedly. “So you remember who’s in charge…” He backed up, tugging his jacket off as he did, his eyes never leaving mine. “Don’t move.”

I felt the loss of him instantly and reached for him out of instinct.

“I said. Don’t. Move.”

The force of his words was like a blow and I fell back against the wall.

He glared at the spot above my head. At the spot where he’d pinned my hands.

I lifted my hands automatically and placed them back above my head.

That earned me a half smile. “Good girl.”

My knees shook as his praise caressed me like actual touch.

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