Page 60 of Dirty Ink

This time neither Mason nor I glanced over toward her. His eyes were on mine. Mine on his.

“Kiss her,” Miss Last Night whined.

I knew he would. I knew from the determination in his eyes that he would. The will not to lose. The stubbornness that wouldn’t allow him to be the first to back down. To admit more than his hungry cock and his blown-wide pupils ever could. No, I knew he would obey Miss Last Night’s instructions. He would continue the game.

But what I didn’t know, with my nipples yearning against his chest, was how he would kiss me. Just enough to satisfy his turn in this game of chicken? Or just enough to make me regret the years, the distance, the loss of us?

Mason’s hands slipped beneath my blouse which had begun to slip from my shoulders. His hands were fire against the small of my back. I inhaled at his touch and his lips were there, already there to catch my exhale. He stole my breath and at the same time gave it. Gave it tenfold. Mason’s mouth closed on mine, his tongue sweeping at the seam of my lips, begging for entrance.

I blame the shock of it. Yes, the shock. That’s what made me groan, making my mouth open so he could slip his tongue inside.

It had nothing to do with the full-body shivers or the electricity coursing through my veins. Nothing to do at all with the way his nearness, the feel of his skin, his scent of musk and man, turned my bones to liquid heat.

With his lips against mine, my whole body came alive. I leaned into him and felt my ribs expand against his. I pressed tighter and felt my lungs full. Chest full to the point of bursting.

It scared me. If Mason’s kiss made me feel so full, so alive, how I had been living without him? It frightened me, the surge of passion that his kiss brought, because that meant I’d been lifeless without him.

I trembled against Mason not just because of the goosebumps he elicited when he twisted his fingers around the curls at the nape of my neck, but because I was scared as fuck. About who I was with Mason. And more importantly about who I was without him.

“Push her onto the bed.”

I was no longer sure if the words came from Miss Last Night or was beat out through my heart with my own searing blood. My coursing need making me hear voices. All I knew was that there was no hesitation anymore in this game of chicken. The rules had changed. The clock was winding faster and faster and our turns blended into one another’s as I grappled for purchase along his back and as he yanked at the button of my jeans.

I fell backwards onto the mattress, my breath knocked out of me as Mason claimed the space between my legs. My back arched off the sheets as he drew his tongue in a long, hot line along my pussy.

“Devour that pussy,” came the words, but whose words, I didn’t know.

Mine.

Mason’s.

Miss Last Night’s.

It didn’t matter.

My heels scraped against the strong muscles of Mason’s upper back. My fingers curled into the sheets like I was plummeting off a cliff and they were my only chance to catch myself. Mason’s fingers dug into the flesh of my thighs, my hips, scraping his nails across my erect nipples, scraping them again and again like he was falling too. Like I was his only chance to catch himself.

“Good girl. So fucking responsive.”

Mason’s voice rumbled through my core and I was smashed back into a place of just being. Somewhere between here and there. Hanging among the stars.

The world had faded away. Mason’s bedroom. The rain on the glass window down the hall. Even the bed that I’d dreamed of being in, longed to writhe in the way I was writhing now. It was all gone.

Behind my eyelids it was dark like it was behind the theatre curtain. All-consuming as the theatre curtain when it closes on the audience and I was left alone with nothing but my panting, gasping breaths and Mason’s voice, saying all those dirty things to me that drove me crazy.

“Such a sweet pussy. I could eat this fucking pussy all day.”

There was me. And there was Mason’s tongue. Mason’s fingers slipping inside me. Mason’s desire which I could feel in the roughness of the way his fingers curled and rubbed, in the desperate way he worked his tongue against my clit.

“Who owns your orgasm?”

Mason’s words there, but far away. The words there, but close. Echoing in my chest. In my groans. Between my legs.

“You.” It slipped out too easily.

“That’s fucking right.”

For a moment I feared he would torture me like he did all those years ago. Like I’d be punished for playing chicken with him, with pretending I didn’t care about him, lying to him that our “marriage” was fake.

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