Page 128 of The Young & the Sinner

I looked away. “It’s wrong. We’re not good for each other.” And that was true, wasn’t it? Because even though I had never felt wrong in his arms, we were hiding it from Max, so it had to be. I shook my head and turned away. I was breaking, and I didn’t want him to see.

The choice was between him and Max, and as deeply as I had fallen for Mason, how could I choose anyone over Max? Not when Max had always chosen me over everyone else, including my own mother.

I took one step forward, wanting to leave his presence behind, but Mason stopped me with one hand on my shoulder. He slowly turned me around, and I looked down at our feet, unable to meet his eyes.

“No,” Mason said. As if it was that simple.

“You can’t just decide that for me,” I answered back.

“Okay. Then look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t want this, don’t want me, anymore.”

My eyes jumped to his, and I couldn’t tell what he was thinking then. I opened my mouth to say exactly that, but the words died in my mouth before they could even leave. It wouldn’t matter what I say. We’d both I know I would be lying. A self-satisfied smirk formed on his mouth and I scowled. This should be all the encouragement I needed to say the words, but still, they would not come.

“We’re not talking about this anymore,” I said. I turned away and tried to take off. Mason grabbed me by the arms and pulled me against his hard body instead, my back plastered to his front. One of my arms was twisted behind my back, held immobile in his firm grip, yet I wasn’t hurt. I wasn’t scared of Mason. Or at least, I wasn’t scared that Mason would hurt me physically.

“Mason,” I said with a growl.

He moved his lip down and tugged my earlobe with his teeth. “Does this feel wrong to you?” he asked, his voice low.

Goosebumps rose across my skin, and I wanted to shout, Yes!

But it didn’t feel wrong. Not at all. It felt good. Too good.

My eyes fluttered closed when he moved his lips down to my neck and took the tender skin there between his mouth and sucked. I felt that all the way down to my sex.

“Mason,” I said, only even I wasn’t sure what I was asking him. To continue? To stop? What did it say about me when I wanted to do nothing more than melt into him? Mason used his free hand to roam my body, leaving a trail of burning flames in his wake. I sucked in a stuttering breath when he made a move to unbutton the red plaid shirt I wore.

One button, then the next, then next, until finally, he got to the last, and left the shirt gaping open. He grabbed my breast and squeezed, and I closed my eyes, moving my legs together to relieve the ache.

“What about this?” he asked softly. “Does this feel wrong, baby?”

Whatever point he had been trying to prove by touching me like that, I had already forgotten. I just wanted him to keep touching me. Just like that.

He moved us closer together, and I could feel his hardness against the small of my back. His hand moved inside the cup of my lacy bra, and he grasped my nipple between his thumb and pointer finger, pulling.

“Answer me,” he demanded hotly.

I shook my head. “No, it doesn’t feel wrong.”

His touch had always felt right. Whether his touch was gentle or demanding, with reverence and worship, or degrading and harsh, it always felt right.

He moved me against the kitchen island, the dull edge of it pushed against my stomach. I looked back at him, and there was this dark, hungry look in his eyes. I swallowed loudly, and he moved in closer, until there wasn’t an inch of space separating us.

“What are you doing?” I asked, as he continued to fondle me. It was getting harder and harder to think about anything else but how and where he was touching me. It was getting harder to think, period.

“Reminding you,” he answered roughly, his hands moving down. They skimmed across my belly, and my muscles there contracted. Then he unbuttoned my jeans and my head leaned forward as I let out a small whimper. I didn’t realize I had my eyes closed until they shot open when I felt Mason’s hand beneath my panties, searching for my clit.

“Mason,” I said when he circled the bundle of nerves with his finger, once, twice, and three times more.

I moved my hip along his hand, trying to find that delicious friction, the one I knew could make me come. Mason grabbed my hip with his other hand to stop me. When I held still, my breathing coming out in pants, he moved his lips to my ear and whispered, “Good girl.”

God, why were those two words so erotic? And why did I want him to say them to me over and over again. I wanted to be his good girl.

I didn’t know why I was fighting us so bad.

Mason pulled his hand out of my panties and I almost whimpered in protest. But then he was undressing me, and I knew he wasn’t done. He pulled the red shirt off and threw it on the kitchen floor, then unbuckled my bra, yanking it down my arms, impatient to bare all of me to his gaze.

He pulled my jeans and panties off next, and I knew he could see the wet spot on my red panties. Mason groaned. “God, I love how responsive you are to me.”

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