Page 22 of Gin and Lava

And why the hell does that get me even more worked up?

“You’re not going to talk dirty to me, Mason?” I tease, deflecting.

“I can,” he admits. “But that’s not what I’m asking.”

“That's sweet.”

“Stop saying I'm sweet,” he says defensively, and I lean in and brush my mouth against his.

“Why?” I groan against his mouth. “It’s the sweet parts that make me want to fuck you.”

He growls against my lips, cupping the back of my head and kissing me again. I get lost in how good it feels, and how talented he is with his tongue, and when he pulls away, I’m turned on and panting.

“If this is how you respond to sweet,” he says hotly, “then I’ll be the sweetest damn candy in the box.”

“Talk dirty to me, Mason,” I whisper, and a streak of excitement shoots up my spine at the request. I don’t ever ask for dirty talk during sex.I’mthe sweet one. I’m the girl who follows a guy’s lead and does whatever he wants.

But the thought of asking for—

Actually asking.

And then having Mason say all sorts of naughty things in my ear while he touches me and grants my wishes …

“Diiiirty, huh?” he muses, and my panties soak at the promise in that growl.

“Well, I like candy,” I say, reaching down to press my hand against the bulge in his pants. A zip of excitement shoots through my hand when I touch him.

Dang, I like being bold!

And double dang, I love how he hisses as I rub him.

“That's a lollipop, Princess.”

“Calling me princess, huh?” I snip, an edge to my voice. Not sure I like the implication of being the demure delicate girl after I’ve asked for dirty talk. I cup him harder over his slacks, stroking him in retaliation. “Don’t forget I own this big fucking truck.”

He grabs my blonde hair roughly and pulls my head back with a crisp tug.

My sex clenches.

Oh,that’sfun.

“You’re a Viking Princess,” Mason says, staring into my eyes intensely. “You’re an ax wielding shield maiden who’s either going to chop off my head, or ride my cock so hard she expects to die in battle tomorrow.”

“Well, when you put it that way—” I moan, leaning forward and kissing him roughly. I’ll happily be his Viking Princess: taking what I want, fucking who I want. I stroke him hotly over his pants and mewl in appreciation as I feel him thicken. He’s definitelynotsmall down there.

Lust rages through me. I’m tired of trying to be perfect all the time: the perfect dress, the perfect hair, the perfect man (who obviously isn’t perfect since every Mr. Maybe-Marriage-Material couldn’t get my blood pumping). I’m tired of being the good one.

I’m a Viking Princess, dammit!

Or at least I can pretend to be one with Mason.

Sure, Mason’s not long-term boyfriend material, but he’s the only man who’s gotten me hot since my breakup, and right now I’m so hot I can’t see straight.

I need this.

I need a hot, inconsequential one-night-stand to remind me that I even know how to orgasm. And hell, I can be as dirty and heathen as I want. It’s Mason. He won’t judge. And something tells me that being dirty is going to reward me with more than one big O tonight.

I pull back, lust drunk, and stare down at Mason with his shirt torn open. “Consent, Mason. You want to do this, yes?”

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