“I want—” She bites her lip, rocking against me a little.
“More?” I run my thumb up her slit, rubbing over her little clit. I circle it, watching her face, testing to see what she likes.
Then I find it, a spot at its base that makes her gasp as her hips jerk forward. Like I flipped a switch on, she grinds against my hand with new frenzy.
I kiss her neck, my other hand gripping her ass cheek and holding her in place. I watch the flush crawl up her neck, watch the sweat break out on her face. Her eyes stay on me as I watch her come undone.
I lick up her neck because I can’t lick between her legs. “Lift your sweatshirt, Lily. Play with your tits.”
Her eyes widen, but she obeys—pulling the fabric up, exposing herself. Her hands move to her breasts, hesitant at first.
“That's it,” I murmur, watching her. “Show me. Show me what you like.”
Her eyes flutter closed. Her fingers tighten on her nipples, gently pinching and pulling.
Because I can’t help myself, I kiss one, my dick throbbing when she moans long and loud. “Look at me.”
Her eyes open—glazed, desperate.
I tease her opening with the tip of my finger, easing it in and out, watching to make sure she’s still okay.
“Yes.” She rocks against me, her nails biting into my biceps. “Please. I want to feel you inside me.”
I increase the pressure on her clit, the rhythm, as I slide a finger into her. She's close—I can feel it in the way her body tenses, the way her thighs tremble. Her hips move against my hand, chasing the pleasure. I curl my finger inside her and rub. “That's it, pretty girl. Take what you need.”
“Mason—”
“Now, Lily.” I kiss her neck again and then sit back to watch. “Come for me.”
53
LILY
The command tears straight through me.
His fingers keep moving, steady and sure, and suddenly I’m shattering around them—my back arching, my thighs trembling uncontrollably, a broken sound ripping out of my chest before I can swallow it down. The pleasure is so sharp it almost hurts, white-hot and overwhelming, burning through every numb place inside me.
I feeleverything.
The rough drag of his thumb. The steady weight of his hand between my thighs. The way he keeps touching me through every aftershock like he wants me to take all of it. Like he wants me greedy for it.
For him.
“That’s it, pretty girl,” he says softly, and the praise slides through me like another touch. “I’ve got you.”
The words hit almost harder than his touch.
I collapse against him, breathing hard, my face buried in his neck while tremors keep working through my body. His hand stays warm and possessive on my thigh, grounding me instead of trapping me, and something inside me finally loosens its death grip.
For thirteen years, touch has meant fear. Pain. Survival.
But Mason touches me like I’m something precious—like my body belongs to me. Like he’d burn the whole damn world before he let anyone take that from me again.
And maybe the scariest part is how badly I want to let him.
54
MASON