Page 77 of Shattered Promise

It starts slow, the tension winding up tight in my core, but when he crooks his fingers just right and sucks hard on my clit, it’s like my whole body goes white with pleasure.

I try to be quiet—I really do—but the noise that rips out of me is half-shriek, half-sob, and even with his palm pressed gently over my mouth, I’m too loud. My whole body arches off the bed, every muscle gone tight, nerves lit up and shuddering. There’s a second where I’m not even sure I’m breathing, and then I collapse back to earth, head spinning and limbs utterly useless.

Mason doesn’t move, not at first. He just keeps his mouth on me, working me through the aftershocks, slow and patient and relentless until I’m twitching and writhing, his tongue slipping lazy circles over hypersensitive skin, his hands holding me open while I tremble and gasp into his wrist. He only lifts his head when I push at his shoulder. I’m too raw to take another second, but even then, he just trails kisses up my thighs, over my stomach, and places one chaste kiss on my clit.

He settles his forehead against my inner thigh, breathing hard like he just ran a mile uphill. I can feel his smile against my skin—sated and a little cocky, but mostly just stunned.

I can’t speak yet, just nod, still floating somewhere above my body. My thighs are trembling, the rest of me molten and shaky, but I want him—want to taste him, to return the favor, to see him come undone.

I sit up and pull his mouth to mine. I taste myself on his tongue, salt and slick, and the thought of it makes me dizzy all over again. I reach for the waistband of his athletic shorts, intent on dragging them down and getting my mouth on him. But when I brush his cock through the soft cotton, he jerks like he’s been shocked, a raw groan scraping up from his chest.

“Jesus, Abby—fuck.” His hand flies to my wrist, not hard but urgent.

“What’s wrong?” I murmur.

He huffs a laugh and tips his head back. “Nothing, baby. Everything is perfect.”

“Then why can’t I . . .” I flex my fingers against his abdomen.

His hand tightens, jaw working as he looks at me, and then he lets out a laugh that's more groan than sound. “You made me come in my pants, Trouble,” he says, voice gone guttural. The admission floats there, naked and hot in the hush between us. “Like a goddamn teenager.”

It takes a beat for the meaning to land. When it does, heat rushes to my cheeks, a wild, disbelieving sort of wonder bursting out of me.

I slide my hand up his chest, feeling the thud of his heart under my palm. “That’s kind of the hottest thing I’ve ever heard,” I say, and I mean it. The words make him flush, the tips of his ears turning red, and I can’t help but grin.

He lets out a choked sort of laugh. “You’re fuckin’ trouble.”

I surge forward and kiss him, hard and greedy and wonder, not for the first time, how I can keep Mason.

30

ABBY

Mason’s bedsmells like cedar and laundry detergent. Clean. Grounded. Like him.

I wake slowly, curled beneath the comforter, his henley soft against my skin. He has one arm flung above his head, his breath soft and steady.

He looks younger like this, less guarded. Like the boy I once loved in secret and lost in silence.

For a long moment, I just lie there and look at him.

And it hits me—not the usual ache I’ve carried around for years, sharp and unfinished. This is quieter. Still tender, but softened. The sting dulled around the edges.

Because he didn’t disappear this time. He stayed. We both did.

And somehow, it doesn’t feel like a mistake.

The house is quiet in that hopeful kind of way, like the storm took all the heaviness with it. I move carefully, untangling myself from the covers and slipping out of the bedroom, pausing just long enough in the hallway to check on Theo. He’s still asleep, a faint crease between his brows like he’s dreaming something serious.

In the kitchen, I search the cabinets for espresso but come up empty. I knew I should’ve started stashing some here last week.

Because of course Mason’s a black coffee person at home, even though he’s a fancy latte person at a cafe.

I brew a fresh pot for him. The scent that fills the kitchen is comforting, and I reach for the sticky notes near the fridge, scribbling a message with one of the half-dried pens beside it:

Made coffee.Ran home to change & grab my phone. I’ll be back soon. xo —A

I stickit to the front of the coffee maker, double-check that it’s visible, then slip on a pair of short rain boots at the door. They’re Mason’s, so they’re huge, but I didn’t even wear shoes over here last night, so they’re going to have to do.