Page 82 of Shattered Promise

And I’m not scared.

I’m lit up.

Waiting for what comes next.

“Is it, baby?”

My breath catches, but I don’t move—just let him hold me there, his palms warm and reverent against the bare curve of my ass. His touch isn’t rushed. It’s possessive. Like he’s savoring every second of being allowed to want me this openly.

“For you?” I echo, glancing at him over my shoulder. “Guess that depends.”

His brow arches, jaw still tight, but a crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “On what?”

I lift my chin, challenge lighting low in my chest. “You planning to do something about it?”

His hands flex, fingers sinking into the soft swell of my skin. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Too late.”

His breath hitches, and then he moves.

A deliberate shift, his chest brushing my back as he crowds me gently into the bench. One arm slides around my waist, anchoring me. The other ghosts up the outside of my thigh, slow and devastating, until I’m trembling against him.

“Mason,” I beg, my voice catching.

“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips grazing the shell of my ear. “Let me touch you.”

His fingers trail higher, dragging the hem of my dress with them until I’m bared completely and the only thing between us is the soft friction of his jeans and the heat radiating off his skin. The denim drags against the back of my thighs, rough and electric, and I gasp, the sound echoing loud in the hush of the garage.

He holds me there, breath hot at the nape of my neck, and I’m shaking—not with nerves, but with the kind of anticipation that feels almost dangerous. He noses aside a tumble of my hair to press his mouth to the bare curve of my shoulder.

“You have no idea what you do to me.”

“Show me,” I whisper, arching my back and grinding my ass into his hips, needing more friction, more of him, all of him. The words come out less like a challenge and more like a plea. Fragile and hungry.

He groans, the sound ripped from somewhere deep, and his hand flattens against my stomach, pinning me to the edge of the workbench. His other palm is rough and hot as it maps the curve of my ass, sliding lower, then up again, like he’s making sure I’m real, that he’s allowed to touch me this way. He finds the softinside of my thigh and drags his fingers up, knuckles grazing the place I want him most.

I rock back again, slower this time. A deliberate roll of my hips, dragging my ass along his dick.

He grips my hips with a tsk, anchoring me in place. Then one hand slides up, firm and unhurried, tracing the line of my ribcage, past the flutter of my pulse, until his fingers cradle the front of my throat.

The gesture should feel possessive—controlling. But it doesn’t. It feels protective—reverent.

His thumb brushes beneath my jaw, tilting my head gently. His lips find mine from behind—an awkward angle that somehow feels perfect. The kiss is deep and claiming, slow and fierce, his body surrounding mine like a storm he’s not trying to outrun anymore.

I melt into it, but I want more.

I reach back blindly, fingers fumbling for his jeans. I want to touch him. To see what that hunger looks like when it finally tips over the edge.

“Turn around,” he murmurs, dragging the blunt edge of his teeth along my jaw. “Let me see you.”

He spins me, palms bracketing my hips, and then lifts me onto the workbench in one easy, unhurried motion. My thighs part instinctively, the edge of the wood pressing cool against the backs of my legs. I feel exposed—completely, achingly bare under the dress—but I don’t shrink away. I tip my chin up and meet his gaze, daring him to look.

And God help me, he does. He always does.

His hands slide up my thighs, slow as sunrise, pushing the dress higher, and higher, until it’s bunched around my waist and all my secrets are his. He stares, and there’s no mistaking the hunger in his gaze.

He steps closer, crowding into my space, and his hands—those big, careful hands—curve around the backs of my knees, dragging me to the very edge of the bench. I grip the edge behind me, knuckles white, pulse rioting in my throat. I can feel the heat of him, the way his jeans rub the tender skin of my inner thighs before he drops his hands to my knees and pushes them gently, insistently, apart.