Page 97 of Shattered Promise

But it’s not like that. Not at all.

Within seconds, I’m squirming, hips rolling up to meet every pass of the vibrator, chasing the spark Mason’s voice and my own touch are stoking in me.

I try to keep quiet, but the sounds bleed out, little half-gasps and stuttering breaths. On the other end of the screen, Mason’s hand works in slow, tight pulls, the head of his cock flushed deep red, gleaming where his thumb flicks over the tip. His jaw is set, eyes dark and greedy, watching every move I make.

“That’s it, baby,” he says, voice hoarse and close in my ear. “Let me see how pretty you look when you come for me.”

My whole body shivers, tension coiling sharp and tight behind my ribs and winding up my spine. I dig the heels of my feet into the comforter and push the toy harder, eyes glassy, every nerve ending buzzing with the need to let go.

Mason’s breath is a live wire in my ear. “You gonna let me hear you, Trouble?”

I can barely form the word. “Yes.”

“Do it,” he murmurs, and the sound of him stroking himself is wet and desperate and completely unashamed. “Let go for me, baby. Let me hear you.”

I arch, the last bit of composure gone. A flash of heat ricochets through my entire body, and I cry out—high, breathless, raw. The sound fills my ears, impossibly loud, echoing off the spare walls of my empty apartment. I clamp mythighs together, every muscle seizing, the hand on the sheets twisting harder as I ride out the aftershocks.

I hear Mason’s voice—wrecked and reverent—threading through the white noise in my head.

“Good girl. That’s my girl. Fuck, Abby?—”

I open my eyes in time to see him tip his head back, jaw tight, neck cords straining as he loses control. The hand on his cock moves faster now, his hips rutting up into his own fist, and he chokes out a sound I’ve never heard from him before. A broken, beautiful groan that’s all for me.

He falls back against the headboard, breath ragged, chest heaving, and for a long moment neither of us speaks. There’s only the echo of our breathing, a delicious, unguarded hush that feels more intimate than all the words we could possibly find.

When he finally looks at me, his eyes are soft and almost shy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so open, so completely unmasked.

“Jesus, Trouble,” he says with a low laugh. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

I grin, even though my heart is still thudding as unevenly as my breath. “You asked.”

“What a fuckin’ way to go.” He laughs, soft and hoarse and a little shaky. Then his hand comes up, thumb tracing the line of his jaw, like he’s not sure what to do with himself now that we’ve both seen each other this bare.

Maybe he isn’t. Maybe I’m not either.

For a long moment, neither of us moves or speaks.

I can feel the afterglow pulsing through my veins, the echo of his voice still vibrating in my chest. I shift on the bed, pull my knees up, and hug them to my chest.

Mason rubs the heel of his hand over his eyes, then glances back at the camera. There’s something different in his posture—looser, almost unsteady.

He clears his throat. “Finish packing and come home.”

I rest my chin atop my knees and let myself look at him a moment longer.

Not the camera version—just him, eyes half-lidded, hair wild, a new flush crawling up the strong line of his neck. He looks boyish like this. Wrecked and sweet and a little bit at sea. I want to wrap his whole body in my arms and kiss the tension off his face.

I want to see him tomorrow and the next day and the one after that.

It doesn’t feel crazy anymore. It doesn’t even feel big. It just feels right.

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop the smile from spreading. “I will.”

He smiles, slow and sleepy. “See you tomorrow, Trouble.”

“Goodnight, Mase.”

“Night, baby,” he rumbles.