Page 26 of Ghost (Cerberus Personal Security #1)

NINETEEN

Willow

Mason barrels down the hall like a man possessed, his stride long and loaded with intent. I’m slung over his shoulder, laughing breathlessly, the steady bounce of his gait sending blood straight to places that are already pulsing with need.

Bear trots ahead, tail wagging like this is his victory lap. Chaos flanks us with the focused contentment of a soldier on leave, his tongue lolling out in doggy delight.

Best. Day. Ever.

Mason doesn’t stop until we reach the suite at the far end of the hall—the one I’ve been calling mine since they brought me to Guardian HRS’s mountain retreat. Bear noses the door like he means to open it himself, but Mason plants his feet and sets me down, one palm on the doorframe.

“Not today,” he says, not unkindly, but with enough steel in his voice that both dogs immediately obey. “You don’t get to watch.”

Bear whines in protest. Chaos lets out a resigned huff. But they retreat without argument .

“Sorry, boys,” Mason mutters as he opens the door and nudges me through.

The second the door clicks shut; I’m pinned.

His hands are on me before I can breathe. One tangled in my hair, the other gripping my waist as he slams his mouth down on mine with no warning, no hesitation, no gentleness.

Heat erupts under my skin like a brushfire. I gasp into him, fingers clawing at his jacket, trying to get closer, always closer. He backs me into the wall with a growl, his body pressing hard against mine, all rough lines and pure male heat.

Clothes are the enemy now.

I yank his shirt over his head. He tears at the buttons of mine with zero finesse, fabric ripping under his hands as his mouth never leaves mine. His tongue claims me, wild and hungry, like he’s been starving for this—for me—and I kiss him back with equal desperation.

His hands slide under the waistband of my leggings, dragging them down along with my panties. I toe off my socks, one at a time, kicking free as he curses and struggles with his boots.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, trying to shove them off with one foot and failing. “Should’ve left the damn things at the door.”

A gasp swallows my laugh as he gives up and yanks his pants down anyway, boots still attached. It’s chaos and clumsiness and so goddamn sexy I could scream.

Then he’s there. Right there.

His hands find my thighs, lifting me like I weigh nothing, and I wrap around him instinctively. My back slams into the wall again, and in the next breath, he’s inside me.

I cry out—sharp, broken, utterly overwhelmed.

He doesn’t give me time to adjust. Doesn’t give me space to think.

He thrusts into me with a savage rhythm, his mouth on my throat, his body slamming into mine, over and over, until I’m not even sure where I end and he begins.

“You feel like fucking heaven,” he growls against my skin.

I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. I just cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, every inch of me unraveling.

And God, I want it. I want him—this raw, consuming need. This overwhelming, violent passion. The way he fucks like he’s trying to claim my soul through my body.

Every thrust drives me closer. I’m already close, already shaking, already there.

“Come for me,” he growls. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

His words are gasoline to the fire.

I shatter around him, gasping his name, clenching so tightly it rips a groan straight from his chest. He slams into me one last time, deep and hard, and endless, as he finds his release with a curse and a shudder.

For a moment, there’s nothing.

Just panting. Sweaty skin. My cheek against his shoulder, his arms locked around me like he can’t bear to let go.

He lowers me slowly, gently, until I’m on my feet but still pressed to the wall. His forehead rests against mine, breath hot and uneven.

“You okay?” he asks, voice hoarse, eyes dark and unguarded.

“Not even close,” I whisper, smiling like I’ve survived a storm and want more. “Do it again.”

Mason chuckles—low, smug, that gravelly rasp soaked in male satisfaction—and leans in to nip my bottom lip.

“Round one was just a preview,” he murmurs. “But first…” He pulls back slightly, glancing down. “The fucking boots come off.”

Still panting, still pressed to the wall, I watch as he sinks to the floor in front of me. He tugs off one boot, then the other, muttering something about “damn stubborn soles” and “next time, barefoot from the start.”

When he finally looks up at me, his grin is wicked. Ferocious. Arousal ripples through me again—swift and hot.

“Shower or bed for round two?” he asks, breath hitching like he already knows the answer. “Because I need to fuck you again. Right now.”

I laugh, unable to help it, the tension between us sharp edged but laced with joy. “Definitely shower,” I say, wrinkling my nose as I tug his shirt from where it’s bunched behind my back. “You smell like blood, sweat, and wilderness.”

“Good.” He stands in a single, powerful motion, scoops me into his arms like it costs him nothing. “Now I get to make you beg while I wash it all off.”

The shower is oversized, stone tiled, has multiple nozzles, and is steamy the second he turns the water on. He sets me down, grabs the soap like he’s been waiting his whole life to do this. Then he starts to clean me, slow and teasing, but I stop him with a firm shake of my head.

“My turn.”

He lifts a brow, amused. “Gonna pamper me now?”

“Shut up and hold still.”

I take the bar of soap and drag it across his chest, watching suds bubble over those hard planes and deep-cut ridges. He watches me, silent; the air between us shifting—less cocky now. More reverent. Hungrier. The intimacy of it slices through whatever wall he might’ve tried to rebuild.

My hands move lower. Over his abdomen. Down his thighs. I wash him with aching care, like touching him might fix something broken in both of us.

When I glance up again, he’s not grinning. He’s watching me too closely, his mouth set, eyes dark with something more than lust.

His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking just beneath my cheekbones. The water cascades over his broad shoulders, flattening his hair to his skull and sluicing down the hard ridges of his chest, but his expression is dead serious. Quiet.

A little uncertain.

“I need to ask you something,” he says softly. “Back at the cabin… We kinda played with some things. The Sir thing. The control.”

My breath catches.

“I don’t want to assume, and I don’t want what happened with your husband to—to taint what this is.”

I blink hard. My heart presses against my ribs.

He lowers his hands but stays close, watching me, waiting. That’s what undoes me—the waiting. The space he gives me. The restraint in a man built to destroy.

“Does it bother you when I call you that? When I let you take control?”

His groan is low and immediate—visceral.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice thick with hunger. “That punches all my fucking buttons, Willow. Every. Single. One.” His jaw flexes. “I love it. All of it. And more. I just…” He swallows hard. “I don’t ever want to cross a line you’re not ready for. Especially because of what that bastard did.”

My breath leaves me in a rush, not from fear, but from understanding. Relief.

I hear the message beneath his words. That I’m safe. That what we shared wasn’t a mistake. That he’s not afraid of what I want—only of hurting me.

I rise on tiptoe and press my lips to the edge of his jaw, my breath warm against his ear. “I’m yours to command, Sir, ” I whisper. “I love what you did before. Don’t stop because of him.”

The air changes between us. Instant. Sharp.

He pulls back, just enough to look at me. His eyes blaze—hot, greedy, possessive—and something low and dark sparks inside them.

He takes my wrist and guides it downward, slow and sure, until my fingers brush the length of his cock—already thick, already hard.

Already waiting.

His hand closes around mine, folding it over his arousal with unmistakable intent.

“Finish washing me.” His voice is as rough as gravel, “Especially down here.”

“Yes, Sir!” My thighs clench. Heat pulses low and deep.

I obey, lathering soap between my hands as water pounds around us. I touch him slowly, deliberately—my palm sliding along him, working the slickness over every inch. His breath stutters. His fingers curl into fists at his sides.

Everything between us crackles—want, need, permission—wrapped in the kind of trust I never thought I’d feel again.

Steam coils around us as I kneel, naked and soaked, my breath shaky with anticipation. The tile presses against my knees, but I barely feel it. Every nerve in my body is tuned to him.

Mason stands above me, broad and beautiful and dangerous, water running down the muscle-sculpted lines of his abdomen. His cock juts thick and hard between us, slick from my touch, flushed and pulsing at the tip.

He watches me. Silent. Waiting. Letting me choose.

I wrap my fingers around the base of him. He hisses through his teeth, low and sharp.

“Fuck, Willow…” His voice is shredded silk. My name in his mouth tastes like reverence and ruin. “You feel—so fucking good.”

I press a kiss to the crown, just a whisper of contact—and his hips shift, the control in him unraveling thread by thread. I slide my tongue along the underside, tracing the thick vein, and he groans, one hand flying out to brace against the wall.

When I take him deeper—inch by inch—his knees almost buckle.

“Jesus Christ.” His fingers tangle in my wet hair. Not pulling. Not forcing. Just anchoring. “That mouth…”

I hollow my cheeks and suck him deep, loving the way he twitches, the rough rasp of his praise above me.

“Look at you.” His voice is hoarse, awed. “On your knees for me. So fucking beautiful.”

The water keeps falling, heat curling through the shower like fog, but it’s his approval that scorches me.

His other hand joins the first, cradling my skull. I let him guide me, surrendering to the slow rhythm he sets. He doesn’t thrust. He claims. Deep strokes, deeper moans, his cock thick against my tongue.