Page 27 of Ghost (Cerberus Personal Security #1)

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, barely holding on. “I’ll stop. I’ll always stop for you.”

I dig my nails into his thighs in answer— don’t you dare stop.

And he doesn’t.

He fucks my mouth slow and possessive, hips flexing just enough to feed me more, groaning like the sound’s ripped from his core.

When I reach up and roll his balls in my palm, he chokes on a curse and pulls out fast, gripping the base of his cock to keep from coming.

His chest heaves. His whole body shakes.

“You keep that up,” he growls, “and this ends with me painting your throat and whispering apologies.”

I grin up at him, lips swollen and slick. “So don’t keep me waiting.”

He stares at me like I’ve gutted him. “Holy fuck. ”

Then he grabs my arm and yanks me upright, his mouth crashing down on mine in a bruising, punishing kiss.

I taste him. He tastes me. And everything else—fear, history, doubt—burns to ash.

He spins me, crowding me back against the tile wall. One knee shoves between mine, spreading my legs. His hand slides down, fingers finding how wet I am, how ready.

He growls, the sound primal. Then he’s inside me—one hard, perfect thrust that stretches me to the edge of pain and rips a cry from my throat.

He doesn’t give me time to adjust. He fucks me hard.

Against the wall. In the steam. With his name on my lips and his cock driving into me like he owns my soul.

I claw at his shoulders. He bites my throat. We don’t make love. We burn. His hand snakes between us, fingers rubbing my clit just right, just rough enough to shove me over the edge.

I come screaming his name, clenched tight around him, writhing between him and the wall as the orgasm rips through me.

He groans, thrusts once more, twice—and explodes inside me, biting my shoulder, emptying himself with a violence that makes the world tilt.

For a long moment, we don’t move. Just breathe.

Steam curls around us. My legs tremble. He holds me like I might disappear.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, forehead pressed to mine. “I’ll always have you.”

I believe him.

Even as my body pulses from the aftershocks, even as he carries me from the shower and lays me gently on the bed, this isn’t just sex . It’s surrender. Devotion. Fire and trust and healing wrapped in skin and sweat.

And I want more.

So much more.

“Mason,” I whisper, chest rising and falling with rapid breath. “You mentioned you want more. ”

He goes still.

“Show me what that means to you.”

His eyes darken—not just with arousal, but with something deeper. Worship. Possession. Love, raw and unnamed, but undeniable.

“You sure about that?”

“Yes, please.”

He shows me with his hands—slow and reverent as he binds my wrists with his belt, not to restrain, but to center me. To remind me I’m safe. That he’ll never take more than I give.

He shows me with his mouth—kissing every scar, every bruise that still lingers beneath the surface, until I’m trembling not from pain, but from being seen.

He shows me with his voice—low, commanding, patient. Teaching me the rhythm of his world. How to bloom beneath his control.

He shows me what it means to be cherished and claimed, to be taken again and again until I forget what it feels like to be afraid.

We don’t leave the room all day.

When we finally emerge—hours later, freshly showered and walking a little slower—I wear one of his shirts and a smile I can’t contain.

The moment we step into the dining room, every conversation halts.

Ryan smirks over his coffee. Jackson gives Mason a mock salute. Mitzy just raises a single eyebrow, fighting a grin. Chaos trots in behind us, tail wagging like we haven’t all just walked through fire.

No one says a word .

They don’t have to.

My cheeks heat, but Mason rests his hand on my lower back with quiet pride. He doesn’t hide. Doesn’t flinch from what we’ve become.

We take our seats at the long table, Bear flopping at my feet with a satisfied sigh. The warmth of camaraderie hums in the room, easy and familiar—until Mitzy sets her coffee down with a decisive click and levels her gaze on me.

“Now that you’ve had your reunion ,” she says, voice calm but cutting straight to the bone, “we need to talk about Steffan Reynolds.”

Silence falls like a hammer.

I straighten in my seat, pulse kicking up again—not from desire this time, but from the familiar edge of dread.

“We have the USB,” Mitzy continues. “Names. Accounts. Transactions. Enough to put half a dozen high-ranking officials behind bars. Maybe more.”

Forest leans forward, arms crossed over his mountain of a chest. “And enough to make us all targets if we move too fast.”

CJ taps a tablet beside him, data scrolling rapidly. “We’ve verified the files. Arms deals. Foreign deposits. Payments to officials, agents, even judges in neighboring districts.”

Mason’s hand finds mine beneath the table. Grounding me. Reminding me I’m not alone.

“The question,” Mitzy says, “is what we do next.”

“Do we go public?” CJ asks. “Drop the files to a secure leak site, force the DOJ’s hand?”

“Or keep it in-house?” Forest counters. “Build our case, get Reynolds stripped of his power before he knows we’ve struck.”

Mitzy’s eyes don’t leave mine. “And then there’s you, Willow.”

My breath catches.

The room goes quiet.

Not the uneasy silence of fear—but the kind that comes before impact. Like the pause between thunderclaps. Everyone is watching me. Waiting.

Mitzy meets my gaze, steady and unflinching. “You’re the key witness. We need to know what you want. Do you testify? Go public? Help us bring him down from the inside?”

“Or disappear,” CJ adds, his tone low. “New name. New life. You’d be safe—but always looking over your shoulder.”

The breath catches in my lungs.

Disappear. Safe, quiet, forgettable. No courtrooms. No microphones. Just shadows. I could be a ghost, and survive.

Or…

Testify. Speak the truth aloud. Name names. Face Steffan in a courtroom and drag him into the light.

Mitzy lays it out in two clear paths. Forest folds his massive arms across his chest. His voice is deep, calm, and final. “If we do this, it’s scorched earth. We go after everyone.”

Skye, poised and calm beside him, adds softly, “And we paint a target on your back. Testifying means exposure. Hearings. Media. And Steffan will come after you with everything he has left.”

Ryan speaks next, voice quiet but fierce. “But it’s the only way to make it stick.”

Jackson leans forward, scarred knuckles braced against the table. “You want him buried, not just wounded?” His stare pins me. “You need to look him in the eye when you slam the cage shut.”

I stare down at my hands, laced in Mason’s. His thumb strokes slow circles across my knuckles. The heat of his skin grounds me.

They’re all right.

One path means safety, but silence. The other—is fire.

And I’m so tired of being afraid.

I lift my head. My voice is quiet, but steady .

“I want to testify.”

The tension shifts. Not gone—but different now. Controlled. Directed.

Ryan lets out a short breath and slaps his palm against the table. “Let’s burn this motherfucker down.”

A low rumble of agreement moves around the room. Forest nods once. Jackson smiles—grim and satisfied. Skye is already opening her laptop. CJ starts tapping on his tablet. All I can feel is Mason’s hand tightening around mine. His eyes on me, full of pride and something deeper I can’t name.

Because I didn’t choose to survive.

I chose to fight.