Page 11 of Run for Us (Masked Men #6)

Chapter Eleven

Ripley

Is it possible to spiral because I’m not spiraling?

I don’t know what came over me, but I couldn’t handle all the emotions I felt at once, so I freaked out and left.

What makes her different? Why can I touch her and fuck her?

Why does she make all the noise in my head quiet?

I want to talk to her, unlike with anyone other than Shore.

How can a stranger make me feel this way?

I didn’t want to pull Shore away from her.

It’s not fair that he has to follow me around when I get like this.

I know he will be pissed that I didn’t tell him where I went, but I need to clear my head, and this is one of the best ways I know how to do it.

I need to get lost in my music; it clears my head and helps me think clearly again.

Swimming over to the lighthouse isn’t the smartest idea, especially at night, but that asshole Jason would love to have a reason to stop us from moving in.

I’m soaking by the time I pull myself up onto the shore.

We have left the trees overgrown and have tried to keep it as natural as possible, so at dusk it looks magical.

There are multiple levels to the lighthouse.

The ground level is the living area and kitchen, then floor one is Kasen’s room and floor two is Shore’s.

They opted for the bigger spaces, while I got floor three and four.

My studio is at the top, surrounded by windows overlooking the ocean and Bluebell Bay. It’s the perfect space.

Stripping off my clothes at the front door, I wring them out. We have a space out the back that has been converted into a laundry room. I walk around and dump my clothes in the washer and turn it on.

After a dash in my birthday suit back to the front of the building, I open the large red doors.

We don’t even lock them, which is probably stupid, considering the guitars I have stored in the studio.

I head straight for my bedroom where I know I left a pair of sweats when we were here painting last.

The stairs in this place are killer, but it is one hell of a workout.

My bedroom still smells of fresh paint, and the sweats are right where I left them at the end of the bed.

I pull them on and pick up the guitar I keep in my bedroom.

It’s older than me and the one thing that links me to my past. The only thing I couldn’t bear to leave behind.

My father gave it to me before he died, and it belonged to his brother—my uncle.

I don’t know what happened to him, as my mom never spoke of my father or his family after he was gone.

I’m still surprised she didn’t sell it. It is my most prized possession.

My haven through the abuse, whether it was verbal, physical, or sexual.

I strum the guitar softly, humming a tune that hasn’t left my head since the day Kinsley walked into my shop.

Tears fall down my cheeks. Why is she so different? The tears are from mixed emotions: happiness and frustration. I have become used to the fact that no one can touch me without an unsettling feeling crawling under my skin. Even Shore, at times, has experienced my adverse reaction to touch.

I pour my soul into the music.

It could be five minutes or five hours after I arrive when the doors to the lighthouse slam shut. I know it’s Shore, and that he is furious I didn’t tell him where I was going.

Getting to my feet, I place my guitar back into its stand, then my bedroom door flies open, smashing against the wall.

Shore is dripping wet and water pools around his feet, dampening the carpet.

His hazel eyes lock with mine as anger and fear radiate off his skin.

I can feel it in spades. His shoulders relax once he gives me a once-over and sees I’m okay.

“I just needed a minute,” I reassure him.

“You just needed a minute?!” He scoffs. “And what about what I need, Rip? You ran off after fucking Kinsley and I freaked out. You could have texted me and let me know where you were going,” he whisper-shouts.

He is always good about not raising his voice.

I don’t like fights involving yelling. My body checks out as my trauma response kicks in, and Shore is the only one who can bring me back.

“I left my phone at home.”

He steps further into the room. “Then you should have waited. It’s not fair you ran away. We had a deal. You use your safe word and go to the shop so I would know where to find you. Do you know how it made me feel when you weren’t there?”

Closing the distance between us, I swipe his wet blonde hair from his face and cup his jaw.

“I’m so fucking sorry. I’m so confused. Why doesn’t it hurt when she touches me, or when I fuck her? I don’t understand. Then thinking about the why makes me remember all the awful shit that happened. I thought I had control over it.”

“Maybe your soul knows her on a deeper level, and you know she is no threat to you. And you have control, Rip. You are the strongest person I know.”

I slam my lips against his, hard enough to steal his breath.

He’s the one who steadies me when everything else is unraveling.

My hands twist into his soaking-wet shirt, yanking him flush against me as I taste the salt on his tongue.

Shore’s frame is solid beneath my palms, and I relax.

He is my rock, my anchor, and once again I need him to feel steady.

He doesn’t believe in soul-deep feelings. Shore hasn’t had to experience the things I have, and I’m fucking grateful. As he wraps his arms around my waist, I feel the slight tremor in his chest and his fingers dig in, not to control me, but to hold himself together. I know I fucked up.

I pull back just enough to see his eyes, and he whispers, “You’re safe with me.

” The words hit straight in my heart, cracking open the walls I’ve built.

I know why I’m dominant in the bedroom—not to hurt anyone, but to reclaim the power stolen from me.

My mom’s cracked-up best friend raped me, and her boyfriend touched me.

.. then I never wanted to be touched again.

Shore changed that, and yet I can’t easily rid myself of the feelings that lie just below the surface, ready to rise at any trigger.

I help rid Shore of his sodden clothes and lower him to my bed.

His legs fall open, and I let my body fall over him.

Kissing my way down his jaw, I marvel at how his sun-kissed skin glows beneath my hands.

I don’t know how I got so lucky to have met him.

He may not believe in soulmates, but I know without a shadow of doubt he is mine.

The week before I was moved to the Easton’s home, I tried to kill myself.

I swallowed an entire handful of sleeping tablets, enough that I was convinced I’d never wake up.

I carefully collected them over many weeks, hiding each one somewhere around the house, so if my mother found them, she wouldn’t know it was me.

That night, I lay in the dark and swallowed them all, certain they would silence everything for good.

Instead, I passed out, and that crack whore came into my room as she normally did, and she called 9-1-1. Much to my disgust, I survived. When I asked the nurse if I was in heaven and she told me no, I cried.

My suicide attempt triggered a call to CPS.

They’d never known how bad things had been at home, and within days, I was placed with the Eastons.

From then on, I was no longer ignored, and for the first time, I felt like I was part of a family that loved me.

They saved me, and Shore proved there was someone who would fight for me, even when I had stopped fighting for myself.

“Oh fuck,” he grunts as I lick the salt water from his skin.

I hover over his hips, pressing soft kisses to the hollow of his stomach and trailing a path around his navel. His breath hitches when I move lower and my lips reach the top of his thigh.

Shore spreads his legs further, his muscles trembling beneath my touch as I cup his balls and lift them, placing a final kiss on the sensitive skin above his hole. Then I wet my lips and drag my tongue in a slow, deliberate circle around his rim, feeling the taut muscle respond under my probing.

A low groan rumbles through his chest, and I increase the pressure, flicking my tongue around the tender spot, needing him ready for me.

Reaching over with one hand, I slide the bedside table open and pull out the lube, flick the bottle open, and coat my fingers.

Coming up for a breath, I run my fingers down his crack and push them inside.

He fists the sheets, hips lifting at each pump of my hand, urging me deeper.

When I feel him soften and open beneath me, I pull back and roll him onto his front in one smooth motion.

He presses his cheek into the pillow, legs still parted.

I waste no time sinking into him from behind, driving forward with slow, deep thrusts until his body quakes beneath me.

This moment doesn’t require words. It’s me pouring my emotions into him, showing him how sorry I am and how much he means to me. I’m not normally this soft and tender with him. I love how he likes it rough, so when I get lost in my head, I know he can take it. He is safe if I lose control.

Driving my hips harder against his warm skin, I murmur, “God, Shore, you take me so well.” My hands grip his hips, guiding each thrust as I plunge deeper and faster, until his moans vibrate through me to my core.

I lean close, my lips brushing his ear. “You feel so fucking good. You make me want to stay inside you like this forever,” I whisper.

My vision tunnels and pressure coils in my belly until it snaps, sending waves of my release into him. My muscles clench, the world tilts, and I gasp for air.

His name rips from my throat, and for a moment, there is only the thunder of my heartbeat in my ears.

Once my brain comes back online, I pull out and collapse next to him, totally spent.

He rolls onto his back and I shift to rest my head on his chest. His arms wrap around me, his heart hammering against my ear.