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

Chapter Six

Kinsley

Nerves punch me straight in my gut—I can’t do this. I’m almost thirty; I’m too old to be signing up for sex websites. My phone vibrates, and Jace’s name flashes on the screen.

“I can’t do this,” I snap instead of hello. He bellows out a laugh.

“I knew you would want to chicken out. What are you so scared of? This is a birthday gift. It would be rude not to accept.”

“I’m too old for this.”

“Bullshit, you are up in your head. The pressure your mother puts on you is making you second-guess your life choices, as always. You have two weeks, and then you will be back in the city, people-pleasing once again. I know you, Kins. Ever since Teddy died, you have been too afraid to live your life how you want. If you don’t want to get married or have kids—then don’t.

If you want to paint landscapes and become a health nut—then do that. What is stopping you besides fear?”

“Ugh, you’re right,” I say with a sigh.

“I’m always right,” he quips. “And there is so much more out there than pompous assholes who just want to bend you over and get their rocks off. When was the last time you had sex and had your needs met?”

I honestly can’t remember.

“See? You don’t even know. It’s time to dust off the cobwebs, and what better way than to do it anonymously? There is no awkward morning after, it’s all about you, and maybe—just maybe—you will unlock your freaky side.”

“There is nothing wrong with vanilla sex, Jace. We don’t all need to be choked and punched in the face to get off.”

“Of course there isn’t when you are making love. But fucking should be fun. And if I want my girl to wrap her hand around my neck and punch me, then you bet your ass she will do it. Not that Willow punches me in the face—it would be a shame to ruin this masterpiece.”

“Hah! Fine. I have to admit, the thought of being spanked and having my hair pulled is a turn-on. Why masked men, anyway ?”

Jace clears his throat. “You know how we got together with Willow, and it was the most exciting sex I’ve ever had in my life. It was freeing, and I want that for you. With how often Willow makes us wear our masks, maybe you will like it as well.”

I’m skeptical of the masks. Not knowing what someone looks like scares me, but that’s clearly a result of my mother whispering in my ear.

I constantly hear how I need to find a handsome, wealthy man to stand by my side, one who can provide for me while I pop out babies.

I wouldn’t say I’m opposed to children altogether, but I don’t feel like I need to marry with the sole intention of having a child.

“Just try it. If you hate the masks or the whole thing, you have a safe word. Use it, and everything goes away. If you love it, I paid for the complete experience. They could pop up anytime over the course of your stay. Enjoy yourself—be free like you once dreamed of. If I have to drive down there myself to talk some sense into you, I will.”

“Okay, okay. You have convinced me. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Not if you are in a sex coma, you won’t. Bye.”

He hangs up on me before I can respond, and I take one last look at myself in the mirror.

What will the masked men think if they see my scars?

Would they even care? I shake off the annoying voice in my head.

Quite a number of times my mother has mentioned plastic surgery to make them less noticeable, but I won’t.

They are a reminder of what happens when you try to step outside of the life you were born into.

She even booked me in for Botox for my birthday, telling me I need to start on my wrinkles before they get any worse.

What fucking wrinkles? My face looks fine.

My text message alert pings, and my heart thumps wildly in my chest. Opening the message from the unknown sender, I find a set of coordinates.

Taking a deep breath in, I say aloud, “You can do this, Kinsley Elise Ellsworth. You can give up control for one night.”

An epiphany hits me. I am becoming my mother.

She has molded me into her. I’m a workaholic control freak who, deep down, just wants her mother’s approval, but won’t ever get it.

She forever likes to remind me of the one time I tried to rebel—aka running away with Teddy—and the consequences of my actions.

I don’t want to become her: in my fifties with no real friends. And a husband who spends most of his time abroad with his current fling—that she knows about, mind you, but doesn’t have the time or energy to deal with.

My father died in a plane crash before I was born. My mom married Brian fifteen years ago, but I don’t think she ever loved him. It simply looks good for her image to have a wealthy man on her arm at events.

Pulling up the location on my maps app, I see it’s only a small walk from here, in the opposite direction from The Promenade.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I rush out the door, slipping the key under the welcome mat.

Here goes nothing.

I step down the wooden stairs and onto the concrete path beside the beach.

The evening air is cooler than during the day, and it’s a welcome relief.

A breeze drifts off the water, tugging at my floral dress and ruffling my hair.

It’s not cold, just cool enough to make me question if I need a light cardigan.

I pause, phone in hand, to make sure I’m headed in the right direction when it lights up with a new text.

Follow the path to the old boardwalk. We will be waiting.

Is it wrong to feel excitement?

There hasn’t been a time in the last decade I have wanted to be excited about something. Yet, after my talk with Jace, I want to embrace the two weeks I have here, perhaps pretend I’m still that carefree eighteen-year-old with nothing but a promising future.

When I reach the old boardwalk, everything is shrouded in darkness, and I can barely make out the silhouettes of trees. My dress flutters against my legs, causing a chill to run up my spine; not because of the cold, but at the anticipation of the unknown.

The old boardwalk creaks under my weight, and I walk ahead, not knowing where I am going or who is waiting for me. A creak from behind has me spinning around, and my breath catches as my eyes adjust to the dim light.

There, crouched between two old fallen tree trunks, the masked men wait. Red-and-blue glowing masks turn on, illuminating the space surrounding them.

My heart hammers. There’s no turning back now.

“Hello, Kinsley. We have been waiting for you,” a masked man says, his voice low and distorted. All three men step onto the boardwalk, and I remain still.

“I don’t know what to do,” I say meekly, wondering if I’m supposed to talk.

“All you need to do is run for us, pretty girl,” the second masked man says, stepping toward me.

As each man takes a step toward me, the boardwalk creaks loudly beneath their feet.

All common sense left me the second I decided to do this. I take off running further down the boardwalk, my phone flashlight lighting the way, illuminating any hazards that could trip me over. Adrenaline courses through my veins, and I have never felt more alive.

One foot in front of the other, I run down the old boardwalk, heart hammering loud enough it could wake the town. My dress tangles around my knees as I skid toward the railing. Behind me, their footsteps thud in unison.

“You can run, but you can’t hide!” one hisses.

I jump off the weathered planks and onto the sand below, my knees buckling under me for a moment before I’m up and sprinting down the beach.

“We are coming for you, pretty girl!” another growls.

I spot the lifeguard building ahead. It looks deserted, with peeling white paint and broken windows.

I barrel through the thick, dry sand, and skid across the wooden ramp, my palms sliding over splintered handrails. My chest sears with every breath, and I glance over my shoulder. Two masked figures vault over the driftwood benches, while the third is already halfway up the stairs.

I fling open the door of the tower, and it’s dark inside.

After a split-second of hesitation, I hurry over the threshold and press my back against the wall, my fingertips grazing over the cracked plaster as I wait for them to follow.

There is nowhere left to run. I’m out of breath, and if I’m being honest with myself, a small pulse between my legs signals to my brain that I actually like this.

I want to get caught—to feel a stranger’s hands on me.

My pulse spikes as the first masked silhouette slips inside, red and blue lighting up the derelict room. He pauses, causing my breath to hitch. Surprisingly, I realize I want this to happen.

The second man steps over the threshold, and I lick my lips, tasting the faint hint of salt clinging to them from my mad dash through the evening ocean air. The third man follows, and suddenly I’m surrounded, my body flooding with warmth.

One of my pursuers steps forward. “I want you to tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” I whisper, though there is no real reason for the lowered tone. Maybe because it feels like we are doing something we shouldn’t, and while something like this would normally scare me, it doesn’t.

“Good. Now I want you to remove your dress, slowly.”

I freeze. What if they see my scars? Will they care? Surely in the dark they won’t be easily seen.

I grab the hem of my dress with shaky fingers and drag it up my body and over my head, then drop it at my feet. My skin prickles under their silent gazes as I step over the fabric, my heart hammering in my throat. I stand there in my thong and white tennis shoes as my nipples pebble.

Another of the masked men motions me to step further forward, and I do as he asks, then each one moves to surround me.

My eyes flutter closed as a single finger trails down my neck, starting from just below my ear.

Goosebumps rise on my skin, and I focus on the sensation as it moves down to the nape of my neck.

The man it belongs to stands behind me, our bodies close enough I can feel the heat radiating off him, but not close enough that he is touching me.

“God, the way your skin feels under my fingertip is driving me insane.”

He feathers his touch over my shoulder and down between my breasts, a small moan slipping from my lips as his finger reaches my navel and my stomach dips.

“So fucking hot,” the man in front of me says. Even through his mask, I can feel his eyes on me—watching, waiting for his turn to touch me. The night air might be cool, but it’s like an inferno is burning under my skin in the wake of being touched.

The third man is off to the side. I can’t see him, but I feel his reluctance to step forward. The first man’s hand dips beneath my thong, and I suck in a breath. It has been a long time since someone touched me, and I hadn’t realized how much my body has been craving it.