Page 36 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

ABBY

Mason’s hands skim under the hem of my borrowed henley, fingertips dragging along the base of my spine, and I gasp into his kiss—half breath, half disbelief.

It doesn’t feel like he’s exploring, it feels like he’s coming home. Like he already knew the rhythm of my body, and had just been waiting for permission to move in time with it.

I wrap my legs around his waist and tug him against me. I need something to ground me, to match the fire that has taken root behind my ribs and now burns in open bloom.

He groans low in his throat as he pulls back and I feel his mouth slip from mine, dragging open, hungry kisses along my jaw and down the column of my throat.

His hands roam everywhere at once—palming my hips, then spanning my ribs, then sliding my shirt up so his thumbs brush the undersides of my breasts.

His stubble scrapes my skin in a way that’s almost cruel, and I arch against him, desperate to get closer, to feel every inch of him.

He nips at the spot under my jaw, then soothes it with his tongue, and my whole body shudders in response.

I want to tell him to slow down, to savor this, but the words get lost in the haze of his mouth on my skin.

He peels the shirt up, inch by inch, and I raise my arms, letting him slide it over my head. The room is cold, the air prickling across my skin, but his hands never leave me. He stares, just for a moment, and I feel my cheeks flush hot under the scrutiny.

“I knew you’d look good in my shirt,” he says, voice hoarse, “but I didn’t know you’d look even better out of it.”

I snort, but it gets strangled into a gasp as he finds my nipples and rolls them between his fingers, gently at first and then with a pressure that makes my whole body stutter.

He palms my breast, thumb circling slowly until I arch into his hand, and then his mouth is on me—hot, open, wet. He licks a stripe over my nipple and bites it, just hard enough to make me whimper, then kisses the sting away.

I don’t even care that my body is humming too loud, or that I’m squirming under him, or that I’m basically begging.

The only thing I care about is Mason’s hands, his mouth, the low, hungry noises he makes against my skin.

I feel him everywhere—his palms mapped to my body, his hips pressing hard between my thighs, his breath warm and fast against my chest.

He pulls back, just enough to look me in the eye. His pupils are blown wide, wild, and there’s a question in the set of his mouth, the way his hands are still on my ribs.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says, voice graveled and low. “I need you to tell me, Abby.”

I shake my head, and my hands fist in the front of his shirt. “Don’t stop,” I whisper, and I mean it with every piece of me.

He exhales, shaky and relieved, and crashes back into me—this time slower, deeper, his tongue searching my mouth like he’s starving for the taste. His hands are everywhere, greedy and reverent, at once rough and careful as he learns my body in real time.

He kisses lower, trailing his mouth down the line of my neck, collarbone, the slope of my breast, until he takes me fully in his mouth.

I feel the wet heat of him, the scrape of teeth and the gentle, maddening pull, and I arch up, fingers tangling in his hair and maybe yanking a little.

And then he’s moving lower, skimming his hands down my waist as he kisses a trail over every inch of bare skin.

My body is lit up everywhere he touches, a bloom of heat and want that leaves me shaking and desperate.

He pauses at the waistband of my sweatpants, his breath a hot pulse against my stomach. “Okay?” he asks, voice softer now, almost reverent. I nod so hard my teeth nearly clack together.

He slides them off slow, peeling them down my hips and legs, and his hands stroke the backs of my thighs as he trails kisses lower, and then lower still.

He looks up at me, eyes molten, and lets out a low, broken laugh that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest for years.

“No panties, baby?” he says on a half-laugh, half-growl. “You’re fucking killing me.” And then he’s back at my knees, spreading them with hands that are suddenly not gentle at all.

I’m nervous—a little self-conscious, bare in every sense, more naked than I’ve ever been in front of anyone in a long time. But then he runs his hands up my calves, slow and sure, and kisses the inside of my knee like it’s the answer to a question I never knew I’d asked.

“I didn’t—” I bite down on the words. My breath catches when the cool air kisses my bare skin. “They were wet.”

“This perfect cunt was just waiting for me, wasn’t it, baby?” His eyes lift, dark and hooded, a slow grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Wrapped up tight against my sweatpants, like a present just for me.”

He moves with this deliberate kind of focus, like he’s memorizing every inch, every quiver, every sound I make. His hands bracket my thighs, opening them wide and looking at me.

“I’ll remember this image for the rest of my goddamn life,” he rasps out. “You, spread open and bare, just for me.” His voice is more gravel than breath, full of heat and disbelief, and something deeper—something reverent.

I feel his words, like a brand. Low in my belly and between my thighs.

He bends his head and drags his mouth along the inside of my thigh, breathing hot over skin so sensitive it feels like a live wire.

His stubble rasps as he kisses and bites his way up, slow and greedy, and I’m already trembling before he even gets close to where I want him.

My legs try to close around his shoulders, but he just laughs quietly and pins them open, palms branding my knees to the mattress.

He takes his fucking time. Kisses the hollow where my thigh meets my hip, licks a line up the inside, then stops, hovering just above, his breath a humid shudder over me.

I feel his lips soften, then purse, then ghost over the wet heat of me.

He breathes me in, and the sound that slips from him is almost anguished.

The first stroke of his tongue is slow—so slow I think I might cry.

He licks up, flat and wide, then circles my clit, gentle at first, then harder, rough with stubble and want.

He groans against me and the vibration punches through my core, radiating everywhere at once.

My hands fly to his head, digging into his hair, holding him there like I could ever let him go.

“Mason,” I gasp, or maybe I just think his name, but it’s the only word left in my vocabulary.

He must like it, because he starts working me with his tongue in these precise, torturous circles, then flicks, then sucks, then back to slow, maddening sweeps.

There’s nothing fair about how good he is at this—how quickly he can turn me inside out, how he actually pays attention to every twitch and sound and gasp. I can’t grab enough air, can’t hold on to a single thought except more.

He keeps me pinned, one big hand spanning my hip to keep me right where he wants me, the other slipping down, sliding between my legs and teasing the slick, aching place he’s working me toward.

The first press of his finger inside me is careful, almost tentative, but even that light stretch sends a raw, involuntary sound up my throat. He groans into me, the sound hot and primal, and then he adds a second finger, curling them just so, and my whole body bows off the bed.

“Fuck, Mason. Fuck ,” I practically yell.

He lifts his head, mouth slick and jaw dark with stubble, and pins me with a look so hot it could cauterize. “You gotta be quiet, Trouble,” he rasps, thumb rough as it slowly drags across my clit. “Or we’re gonna have to stop. You don’t want to wake up the baby, do you?”

I shake my head, breathless. He drags his fingers out of me slowly before sliding them back in, holding me on the edge. My pulse pounds everywhere at once.

“Good,” he says, and dips his head again, but this time he works slower, lazier, as if he’s testing my silence.

He fucks me with his fingers, slow and deep, his tongue never letting up. I’m panting now, so desperate I can barely keep my eyes open, but when I do, I see him watching me from between my legs and I know I’ll never want anything else in the world but him looking at me like that.

His hair is messy from my fingers; his lips are swollen, shiny with my arousal, and when I moan again, he slides his free hand up my stomach and presses it to my mouth, muffling any sound I might make.

“That’s it,” he says, voice soft but iron underneath, “let go for me.”

It starts slow, the tension winding up tight in my core, but when he crooks his fingers just right and sucks hard on my clit, it’s like my whole body goes white with pleasure.

I try to be quiet—I really do—but the noise that rips out of me is half-shriek, half-sob, and even with his palm pressed gently over my mouth, I’m too loud.

My whole body arches off the bed, every muscle gone tight, nerves lit up and shuddering.

There’s a second where I’m not even sure I’m breathing, and then I collapse back to earth, head spinning and limbs utterly useless.

Mason doesn’t move, not at first. He just keeps his mouth on me, working me through the aftershocks, slow and patient and relentless until I’m twitching and writhing, his tongue slipping lazy circles over hypersensitive skin, his hands holding me open while I tremble and gasp into his wrist. He only lifts his head when I push at his shoulder.

I’m too raw to take another second, but even then, he just trails kisses up my thighs, over my stomach, and places one chaste kiss on my clit.

He settles his forehead against my inner thigh, breathing hard like he just ran a mile uphill. I can feel his smile against my skin—sated and a little cocky, but mostly just stunned.

I can’t speak yet, just nod, still floating somewhere above my body. My thighs are trembling, the rest of me molten and shaky, but I want him—want to taste him, to return the favor, to see him come undone.

I sit up and pull his mouth to mine. I taste myself on his tongue, salt and slick, and the thought of it makes me dizzy all over again.

I reach for the waistband of his athletic shorts, intent on dragging them down and getting my mouth on him.

But when I brush his cock through the soft cotton, he jerks like he’s been shocked, a raw groan scraping up from his chest.

“Jesus, Abby— fuck .” His hand flies to my wrist, not hard but urgent.

“What’s wrong?” I murmur.

He huffs a laugh and tips his head back. “Nothing, baby. Everything is perfect.”

“Then why can’t I . . .” I flex my fingers against his abdomen.

His hand tightens, jaw working as he looks at me, and then he lets out a laugh that's more groan than sound. “You made me come in my pants, Trouble,” he says, voice gone guttural. The admission floats there, naked and hot in the hush between us. “Like a goddamn teenager.”

It takes a beat for the meaning to land. When it does, heat rushes to my cheeks, a wild, disbelieving sort of wonder bursting out of me.

I slide my hand up his chest, feeling the thud of his heart under my palm. “That’s kind of the hottest thing I’ve ever heard,” I say, and I mean it. The words make him flush, the tips of his ears turning red, and I can’t help but grin.

He lets out a choked sort of laugh. “You’re fuckin’ trouble.”

I surge forward and kiss him, hard and greedy and wonder, not for the first time, how I can keep Mason.