Page 39 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

ABBY

The glint of silver at the tip catches the light—he has a piercing, a barbell threaded through the underside, underneath the head of his cock. That’s definitely new since I last saw him like this.

My pulse flips, a jolt of curiosity and hunger overriding every other thought. I want to touch it, taste it, see how it changes the way he feels in my mouth.

I wrap my fingers around the base, marveling at the weight and heat of him, the skin stretched tight and flushed dark.

Mason’s eyes slam shut, head tipping back as I stroke him slowly, tracing the pad of my thumb over the cool metal, then the velvet-soft skin just beneath.

He hisses, the sound sharp, and when I swirl my tongue around the head, tasting salt and metal, he groans, hands flexing so hard on the workbench I hear the wood creak.

He looks down, eyes wild and blown, and just the sight of him—utterly undone, desperate, trying not to lose control—makes me want to drag it out forever.

But I can’t. I want him inside me, want to feel the stretch and heat and the way he fills me so deep it aches. I hollow my cheeks, taking him deeper, the cool shock of the barbell slick against my tongue, and he lets out a broken sound, hips jerking forward.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice frayed at the edges. “You look so fuckin’ good like that.”

He gathers my hair in one hand, pulling it into a makeshift ponytail, the motion gentle but commanding.

His other hand cups my jaw. He guides me, slow at first, letting me set the pace, but when I look up, his mouth drops open, lazy and awed, and he loses the thread of control he’s been holding so tight.

“Fuck, Abby.” The words bleed out, raw and reverent, as I slide my mouth farther down his length, the weight of him heavy on my tongue. I flatten my palms against his thighs for leverage, feeling the muscles jump and tense beneath my hands.

“Fuck, baby, I’m not gonna last,” he rasps, voice strangled, and I can hear the plea in it: don’t stop, don’t ever stop.

I don’t. Not even when he starts to guide the rhythm, one hand still fisted in my hair, the other brushing a tear from my cheek as I take him deeper.

“Shit,” he breathes, voice raw. “You’re so good, Trouble. So fuckin’ good.”

My fingers flex against his thighs, nails biting into the firm muscle. I want more. I want all of him. But he’s unraveling too fast.

He mutters something unintelligible, all gravel and need, and then he’s pulling back.

Before I can speak, his hands are on me, hauling me up like I weigh nothing.

My legs wrap around his waist on instinct, dress shoved up around my waist. Our mouths crash together—hot and desperate and soaked in the echo of everything we’ve been holding back.

The kiss is messy and fucking perfect. My lips are swollen, jaw aching, breath stolen, but I don't care.

He stumbles backward until his knees hit the only chair in the garage, and then we’re dropping together.

I straddle him, knees braced on either side of his hips, hands planted on his shoulders.

He’s still holding my ass, fingers digging in so tight I know there’ll be marks tomorrow, and maybe that’s what I want.

To be reminded that I’m not dreaming this, that he’s real and he wants me just as much as I want him.

He tugs the straps of my sundress down, exposing one breast, then the other, his eyes dark and hungry as he cups them with both hands. His thumbs drag over my nipples, rolling and pinching until I whimper, rocking against the hard length of him, desperate for more.

The bay door is still open. Heat bleeds in through the light. The whole world could walk by and I wouldn’t move.

“You good?” he asks, voice low.

I nod once, then press my forehead to his, breath shuddering out of me. “More than good.”

“Abby.” He says my name like it means something. Like it’s the only thing he trusts right now. His thumb traces a slow line up my spine, over the back of my neck, anchoring me there. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” I whisper against his lips. “I want you.”

His hands slide under my thighs, and he lifts me just enough to line us up. The blunt head of him presses hot and insistent against my slick entrance, and I feel his whole body tense—like he’s holding back with everything he’s got.

He noses along my jaw, voice rendered to a raw whisper. “Take it slow, Trouble. Let me feel you.”

I steady myself with both hands on his shoulders. His eyes are locked on mine, pupils blown wide, and I see the exact moment he loses the last scrap of composure. I sink down, inch by inch, the stretch so exquisite I have to bite my lip to stop myself from moaning.

His thumb tugs my lip free, and then his mouth is covering mine, swallowing my groan of pleasure.

He fills me, utterly, the piercing dragging a new, impossible friction inside me.

I brace my knees harder around his hips, hands scrambling for purchase along his shoulders, my nails digging half-moons into the cotton of his shirt.

The stretch is overwhelming in the best way.

The way I know I’m going to be feeling him for days.

Mason’s hands never stop moving—he traces the line of my jaw, the slope of my back, the trembling arch of my breasts.

His mouth finds my collarbone, then my throat, and when I rock down, grinding myself against him, he growls, “Jesus Christ, you feel so fuckin’ good. So tight. Like you were made for me.”

The world narrows to him and me, just this moment.

His hands guide my hips, anchoring me with every roll forward, his breath breaking uneven against my throat. I shift higher, then drop back down and his groan rips through the space between us—rough and raw and entirely undone.

“Fuck, Trouble,” he pants, lips dragging along the shell of my ear. “You ride me like you were made for this.”

My body pulses around him, sharp heat licking down my spine at the sound of his voice—filthy and reverent all at once.

“You hear me?” His hands tighten, fingers digging into the curve of my ass as he thrusts up into me from the bottom, deeper now, harder . “This sweet little pussy was fucking made for my cock.”

A soft, startled moan tears from my throat, my nipples pebbling like his words pinched them. Goosebumps flash across my skin even in the summer heat, the air thick and humid and heavy with want.

Mason slides one hand between us. His palm presses flat to the front of my stomach, grounding me, his thumb finding my clit in tight, controlled strokes.

“Just like that,” he murmurs, voice reverent, almost coaxing. “Let me feel you.”

A sharp cry wrenches from my throat, and his hand holds me steady, hips locked beneath mine, his other arm anchoring the small of my back like he’s setting the rhythm, like I’m his to position exactly how he needs.

The orgasm builds like a slow flood, impossibly tight and hot beneath my skin until it crests all at once. My head tips back, lips parted, and I clench around him, dizzy from how much it is.

“Fuck, yes. Come on my cock, baby,” he groans, watching me fall apart with a kind of feral awe brightening his features. “Just like that.”

I ride it out on a broken moan, every nerve alight, thighs shaking.

“Look at you,” he pants against my open mouth. “All flushed and shaking. You feel that?” He thrusts again, slow and deep, dragging the head of his cock against that perfect spot inside me. “That’s what you do to me. You ruin me, baby.”

I barely recover enough sense to cling to his shoulders, chest heaving as he keeps fucking me through the aftershocks, his rhythm turning ragged.

The heat of him fills every hollow in me, every place I’ve ever felt not enough.

His lips crash against mine, tongue greedy, teeth catching the edge of my jaw like he’s trying to brand me from the inside out.

I want to keep him. Every wild, broken, beautiful part.

I want to memorize the shape of his need, the taste of his sweat, the way he says my name like it’s a promise and a prayer.

His breath stutters

My inner thighs tremble as I clamp tighter around him, molten heat pooling low in my belly. I can barely breathe. My heart hammers wild behind my ribs and I’m not sure if I want to beg or cry or come again.

Maybe all three.

“Mason,” I gasp, head falling to his shoulder. “God, don’t stop.”

“I’m not gonna,” he whispers against my cheek. Then, lower, filthier: “Not until you give me another one.”

Mason’s hands flex against my hips, holding me steady as he shifts beneath me—leaning back slightly, spreading his thighs wider beneath the chair’s creak and groan.

It’s subtle, a quiet shift of power. But everything changes. The next time he thrusts up, something inside me shatters. My breath catches like it’s been yanked from my lungs. My spine arches, and my eyes slam shut.

Because he hits something deep—sharp and perfect, like a detonated nerve laced with pleasure. It’s not just pressure. It’s precision. It’s him. And the silver glint of that piercing dragging against the most sensitive part of me in a way that feels almost cruel in its precision.

I gasp, mumbling something broken and incoherent as a kaleidoscope of color erupts behind my eyes.

“There it is,” he mutters darkly, voice nearly guttural. “Fuck, baby. That spot right there?” He thrusts again, slower this time. His piercing hits just right. “Feels like heaven, doesn’t it?”

I can’t answer. My whole body has gone tight with sensation, trembling with every breath. My thighs quake around his hips and my fingers curl into his shoulders like they’re the only thing anchoring me to earth.

He lifts his hand, brushing the back of his knuckles gently along my cheek. The softness shouldn’t undo me—but it does.

“You’ve never felt anything like this before, have you?” he murmurs, and there’s no arrogance in it. Just wonder. And a terrifying amount of tenderness.

I shake my head, barely breathing. “No,” I whisper, voice threadbare. “Never.”