Page 44 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

ABBY

A soft ping vibrates from my phone. I glance down and see a photo of Theo curled up on Mason’s bare chest, cheeks flushed, one fist tucked beneath his chin.

Mason: It took me forty minutes to get him to sleep tonight. I think he misses you

.

I glance at the clock. It’s a little after ten o’clock, which means he’s been out for a while. So why did Mason wait to send it?

I bite my bottom lip and try not to overthink it.

Me: What about you? Do you miss me?

The typing bubble pops up, then disappears. Comes back and vanishes again.

Mason: I’ve been missing you for years.

It wasn’t the answer I was expecting. I thought he’d come back with something witty or sarcastic even. But the quiet weight of his admission knocks something loose in my chest.

I stare at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Me: That's a long time.

Mason: Yeah, baby, it is.

The air feels thinner somehow. I press the phone to my chest for a second like that might help slow my heart.

Me: Have you been hacked? Forced to watch Jane Austen movies against your will? Blink twice if you’re in trouble.

The video call comes through immediately. I swipe to answer and Mason’s face appears, soft-lit from the lamp behind him. His hair’s tousled, and he’s shirtless. There’s a long moment where neither of us says anything.

Then his jaw flexes. “I wasn’t hacked.”

I swallow, letting my gaze drag all over him. “Alright.”

He looks at me—really looks—and the silence says more than either of us could. I see the lines around his mouth, the rawness in his eyes. Like sleep deprivation and truth-telling have stripped his armor down to base material.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs finally.

It’s hard to breathe for a second. “Okay.”

He smirks and offers a small tsk. “This is the part where you tell me you’ve missed me too.”

I breathe out a chuckle and roll my eyes for good measure. “Fine. I’ve missed you too. Happy?” I say, but my voice is softer than I want it to be.

Mason’s mouth twitches, like he’s holding back a real smile. “I am now.”

“You almost done packing?”

“Just about,” I murmur as I scan the room. I turn the phone so he can see the emptied out apartment and my suitcase gaping open with my last few outfits thrown on top. “The only thing left is my nightstand, but I’ll pack it in the morning.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, “What’s in your nightstand?”

I look up at the phone, his face filling the screen. A slow, knowing grin is spreading across his mouth.

“Nothing,” I say, too fast.

He arches a brow. “Liar.”

I huff, feigning offense, but my face is already hot. “It’s just random stuff. Eye masks, lotion, a book I was supposed to read.”

He laughs, low and skeptical. “Give me a tour, Trouble.”

My brows draw in tight. “Of my apartment?”

His smile is slow to grow, but then his dimples are winking at me, and I already know I’m going to do it.

“Of your nightstand.”

I hesitate, fingers hovering over the drawer handle but then I flip the camera around and pull it open.

It’s a time capsule of my time here: a bottle of lavender lotion, an unopened box of sleep masks, a tangle of charger cords, and—buried beneath a half-read paperback and a silk scarf—a small black velvet pouch with a gold ribbon.

I hesitate, thumb tracing the edge of the pouch. My cheeks prick with heat.

“What’s in the black bag, baby?” his voice is low, coaxing.

I laugh, but it comes out shaky as I flip the camera back to me. “You’re so nosy.”

“Open it,” he commands, a muscle in his jaw fluttering.

I close my eyes and drag in a breath. My thumb slides the ribbon loose and tips the contents into my palm. A slim, rose gold bullet vibrator, gleaming in the lamp light. I don’t say anything, but I know he sees it—knows exactly what it is.

There’s silence on the line, then a low, rough exhale. “So that’s what you use.”

I’m blushing furiously now, but the thrill of it zings through me sharp and bright. “Sometimes,” I admit. “Sometimes I use other things.”

His eyes flare, and the video jitters as he readjusts in bed. “Show me,” he says, voice hoarse.

I swallow, nerves tangling with something hotter. “You want a demonstration?”

His Adam’s apple bobs. “Yeah, baby, I want a demonstration. Show me what you like.”

The bullet glints a little in my palm, dainty and wicked.

My hand shakes, but I set the phone on the nightstand, angled just so, and sit cross-legged on the edge of the bed.

The hem of my dress pools around my thighs.

I stare down at the toy, slow-dragging my thumb along the smooth edge.

There’s silence on the line at first, but then Mason’s voice cuts through, low and hungry,familiar.

“That’s it, Trouble. Take your time.”

I glance up at the yearning in his voice. He’s watching, really watching, and the attention twists something exquisite between my ribs.

My fingers slide the toy over my knee, a useless stalling gesture. I feel ridiculous, exposed, more nervous than I’ve been in years. But the thought of him seeing me like this—unraveling for him alone—overrides everything else.

It makes me feel bold.

I tilt my chin up. “What about you? What if I want you to show me ?”

He drags his teeth over his bottom lip, and it feels like a taunt. He lifts one of his bare shoulders up in a shrug. “I don’t have any toys to play with.”

I meet his gaze with a slow, measured smile. “Use your hand. Show me what you like.”

A flash of something dark and delighted sparks across his face. He doesn’t hesitate—just shifts the phone in his palm so the angle catches the lazy sprawl of him on his bed, sweatpants already tented in a way that makes my mouth go dry.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice thick velvet.

I swallow. My tongue feels too big for my mouth.

“I want to watch you touch yourself,” I say, the words shaky at first but growing steadier as I speak them aloud.

“I want to watch you wrap your hand around your cock and stroke it for me. I want to see what you look like when you come thinking about me.”

My cheeks flame, but I hold his gaze, even through the blip of shitty service, making the video blur for a few seconds.

Mason’s expression shifts into something less controlled, more wild and hungry . I watch the line of his jaw flex, watch the way his gaze drops to my thighs and then back to my face, like he can’t decide where to rest his gaze.

“Alright, baby. I’ll show you everything.” He slides his hand beneath the waistband of his sweats and strokes himself a couple of times, deliberate and slow. He frees his cock, holding my gaze the entire time. “Your turn, Trouble.”

The toy vibrates softly in my hand, a low hum that travels up my wrist and settles somewhere behind my sternum.

I drag it over the hem of my dress, bunching the fabric slowly up my thighs, and I have to close my eyes for a second just to breathe through the tornado of nerves and heat.

I can hear Mason’s breath over the speaker, that shy stutter in it as he watches me.

I push the dress higher, until the crease of my hip is exposed, and then I slide the vibrator up the inside of my thigh. My hand shakes, but I don’t let myself back out.

The first touch of vibration is startling, even though I’m the one controlling it.

It takes a second to settle into the sensation—a low, insistent thrum against the softest part of my skin.

My breath hitches, loud and embarrassingly raw, and I glance at the phone.

Mason hasn’t blinked. His jaw is clenched, lips parted, the camera catching the slow jerk of his hand around his cock.

His voice cuts through the speaker, lower than before. “Do you have your headphones?”

The question throws me for a second. “Yeah, I think so. Why?”

“Put them in,” he murmurs.

Excitement pitches my stomach sideways and I scramble for my purse, fingers shaking as I tug out wireless earbuds and put them in my ears. The sound sharpens instantly. His next breath, the rasp of it, feels like it brushes the shell of my ear.

“Good girl,” he whispers.

“God,” I breathe out, goosebumps cascading over my skin.

“Is it good?” he asks through a chuckle.

I nod, unable to speak. My pulse hammers in my throat.

“Let me see you, baby.”

The words make me ache. I tilt the vibrator higher, angling it so the tip presses right where I’m the most sensitive. My hips jerk. The sound that slips out of me is half-laugh, half-moan, and it’s so honest I want to hide my face but I don’t. Not this time.

I let my head tip back. Let my eyes flutter closed, because if I watch myself in the little thumbnail on the phone, I’ll lose my nerve.

Instead, I listen to the sound of Mason’s breathing, the ragged rasp of it as it flares in my ear.

“Fuck, Abby.”

The low, needy way he says my name. The bass of it vibrates in my chest, a matching frequency to the pulse between my thighs.

I slide the toy over my clit, lighter pressure at first, just enough to make my legs tremble. My other hand fists the sheets, knuckles white. I try to keep it elegant, to make it look how I think he wants it to look—slow, sophisticated, like a woman who’s always in control.

But it’s not like that. Not at all.

Within seconds, I’m squirming, hips rolling up to meet every pass of the vibrator, chasing the spark Mason’s voice and my own touch are stoking in me.

I try to keep quiet, but the sounds bleed out, little half-gasps and stuttering breaths.

On the other end of the screen, Mason’s hand works in slow, tight pulls, the head of his cock flushed deep red, gleaming where his thumb flicks over the tip.

His jaw is set, eyes dark and greedy, watching every move I make.

“That’s it, baby,” he says, voice hoarse and close in my ear. “Let me see how pretty you look when you come for me.”

My whole body shivers, tension coiling sharp and tight behind my ribs and winding up my spine. I dig the heels of my feet into the comforter and push the toy harder, eyes glassy, every nerve ending buzzing with the need to let go.

Mason’s breath is a live wire in my ear. “You gonna let me hear you, Trouble?”

I can barely form the word. “Yes.”

“Do it,” he murmurs, and the sound of him stroking himself is wet and desperate and completely unashamed. “Let go for me, baby. Let me hear you.”

I arch, the last bit of composure gone. A flash of heat ricochets through my entire body, and I cry out—high, breathless, raw.

The sound fills my ears, impossibly loud, echoing off the spare walls of my empty apartment.

I clamp my thighs together, every muscle seizing, the hand on the sheets twisting harder as I ride out the aftershocks.

I hear Mason’s voice—wrecked and reverent—threading through the white noise in my head.

“Good girl. That’s my girl. Fuck, Abby?—”

I open my eyes in time to see him tip his head back, jaw tight, neck cords straining as he loses control. The hand on his cock moves faster now, his hips rutting up into his own fist, and he chokes out a sound I’ve never heard from him before. A broken, beautiful groan that’s all for me.

He falls back against the headboard, breath ragged, chest heaving, and for a long moment neither of us speaks. There’s only the echo of our breathing, a delicious, unguarded hush that feels more intimate than all the words we could possibly find.

When he finally looks at me, his eyes are soft and almost shy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so open, so completely unmasked.

“Jesus, Trouble,” he says with a low laugh. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

I grin, even though my heart is still thudding as unevenly as my breath. “You asked.”

“What a fuckin’ way to go.” He laughs, soft and hoarse and a little shaky. Then his hand comes up, thumb tracing the line of his jaw, like he’s not sure what to do with himself now that we’ve both seen each other this bare.

Maybe he isn’t. Maybe I’m not either.

For a long moment, neither of us moves or speaks.

I can feel the afterglow pulsing through my veins, the echo of his voice still vibrating in my chest. I shift on the bed, pull my knees up, and hug them to my chest.

Mason rubs the heel of his hand over his eyes, then glances back at the camera. There’s something different in his posture—looser, almost unsteady.

He clears his throat. “Finish packing and come home.”

I rest my chin atop my knees and let myself look at him a moment longer.

Not the camera version—just him, eyes half-lidded, hair wild, a new flush crawling up the strong line of his neck. He looks boyish like this. Wrecked and sweet and a little bit at sea. I want to wrap his whole body in my arms and kiss the tension off his face.

I want to see him tomorrow and the next day and the one after that.

It doesn’t feel crazy anymore. It doesn’t even feel big. It just feels right.

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop the smile from spreading. “I will.”

He smiles, slow and sleepy. “See you tomorrow, Trouble.”

“Goodnight, Mase.”

“Night, baby,” he rumbles.

I end the call and clutch my phone to my chest for ten minutes. I can’t believe that just happened. There’s this part of me that keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it’s not big enough to overshadow the giddiness flowing through my veins.

I fall asleep with Mason’s voice echoing in my head and wake to the watery, gray light of morning leaking through the blinds. My body feels loose and light, the kind of soft you only get after a night of dreaming about someone you can’t wait to see again.

There’s a text from him waiting on my phone.

Mason: Drive safe. Call me if you need me.

My heart gives one of those fluttery little jumps.

Me: I’ll text you when I’m on the road.

I sit up in bed, every muscle humming with the afterglow of last night’s call.

The sheets are tangled around my legs, and I let myself lie there for a minute, just breathing in the quiet.

I’m so used to waking with a weight on my chest—anxiety, worry, the sense that I’m already behind.

But today, there’s only lightness, the gentle ache of wanting.

I stare at the ceiling, let the feeling bloom a little longer, then swing my legs over the side of the mattress.

I’ve got a long day of driving ahead of me, and I’m already counting down the hours until I’m back inside my little cabin in Avalon Falls.