Page 112 of Shamed
I scan his face, shaking my head. “To prove you’re not the villain in your story.”
He’s not butIam.
I push the words back down, down, down. Not here. Not now.
His lips connect with mine again, his whole body pinning me down.
My legs fall open, causing his hips to settle deeper between them, and a groan rumbles from him at the motion. The fabric of his gym shorts and my leggings are barely a barrier between us, and I can feel the hardness of him pressing right against my clit, making it pulse and sending a flush to my cheeks.
All I can think about ismore.More touching, more tasting, more of him.
Mase changed me from a scared woman who avoided any type of intimacy foryears, to this person: someone willing to put herself in an unknown situation to help him figure out who and what he is.
“I want you,” I murmur, drunk on his kiss.
Eyes closed, he shakes his head, even as his grip on my hands tightens, like he wants me, too. “No.”
There’s probably a voice telling him it’s wrong, thathe’swrong.
“I want you to touch me.” My voice is shaky as I offer my body to him again.
Tremors run through him with the effort of holding back, sweat already dotting his hairline and breaths coming in hard and fast through his nostrils.
Cracks are forming, ready to rupture.
“Please.”
He slaps the mat beside my head, making me jump, but it doesn’t deter me.
“You have my consent, Mase.”
Those words seem to do it.
With a feral sound, he wrenches his free hand off the mat and moves it to my neck, feeling my pulse flutter, then he slides it down to my breast, squeezing like he’s been waiting years to touch me, his face falling into the crook of my neck.
“God fucking dammit.”
He gives both breasts attention, kneading each with his big hand while I squirm beneath him, but he doesn’t raise his head to look.
Shifting slightly sideways, he runs the same hand over my ribs and stomach, down to the waistband of my leggings. Now that he’s only pinning one side of me, it’s easier access for him.
Mase keeps his face buried, unable to look at what he’s doing while his fingers creep under the fabric and inch toward my center. When he finds my wetness, he makes a soft gruntingsound while my hips jolt upward, seeking his touch rather than pulling away from it.
Each stroke and each touch is tentative at first, exploring.
He’s never touched a woman before.
The thought hits me suddenly. I know he said it, but it didn’t truly register until now that he’s inexperienced, maybe even more so than me.
“Yes,” I hiss when he brushes over my swollen bud. “Right there.”
He focuses on the spot, massaging it with intent while my hips jerk again under his weight, and I lose myself in the feeling.
Tingles start to grow, a delicious ache forming low and threatening to spread.
“Don’t stop.” Pleasure blooms, the need to come growing with each stroke of his fingers. Our surroundings fade away, time melds together, pasts gone. And then I detonate in an array of colors and life, knowing he’s the one touching me. Moans fly past my lips with his name as the chorus. “Mase.”
My mouth is hanging open, breaths coming out in short bursts when I open my eyes to find Mase watching me.
