Page 99 of Shamed
His throat bobs. “It’s not that I don’t want it.”
“Then what is it?”
When he doesn’t respond, I continue slowly, giving him a chance to tell me no. I lower one knee, then the other, just like at the club, bracketing his thighs and the hands that are still shoved underneath them.
Unlike earlier, I’m wearing leggings and a sweater, and have no crown on.
I feel sensual, though. And more like myself.
Moving to the music, I hold his gaze while trailing my fingers around the collar of his shirt, brushing against his neck, skin to skin this time instead of with the protective barrier of my gloves.
If his eyes weren’t already the color of midnight, I’d swear they darkened to that of a predator just now.
I grab the back of the couch behind him, then lower myself further so I can feel him against my ass, releasing another shaky breath before I start rotating my hips.
He’s hard already, like he was at the club, but it doesn’t revolt me, and it doesn’t scare me away, either.
Rather, it sends a thrill through me that sparks all my nerve endings to life, turning me on even more. Moisture rushes to my center.
“Jayne,” he rasps, eyes closing.
I roll my body, pressing into him, inching my face closer. His lips are right there, full, and oh so soft looking. Kissable.
I can hardly even hear the music over my heartbeat as I lean in, swaying to the rhythm of my inner tune instead.
Every swirl of my hips and stroke of my hands has my confidence growing.
I can do this.
We’re only a breath apart now, his mouth tempting me to close the distance.
Finally, I brush my lips to his in a featherlike touch, and that’s when his eyes suddenly snap open.
If you could differentiate his pupils from the irises, I’m sure they’d be swallowing the color whole with the way he’s looking at me.
In the next second, he pulls his hands out from under his thighs, lifts them to palm my jaw, then he brings my mouth to his for a hungry kiss.
It’s immediately wild, all lips and teeth and breath and heat.
I haven’t kissed anyone in ten years, so I feel inexperienced compared to him, but it doesn’t seem to hinder him in any way. His kiss is urgent, insistent, that of a starving man who needs to consume.
His hands are on my back, my thighs, my cheeks, alternating between rough and soft touches, like he’s fighting with himself to stay gentle and in control.
I kiss him back, opening my mouth wider and stroking my tongue with his.
I can do this.
A groan rumbles through Mase’s chest, and I realize I started grinding down harder on his lap, rubbing my core over his hard cock.
One of his arms snakes around my back to draw me closer, while the other drifts down to the front of my neck, not squeezing, but holding.
I try not to think about the last time I was held there and fight against the touch of fear that begins to surface.
This is Mase. Iwantthis. I do.
I can do this.
His mouth chases mine when I try pulling back a little, like he can’t stop himself. And maybe he can’t, because when I do manage to separate my mouth from his, his gaze looks feverish, something dark and primal, not a version of Mase I’ve seen before.
