Page 110 of Shamed
“Do you honestly think you’ll suddenly lose control and do something you’ll regret?”
His silence is answer enough, and it breaks my heart all over again.
“You won’t, Mase.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“You won’t,” I repeat, then reach up and place a hand on his warm chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart through the thin fabric covering him. His jaw tenses, muscles coiling. He’s trying to hold himself rigid, maintain that control, but I feel the slight tremor running through him. “I know you’re scared of yourself, butI’mnot scared of you.”
Eyes closing, he drops his chin. In acceptance? Defeat? Denial?
“It’s hard to quiet the demons telling you something is wrong with you,” he finally says.
“Then I will speak louder than them.” I add my other hand to his chest, palms sliding a little higher. “I don’t think there is something wrong with you, and I don’t think you’re evil.” My fingers reach his shoulders. “I don’t think you’re a pervert. You’re kind and caring.” He lifts his head, opening his dark eyes I could easily sink into. “Amazing and selfless.” Both hands drift toward his neck. “You deserve happiness.”
“So do you,” he counters.
My eyes fall to his chest.No. I really don’t.
But I don’t say that; instead, I give his shoulders a little push. “Now, are you going to let me test out what I learned on you?”
His brows dip. “Jayne.” He says it almost in warning.
“Grab me.” I push his shoulders again. “Wrap your arms around me.” When he continues to stand there, I shove him again. “Mase—”
It happens in the blink of an eye. His hands whip up to grip my arms, then he spins me around in one quick move, trapping me with my back against his chest, his arms wrapped around my front.
The movement is so sudden that I gasp.
For a moment, I’m startled frozen, forgetting where I am and who I’m with, only feeling the fear of being immobilized rushing through me. I was held in a similar waythat night, and for a second, I’m transported back in time.
But then Mase’s scent floats into my senses, and everything comes back into focus, the fear melting away. My heart slows, awareness honing in.
I swear I feel his nose dip into my hair before he breathes in a lungful.
And that’s when I move.
Since he’s holding my forearms against my body, I quickly twist my hands around, digging my thumbs in and gripping him where the ink covers his skin, then force his arms out and drop down to escape.
I turn to face him, adrenaline pumping.
“I told you your moves are good.”
I straighten, blowing a few strands of hair from my face. “Again.”
He reaches for me, spinning me around, this time closing his arms around me higher up toward my shoulders and chest. I jerk my hips back suddenly, creating a fraction of space like he taught, then drop down again.
“Good.”
We work at it again and again.
The final move is when I take out his knee and drop him onto the mat, landing on top of him, slightly twisted, forearm laying loosely across his neck while breathing fast.
For the briefest second, it looks like he wants to smile with pride, but then he remembers himself, remembers his admission to me, and holds it back.
“How was that?”
I feel the slide of his eyes over my face like a caress everywhere. “I think you’ve been paying attention in the classes you’ve attended.”
