Page 157 of Shamed
After spending so many years keeping his hands to himself—unless it was for his job—he makes sure to caress me at every opportunity.
Even if we’re just relaxing on the couch, he has to have his hands on some part of me. His touch is usually comforting, soothing.
But right now? His touch is setting my body on fire, each glide of his hands making my skin sizzle with need.
Leaning back on his haunches, he grips his thick cock, stroking it slowly while looking me up and down. It’s at these in-between times that he takes the opportunity to calm down and pull himself together so he can last longer.
Watching his tattooed forearm flex and shift as he strokes himself is almost hypnotizing, but I need more.
I sink my teeth into my lower lip while lifting my knees and dropping them open to give him the perfect view.
His nostrils flare as I walk my fingers over my stomach toward my pussy, making me smile.
“See something you like?”
His rumbling groan practically vibrates the entire bed. “I’ve never seen anything more fucking beautiful.”
Finally, having been teased enough, Mase angles his body to line himself up and push inside me again, his eyes briefly falling shut while I exhale a breath.
Beads of sweat dot his forehead, causing some dark strands to stick to his skin.
“Jesus, it’s a fight not to come the second I’m inside you. Every. Single. Time.”
With a tight grip on my waist, he starts pumping his hips, the delicious feel of his cock stroking against my walls threatening to pull another orgasm out of me.
“Oh, god.” I reach down to touch myself, watching his eyes darken as they follow the movement.
“Yes,” he hisses, clenching his teeth. “One more before I empty inside you.”
I move my fingers faster, urged on by his words and the feral look on his face. That look always sends a thrill through my body, making me feel powerful.
Gaze glued to my frantic rubbing, his hips pound harder, deeper.
I can tell he’s only seconds away from losing complete control, and thankfully, so am I.
All it takes is a few more thrusts, along with my fingers, and I’m falling over the edge once again.
My orgasm triggers Mase’s, and he releases his hold on my waist to plant his hands beside my head, his tempo erratic. I feel him thicken inside me, and tighten my walls in response, prolonging my own release.
“Jesus.” His eyes squeeze shut, hips going wild.
With a loud cry, he lets go, bursting inside me with shuddering relief, his warm release filling me with each twitch of his cock.
As if the strength was drained from his body, he collapses on top of me, dropping his mouth for a languid kiss, tongue lazily dragging against my own.
When he pulls back, breaths still coming fast, his eyes are hooded but satiated, a soft smile curving his very kissable lips.
“You said we were going to be quick,” I chide with a soft laugh. “We’re supposed to be at the center in”—I check the time on the nightstand—“an hour, and we still have tostop for more coffee creamer and snacks for the group therapy session. Oh, and bottles of water for your classes.”
It took a bit of planning, but we finally ended up openingThe Sanctuarya little over a year ago. It’s exactly what Mase had envisioned: offering more than just classes, it’s a haven for women who are struggling after abuse, a place for them to heal. A sanctuary.
And I think we’ve both found it healing for us, as well.
Self-defense classes are held four times a week with Mase as the instructor, a group therapy session twice a week that I sit in on, pet therapy, which involves our adopted golden shepherd, and volunteers who come in and teach certain crafts or activities. There is also someone who comes in and gives free legal advice once a month.
Mase no longer feels like he’s a mistake, like he needs to make up for his existence, but he’s still more than generous and giving with his time.
He shrugs unapologetically, his smile remaining. “You know I get carried away when it comes to you.”
