Page 96 of Thirst For Me
Maybe all I need is hot, hot sex with my enemy.
Fuck love.
I watch Mason, feasting between my thighs. He runs a hand up my thigh and shoves a thick finger inside me, making me squeal and convulse. We lock eyes, right before mine roll closed.
“Sierra,” he murmurs, and I shiver. “Look at me.”
I look. I watch him eating me out, and I know it thrills him; that I’m submitting to him. Because this is the only way I do.
He pulls away abruptly, stands up, impatient to get his zipper down. His erection presses at his jeans. “Spread your legs,” he orders.
I spread, like the good girl he says I am, as he peels off his shirt, and an ecstatic thrill runs through me. My pulse beats in my core, the driving need to be possessed by him.
His chest rises and falls, fast, as he takes out his fantastic cock and palms it, thick, hard, and ready.
I take a deep breath. My heart is beating way too fast.
His eyes haze with lust as he runs his hand up and down his length, and he looks between my legs.
I know this is just sex for him. I insisted on it.
But ... it’snotjust sex for me.
As his eyes roam over my body and he settles over me, I wrap my legs around his waist.
As he pushes into me, filling me with his heat, he kisses me ... and I’m afraid that I like him, way too much. And that he just doesn’t see me that way.
Enemies.
With hot-as-fuck benefits.
It’s all I’ve ever asked him for.
It’s all he’s ever offered me.
Chapter 18
Sierra
On the second day of Sunshine Fest, Sophie and I help out at the community pancake breakfast alongside Layne and some other volunteers. Cutie Fruitie is busy all day, and thanks to Mason fixing the ice machine we never run out of ice.
On my lunch break, I grab food at the chili cook-off. I swing by the games area in the field at the north end of Water Street, just past the grocery store and the food truck area, to hit up some of the community fundraising events.
I manage to drop Mason’s friend Evan in the dunk tank (fun), win the ladies’ sack race (more fun), then stop to watch Mason, Layne, and some other guys slaughter a group of RCMP officers in the men’s tug-of-war (hot).
Then, somehow, I get roped into participating in the three-legged race—while bound to Mason.
Maria’s bright idea.
She ties us together, we wrap our arms around one another’s waists, then stumble our way down the field, totally unable to find a rhythm. Maybe because my pulse is flying and I’m way too awareof the man next to me to even remember how competitive I am—or that there’s a finish line I’m supposed to be focusing on.
I end up tumbling into the grass with Mason on top of me, and the man I had sex with last night murmurs in my ear, “You have much better rhythm when you’re naked.”
“Maybe if I wasn’t bound to a giant, sweaty anchor.”Who smells like fresh grass and cedar and what dreams are made of.I shove him off. “You’re totally ruining my winning streak.” Truth. I’ve already got gold ribbons from the sack race and the cornhole tournament this morning with a#1on them, pinned proudly to my chest.
He just laughs.
“You’re a curse, Mason Grant,” I tell him as we receive our last-place consolation ribbon, which he pins to my shirt.
