15. Shelby
15
SHELBY
T he drive is quiet, but not uncomfortable.
Mason’s fingers tap absently against the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the road, always assessing his surroundings. Whatever he does, he must be very good at it.
When we pull up to my house, my stomach tightens.
The last time I was here, David was still alive.
Mason must sense it because he puts the car in park, then glances at me.
“Wait here.”
I blink. “What?”
He pops the door open. “Just making sure everything’s clean.”
He’s already out before I can argue.
I let out a breath, watching as he steps through my front door, his broad frame disappearing inside.
I sit there for a full minute, then another.
And then, unable to help myself, I follow him in.
The house is pristine.
Too clean.
No signs of what happened here.
No bloodstains, no bullet holes, no shattered glass.
Just empty space, a hollow silence where a man came to die.
I wonder if I imagined the whole thing. But no, I can’t have. Because Mason is my witness.
He stands in the middle of the living room, scanning the area, nodding slightly like he’s mentally checking off a list.
Then his gaze locks on mine.
For a second, neither of us moves.
What happened here yesterday binds us. It probably will for the rest of time.
Mason steps forward.
And something in me breaks.
Because the last time I was in this room, David had me pinned against the wall, choking the life out of me, touching me like he still had a right to do so.
And now Mason is here, standing in the exact same spot—the only man, other than my own brother, who ever fought for me. The only man who ever made me feel like I was worth something.
My throat tightens.
Mason’s gaze flicks to my lips.
And fuck it.
I close the distance, fisting his shirt, dragging him down to me, crashing my mouth against his.
He grunts in surprise, but it only lasts a second before he grabs me, lifts me, walks me backward until my legs hit the couch.
We tumble down together, a tangle of needy hands and frantic mouths, my back arching, pressing, searching.
Mason pulls back just enough to look at me, his breath ragged, his hands tight on my hips.
His voice drops. “You sure about this?”
I hold his face between my hands, my lips brushing against his.
“I want you to fuck me right here.”
His breath catches.
“I want to erase him.”
Something dark flickers in his eyes. Something primal.
And then he’s on me.
Rough. Hard. Unforgiving.
This isn’t gentle.
It’s not sweet.
This is a final fuck you to a dead man’s memory.
And God help my dark, twisted mind, but it feels so damn good.
One second, we’re standing; the next, we’re sitting on the couch and I’m in his lap, straddling his thighs, my hands gripping his shoulders for balance as he yanks me into him.
His mouth crashes into mine, all heat and force, teeth grazing, tongues clashing. There’s no patience, no teasing—just raw, ravenous desperation.
His fingers bite into my hips, dragging me against him, and fuck—he’s hard, thick, pressing against the flimsy fabric of the sweats I’m wearing.
I grind against him, chasing friction, chasing relief, and the growl he lets out is pure sin.
Mason doesn’t ease me into it. His hands slide up, fingers curling around my jaw, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. Then one hand drops, fisting into my shirt—his shirt—before tearing it over my head.
I gasp at the loss of warmth, at the chill against my skin, but then he’s on me, his mouth tracing down my throat, his teeth scraping the delicate skin there before he bites me.
I whimper, arching into him, heat licking down my spine like a match to gasoline.
Mason’s breathing is ragged, his hands moving fast and impatient.
He curses under his breath, and then he’s lifting me, standing in one swift motion before slamming me against the nearest wall.
The impact knocks the air from my lungs, but I don’t care—don’t even have time to process it—before his hands are everywhere. Gripping my waist. Shoving his sweats down my thighs. Exposing bare skin to cool air.
I barely have time to gasp before his fingers slide between my legs, parting me, testing how ready I am.
His chest rumbles with satisfaction.
My fingers tangle in his hair, my head tipping back against the wall as he presses a single teasing stroke where I need him most.
I bite back a moan.
He smirks, dragging his lips along my throat, brushing but not kissing. Teasing, just to make me writhe.
I clench my thighs around his hips, forcing him closer. “Mason?—”
“I got you, princess.”
Then he yanks down his own sweats, freeing himself.
I don’t get a chance to see him before he lifts me higher, guiding himself to my entrance.
One second of stillness.
Then he thrusts inside.
Fuck.
I cry out, clinging to his shoulders, my nails digging into skin.
He fills me in one brutal, perfect stroke, stretching me wide, stealing every breath from my lungs.
He groans, his forehead dropping to mine, his body rigid against me. “You feel?—”
I don’t let him finish.
I rock my hips, tightening around him, needing more, needing everything. I need to feel.
Mason snaps.
He grips my thighs hard enough to bruise and starts pounding into me.
No slow build. No gentle easing in. Just raw, unrestrained fucking.
The wall shakes behind me with each thrust, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the quiet house, mingling with our sharp gasps, the desperate drag of our breaths.
He devours me, takes what he wants and gives me exactly what I need.
Every stroke sends white-hot pleasure curling low in my stomach, the pressure building fast—overwhelming, almost too much.
I claw at his back, arching, moaning, completely fucking lost in him.
Mason grits his teeth, his pace punishing, his hands gripping me like I’m something precious—something his.
His voice is low, wrecked, as he commands me to come for him.
I’m already there.
My body tightens, my pleasure cresting hard and fast until it shatters through me, sending me spiraling into pure bliss.
I sob his name, my body trembling, and Mason follows right after—a harsh groan breaking from his lips as he spills inside me, his entire body locking up before he slumps against me, breathless.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
My heartbeat thunders in my ears, my body still pulsing with aftershocks, completely wrecked.
Then Mason exhales, his mouth brushing against my temple.
"Fuck, Shelby."
I manage a weak sound, my fingers still tangled in his hair.
His grip loosens, his thumbs rubbing slow, soothing circles into my thighs, as if he’s reluctant to let me go.
Slowly, he lifts his head, his eyes dark, intense, satisfied as he takes in my flushed skin, my swollen lips, my utterly ruined state.
He smirks—the cocky bastard.
I roll my eyes, but I can’t fight the smile creeping up my lips.
Then, Mason pulls out slowly, lowering me onto unsteady legs.
His fingers trail down my sides, his touch softer now—like he’s still memorizing me.
I swallow, my throat dry, my mind still hazy from the high.
His smirk lingers, but his eyes are watching me carefully.
Then he leans in, lips brushing my ear, his voice gravelly, teasing.
“Did you really think that just one night with you was going to satisfy me?”
I should be getting ready.
I should be stripping out of Mason’s clothes, stepping into the shower, rinsing away the last remnants of the night before.
But instead, I stand at the window, watching him.
Mason is in the backyard, his broad frame bathed in the early morning light, a steaming cup of coffee on the table beside him, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he talks on the phone.
There’s something magnetic about the way he moves—all quiet power and effortless control.
I don’t know what it is exactly, but it pulls me in, keeps me watching, makes it impossible to look away.
He’s focused, one hand braced on his hip, his head tilted slightly as he listens, the low rumble of his voice drifting through the open patio door. I can’t make out the words, but the tone is unmistakable—firm, commanding, sharp enough to cut.
Whoever’s on the other end of that call is either following orders, or they’re about to regret not doing so.
I told him I needed to shower and change, assuming he’d be in a hurry to leave.
Instead, he simply exhaled a stream of smoke and said, “Mind if I make a few calls before I go?”
Like I could ever tell him no.
Like I don’t already owe him for everything he’s done for me.
So I nodded, pretending like it didn’t affect me, like the sight of him standing there—effortlessly lethal—wasn’t unraveling me thread by thread.
I could watch him all day.
Could trace the way the sunlight catches in the sharp angles of his face, the way his fingers move when he takes a drag of his cigarette, the way his body tenses slightly as he listens to whatever bad news is undoubtedly being fed to him.
I could memorize all of it and still never get bored.
But I don’t.
Because that would be dangerous.
Because this—whatever it is between us—is already skating dangerously close to something neither of us is ready for.
I swallow past the sudden tightness in my throat and force myself to step away from the window.
To move.
To let go of whatever this pull is before it swallows me whole.
But as I walk toward the bathroom, I can still feel him.
Still feel his presence, coiled around me like a promise.
And no matter how hard I try, I know I’ll never be able to wash him off me.