Chapter Fifteen
VICTORIA
My back hits the wall before I’ve fully processed what’s happening.
Mason’s mouth is on mine, and his hands are cradling my face with such gentle urgency that it makes my chest ache. Not from fear or pain, but from how much I want this. How badly I want him.
“I meant what I said,” he breathes between kisses. “Every word.”
I nod, too breathless to speak. My hands dive into his damp hair, tugging him closer as I arch into him. There’s no mistaking it—no faking it. This isn’t pretend. This is us, raw and real and unravelling.
We barely make it through the front door of his condo.
He backs me in, lips still on mine, one arm around my waist while the other fumbles to get the door closed behind us. The second it latches, I’m pressed against it, my body flush to his, the ridges of muscle beneath his shirt making me whimper.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasps, his forehead pressing to mine.
“Don’t you dare.”
That’s all the permission he needs.
He lifts me effortlessly, and my legs wrap around his waist. His mouth is everywhere—my lips, my neck, that tender spot just below my ear that makes me shiver. I’m vaguely aware that we’re moving, his long strides taking us to the bedroom, but it feels like floating.
He sets me down with a reverence that steals my breath, and I watch, wide-eyed and ravenous, as he peels off his shirt. The moment his abs are bared, I reach for him, palms sliding up the hot skin of his stomach to his chest.
“You’re unreal,” I murmur.
“So are you,” he says, fingers finding the hem of my sweater. “Let me see you, honey.”
The way he says it—sweetheart—melts me. I lift my arms, and he strips the sweater off, revealing the simple lace bralette beneath. His hands still, and for a heartbeat, he just stares.
Then he lets out a soft curse and dips his head, kissing across my chest, reverent and worshipful. I moan when his tongue flicks against the edge of my bra, and my fingers clutch his shoulders like a lifeline.
Clothes vanish, one by one, until there’s nothing between us but air—and even that feels like too much.
When he lays me back on the bed and hovers over me, our eyes lock. His thumb brushes a strand of hair from my cheek.
“I’m not just in this for now, Victoria,” he says. “You should know that. I want you. Always.”
Emotion tightens my throat. “I know,” I whisper. “I want you too.”
And then he’s inside me.
Slow. Deep. Perfect.
I gasp, clutching him as he stills, giving me time to adjust, his forehead resting on mine.
There’s nothing rushed about it. Nothing careless.
He moves like he’s memorizing every part of me—like this is the moment he’ll think about when he’s away, when he’s missing me, when he’s wondering how the hell he got so lucky.
Every thrust builds the tension between us. Every kiss adds another layer of connection. My name is a broken sound on his lips; his name is a prayer on mine.
I feel like I’m flying and grounded all at once.
When I finally shatter beneath him, crying out as pleasure crashes over me, he holds me through it, murmuring soft things into my hair as he follows me over the edge.
We collapse together, tangled and slick with sweat, breath mingling.
I feel everything.
Safe. Wanted. Loved.
And I know, deep down, nothing will ever be the same.