Page 56 of Mason

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Atornado siren blasts in my brain, but I pull the plug, ignoring the warning of imminent destruction to sink my hands in Emily’s hair. This is worth the damage.

She tastes like lemon, lust, and poor decisions, and I can’t get enough.

One brush of her lips against mine, and I’m done.

Her body flattens over mine in soft, delicious heat, a round of play wrestling dissolving into my worst nightmare. But I can’t resist wandering down the rabbit hole. I’m in too deep now.

I claim her mouth, parting her full lips, swooping in for what I’ve had only in fantasies. Her tiny gasps and mews take it to heights my brain hadn’t imagined.

This is a terrible idea.

And I can’t stop.

I grip the silky strands, giving gentle tugs as we learn one another. She’s nothing like the venomous snake she presents herself as. Delicate. Gentle. Womanly. Dancing her tongue around mine. Sampling me with nibbles.

I take what she offers, moving my hands from her hair to her shoulders, skimming her sides and stirring a shiver through her sweatshirt-clad body. When they reach her hips, I angle her so she’s straddling me as I sit up.

She’s so lost in me she doesn’t seem to notice, at least until her legs hook around my waist, locking me in place. My blood boils. Skin hums. Dick turns to fucking stone. This is a fucking kiss.

We burn for one another. Burn with the intensity that only rivals can. It makes sense that we’d fuck as hard as we hate.

Our bodies mesh, a mold meeting its mate. A perfect fit in a fucked up puzzle that suddenly doesn’t seem so complicated anymore.

Emily. I can taste her name on my tongue, taste it as I taste her, drink in everything she has like a man on the brink of dehydration.

I want this woman.

I want her mind. Body. Spirit.

And I don’t give a fuck about the consequences.

Her hands twist the front of my shirt with need, and the jingle of the handcuffs hits me like a sledgehammer when she grinds herself against my cock, rolling her pussy over it with only a few layers of cloth between us.

What the fuck am I doing?

She’s a captive.

Giambelli’s daughter.

Emily Giambelli.

My job is to keep her alive. Not fuck her.

She isn’t mine to keep.

I push her off like she’s infected, sending her tumbling back onto the blanket, taking the heat with her despite the fireplace blazing against my skin. It’s cold without her. Barren. Empty.

“Mister…” she trails, looking up at me with wide eyes, her shackled hands trembling as she touches her lips. Seeing her bound twists my gut.

For fuck’s sake.

“My name is fucking Mason, and this,” I say, waving wildly between us, not even caring that I just sealed my fucking fate if she blabs to daddy someday. I have nothing to lose anymore. I’m already one of them. I’m a villain. A man who takes what isn’t his. Who ignores unspoken rules that govern even the worst of the worst. “Isn’t a thing. I don’t want you.”

I’m lying through my fucking teeth. I want her more than I want this all to be over. More than I want to get away from the disaster that is Biloxi, where I spent the last week battering men who had no answers. Turning over stones with nothing under them. Watching the operation I bled to build sputter without Spencer.

Pain flashes in her eyes. “Why don’t you want me?”

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