Page 57 of The Masks We Burn

When I come, it rips through me, tearing me to shreds as I scream his name, digging into his back to find something to stop me from flying. Another deep thrust and he finds his edge, groaning obscenities as he pulls out in time to spill out on my thighs. I have no fucking clue why, but it turns me on all over again as I watch him lean back, his eyes scanning over me, still panting.

He drags a finger over my sex, and I instantly mewl, my nerves still too sensitive. He lifts his hand, looking at the tip of his finger as it glistens from both our cum. Completely drunk off his spell, I grab his wrist, bringing him down for me to suck it into my mouth.

I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping his hand tight and moaning as the salty taste hits my tongue, making my clit throb.

William chuckles, drawing his hand back slowly before taking off his shirt and cleaning up my thighs. “You’re gonna be the end of me, sugar.”

I peer up at him from behind my low eyelids, my heart pounding in my chest so loud I wonder if he hears it. But instead of responding, I smirk, suddenly too tired to make a smart comeback. It isn’t until he’s carrying me to his front door that I realize just how lost I am. How we are a train wreck waiting to happen.

But even knowing so, I wouldn’t get off even if it slowed enough for me to jump.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“Alright. I think this all looks good.” Amora leans back into the sofa, a satisfied smirk on her face.

It’s been three days of classwork and other shit keeping us busy, but when she asked to finalize the plans for the party, I canceled with Mr. Jameson in a heartbeat. It’s been fucking brutal keeping my hands to myself, but when she showed up with an actual file in her hand, and a fully charged computer and planner, I knew she meant business.

Doesn’t mean I haven’t snuck in a kiss here and there.

“Really? Nothing to change?” I ask, surprised I only had to fight her on a couple of little details.

“Yep. It’s going to be fun, bae.” She realizes what she says too late, her mouth popping open and her pupils dilating in surprise.

I pounce, hovering over her in seconds. “Did you just call me bae?”

She shakes her head, a soft rose color falling over her cheeks. Her pink hair drapes over my arms, a stark contrast against my skin. “I call my girlfriends babe all the time, don’t let it get to that big head of yours.”

I kiss her nose, a wide smile on my face. “But you didn’t call me babe.”

Amora scoffs, attempting to move from under me. “Go away.”

Gripping the couch on either side of her head, I cage her in, my eyes hooded as they gaze at her. “Let me find out theenemyis falling from our agreement and you actuallylikeme a little.”

She rolls her pretty blues, letting her head fall to the side. Her hand finds my arm, and she rubs a manicured finger over the butterflies embedded in the crook. It lights a fire in my spine, but I wait to make a move, wondering if maybe she’ll show me more of her tender side I love to see.

“How many are there?”

“Seventeen.”

She turns to look at me, but her eyes flit back and forth as if she’s trying to figure it out herself. When she decides she can’t, she bites into her bottom lip. “Do they mean something?”

My gaze flashes from hers and into the multicolored wings covering my arm. “There’s a butterfly for every year I’ve felt alive. Like being in the world is worth it.”

It’s the first time I’ve admitted the last part out loud, and I have no idea how I was able to tell it to this woman in one steady breath. Her eyes scan over the tattoo again before a frown pulls down her lips. “There’re no new ones.”

Not a question, but an observation. I nod, and her brows scrunch together creating the perfect little V between them. Leaning over, I kiss the spot, giving her a somber smile.

“When was the last year you felt like being here was worth it?”

I swallow thickly. “Right before my eighteenth birthday.”

She sucks in a sharp intake of breath, her beautiful eyes hazing slightly as tears fill them. I brush one away that escapes, my heart bleeding in my chest as my own begins to burn the edge of my lids. When I talked about the feeling of utter loss I had with my therapist, I always felt stupid. Like how can a sport affect someone so much? But for some reason, I’m not scared to tell Amora.

I want to.

“I used to play football.” I pause, rotating my neck as I gather the words. “I was the son of my small town’s prodigy, and even from a very young age, we all knew what life had in store for me. It was obvious from the second I picked up my first ball. And it wasn’t like my dad pushed it on me or anything; it was almost as if I inherited his passion. I loved it. I ate, slept, and breathed it. I was NFL bound before I was even a sophomore, it was just a matter of time.”

This time my voice breaks, a heaviness moving over me, and I have to clear my throat twice before I continue. “One night, I got hit at just the right angle and ruptured my ACL. Besides my family and Spence, no one knows much about the aftermath of the accident. The anger and grief, the depression and bargaining. In the five stages of grief, I can honestly say I stayed in the anger category far longer than I should have, and still haven’t quite reached acceptance. I know it’s just a sport to some people, but for me, it was my life. Nothing compared to how it made me feel.”

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