Page 32 of Axle
“Mason!” She twisted, half laughing, the other part breathy. “What are you—hey!”
“You’re way too comfortable teasing men who aren’t me.” The growl my words carried wasn't planned. It was weighted, possessive, and a reminder that she was mine.
Her hand thumped my back. “I was being nice.”
“That’s the problem.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” she hissed, wriggling as I headed down the hall.
“Uh-huh.”
“I only thanked him for feeding me!”
Her protest just lit me up hotter. I landed a sharp smack on her ass—enough to make her gasp, not enough to hurt. Her muscles went tight under my palm, and I felt her shiver.
I carried my squirming, cursing, beautiful trouble out of the kitchen, down the short hall, up the stairs, and down the corridor to my room with the kind of stride that broadcast ownership. She gave up hitting my back and switched to digging her nails lightly into my hip like she was trying to get purchase. The little drag of her fingertips through the denim made my control slip a bit more.
At the door, I popped my palm flat on her ass in warning when she tried to twist free. The sound was a hot slap against cotton and skin. Her entire body jerked against me, her breath catching before she shivered.
“Did you just—” She attempted to sound outraged but failed.
The lock clicked under my thumb, and I kicked the door open.
“Keep talking.” My smirk was wicked as I walked in and carried her to the bed. “See what happens.”
I tossed her onto the mattress, not gently. She bounced once, hair spilling over her shoulder, my vest swinging open to show my tee knotted just below her navel. She pushed up on her elbows—eyes bright, cheeks flushed, nipples peaked against black cotton. I couldn’t even pretend this was going to be slow.
I climbed onto the bed on my knees and caught her hip with one hand to stop her retreat.
“Open.”
She did as she was told, like always when I used that tone. Something raw and possessive clawed at my chest.
Her lips parted, breath warm against my face, and I kissed her like I’d been starving for a week. Which was a joke because I’d had her four times in the past forty-eight hours, and my hunger was somehow worse now than it had been when this started. Her tongue met mine, tentative for half a second, then bold, and the sound she made when I angled my head to go deeper almost took the strength out of my arms. She whimpered when I released her mouth, and I almost smiled. But I had a point to make.
“You want to know what happens when you make me watch you smile at another man?” I asked, voice even when the rest of me wasn’t.
“That wasn’t—” She swallowed, then tried again, her voice shaky. “Nitro made dinner.”
“And you said thank you.” I skimmed my palm up under the hem of her tee. Her skin was warm, softer than anything I deserved to touch, and my breath got rougher because I was already imagining how she’d sound when I pushed deeper. “Now you’re gonna thank me.”
“That’s not how gratitude—oh!” The last word became a gasp when I slid my hand into the front of her sweats and my fingers found her hot and drenched, the cotton of her panties already clinging.
“Fuck,” I rasped, palm full of heat and slick. “You’re soaked.”
Color flooded her cheeks. Her hips tilted toward my hand, her body deciding before her brain caught up. “Mason?—”
I slid two fingers along her slit, slow enough to make it mean, and watched her eyes glaze.
“Is this for me?” I asked, thumb working a slow circle that had her thighs trembling.
She bit her lip and nodded, breath shaky.
“Say it.”
Her breath rushed out on a soft sound of protest and need. “Yes.”
“Good girl. Anyone else make you this wet?” It was technically a question but came out like a threat.
