Page 69 of Ghost
Even as my body pulses from the aftershocks, even as he carries me from the shower and lays me gently on the bed, this isn’t justsex. It’s surrender. Devotion. Fire and trust and healing wrapped in skin and sweat.
And I wantmore.
So much more.
“Mason,” I whisper, chest rising and falling with rapid breath. “You mentioned you wantmore.”
He goes still.
“Show me what that means to you.”
His eyes darken—not just with arousal, but with something deeper. Worship. Possession. Love, raw and unnamed, but undeniable.
“You sure about that?”
“Yes, please.”
He shows me with his hands—slow and reverent as he binds my wrists with his belt, not to restrain, but to center me. To remind me I’m safe. That he’ll never take more than I give.
He shows me with his mouth—kissing every scar, every bruise that still lingers beneath the surface, until I’m trembling not from pain, but from being seen.
He shows me with his voice—low, commanding, patient. Teaching me the rhythm of his world. How to bloom beneath his control.
He shows me what it means to be cherished and claimed, to be taken again and again until I forget what it feels like to be afraid.
We don’t leave the room all day.
When we finally emerge—hours later, freshly showered and walking a little slower—I wear one of his shirts and a smile I can’t contain.
The moment we step into the dining room, every conversation halts.
Ryan smirks over his coffee. Jackson gives Mason a mock salute. Mitzy just raises a single eyebrow, fighting a grin. Chaos trots in behind us, tail wagging like we haven’t all just walked through fire.
No one says a word.
They don’t have to.
My cheeks heat, but Mason rests his hand on my lower back with quiet pride. He doesn’t hide. Doesn’t flinch from what we’ve become.
We take our seats at the long table, Bear flopping at my feet with a satisfied sigh. The warmth of camaraderie hums in the room, easy and familiar—until Mitzy sets her coffee down with a decisive click and levels her gaze on me.
“Now that you’ve had yourreunion,” she says, voice calm but cutting straight to the bone, “we need to talk about Steffan Reynolds.”
Silence falls like a hammer.
I straighten in my seat, pulse kicking up again—not from desire this time, but from the familiar edge of dread.
“We have the USB,” Mitzy continues. “Names. Accounts. Transactions. Enough to put half a dozen high-ranking officials behind bars. Maybe more.”
Forest leans forward, arms crossed over his mountain of a chest. “And enough to make us all targets if we move too fast.”
CJ taps a tablet beside him, data scrolling rapidly. “We’ve verified the files. Arms deals. Foreign deposits. Payments to officials, agents, even judges in neighboring districts.”
Mason’s hand finds mine beneath the table. Grounding me. Reminding me I’m not alone.
“The question,” Mitzy says, “is what we do next.”
“Do we go public?” CJ asks. “Drop the files to a secure leak site, force the DOJ’s hand?”
