His hands slide under the waistband of my leggings, dragging them down along with my panties. I toe off my socks, one at a time, kicking free as he curses and struggles with his boots.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters, trying to shove them off with one foot and failing. “Should’ve left the damn things at the door.”
A gasp swallows my laugh as he gives up and yanks his pants down anyway, boots still attached. It’s chaos and clumsiness and so goddamn sexy I could scream.
Then he’s there. Right there.
His hands find my thighs, lifting me like I weigh nothing, and I wrap around him instinctively. My back slams into the wall again, and in the next breath, he’s inside me.
I cry out—sharp, broken, utterly overwhelmed.
He doesn’t give me time to adjust. Doesn’t give me space to think.
He thrusts into me with a savage rhythm, his mouthon my throat, his body slamming into mine, over and over, until I’m not even sure where I end and he begins.
“You feel like fucking heaven,” he growls against my skin.
I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. I just cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, every inch of me unraveling.
And God, I want it. I want him—this raw, consuming need. This overwhelming, violent passion. The way he fucks like he’s trying to claim my soul through my body.
Every thrust drives me closer. I’m already close, already shaking, already there.
“Come for me,” he growls. “Let me feel you fall apart.”
His words are gasoline to the fire.
I shatter around him, gasping his name, clenching so tightly it rips a groan straight from his chest. He slams into me one last time, deep and hard, and endless, as he finds his release with a curse and a shudder.
For a moment, there’s nothing.
Just panting. Sweaty skin. My cheek against his shoulder, his arms locked around me like he can’t bear to let go.
He lowers me slowly, gently, until I’m on my feet but still pressed to the wall. His forehead rests against mine, breath hot and uneven.
“You okay?” he asks, voice hoarse, eyes dark and unguarded.
“Not even close,” I whisper, smiling like I’ve survived a storm and want more. “Do it again.”
Mason chuckles—low, smug, that gravelly rasp soaked in male satisfaction—and leans in to nip my bottom lip.
“Round one was just a preview,” he murmurs. “But first…” He pulls back slightly, glancing down. “The fucking boots come off.”
Still panting, still pressed to the wall, I watch as he sinks to the floor in front of me. He tugs off one boot, then the other,muttering something about “damn stubborn soles” and “next time, barefoot from the start.”
When he finally looks up at me, his grin is wicked. Ferocious. Arousal ripples through me again—swift and hot.
“Shower or bed for round two?” he asks, breath hitching like he already knows the answer. “Because I need to fuck you again. Right now.”
I laugh, unable to help it, the tension between us sharp edged but laced with joy. “Definitely shower,” I say, wrinkling my nose as I tug his shirt from where it’s bunched behind my back. “You smell like blood, sweat, and wilderness.”
“Good.” He stands in a single, powerful motion, scoops me into his arms like it costs him nothing. “Now I get to make you beg while I wash it all off.”
The shower is oversized, stone tiled, has multiple nozzles, and is steamy the second he turns the water on. He sets me down, grabs the soap like he’s been waiting his whole life to do this. Then he starts to clean me, slow and teasing, but I stop him with a firm shake of my head.
“My turn.”
He lifts a brow, amused. “Gonna pamper me now?”
