Sweet Obsession
Page 86“Brooke,” I moan, collapsing on top of her, my face rubbing against her neck where I kiss her sweet skin. “Jesus Christ. You’ve wrecked me.”
She giggles, stroking my hair. “You never said it.”
My brow furrows. Curious, I lean back, pushing her sweaty hair off her face.
“I love you.” She smiles lazily, her hands rubbing my shoulders. “I thought for sure you were going to tell me at some point during all that. In the throes of passion. At least while you were coming.”
I lower my gaze to her chin, searching my memory and reeling from the best sex of my life.
“Are you sure I didn’t say it? I feel like I was screaming it just now.”
Her lips pinch tightly together, fighting a grin. She shakes her head. “You didn’t say it.”
“Well.” I slowly kiss her mouth. “Do you know?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“I’ve known for a while now. You may have loved me in that tent, but I think I loved you before that.”
I sit back and slide my cock out of her. Cum oozes from her body, down her slit. My cum. Her thighs glisten with a mixture of our desire.
“Fucking hell,” I groan, rubbing at my mouth, staring. I can’t look away from this.
Something inside of me begins to ache. A strange, foreign need to lay claim to someone, to have a right to them, but not just someone. Brooke. Only Brooke. This sweet, beautiful thing staring up at me. Sexy as shit and unquestionably the most challenging and defiant woman I’ve ever met.
“Yeah.”
Grabbing her thighs, I wrench her closer, smiling at her precious squeal. I push my hips between her legs again, leaning over her, filling her with one hard thrust.
She gasps, arching off the bed. “God, Mason.”
“Let me show you how I love you, sweet girl.”
Nodding, she grabs my face and kisses me hard and fast, soft and slow.
Just like how I take her.
BROOKE
I open my eyes as I stretch, searching the room for a clock.
I don’t remember falling asleep, and I have no idea how long I’ve been out, but I know it’s late. The curtains amplifying the darkness behind them, casting a heavy shadow over one side of the room. The other lightly illuminated by a lamp on the dresser.
I look over at Mason sleeping beside me.
He’s lying on his back, one arm tucked beneath the pillow under his head, the other relaxed across his stomach, his face turned away. My eyes linger on the lines of his body. The slope of his neck. The smooth swell of his muscles, his trim waist, and the bulge of his cock against the satin sheet.
Mercy. I’m sharing the bed with an Adonis. Again . . . how is this guy even real?
My cheeks burn as the memory of his desperate voice fills my ears.
“Oh . . . fuck, Brooke. Fuck! Your pussy . . . ah, God. I need to come. Baby . . . Baby.”
A shiver runs down my spine.
Damn, I love him like that. Wild for me. Fucking like a man depraved, and still giving me those tender moments in between where he kisses my cheek and whispers across my skin.
“You are loved, Brooke Wicks. My adoration for you is endless.”
I smile against my fingers.
I want to absorb him, every flavor of Mason. His sweetness and his ferocity. The gentle planes and sharp, savage angles of his passion.
Why did it take me this long to choose him? To be okay with this? I’m so happy I could burst.
Sliding out from underneath the covers, I pad around to the other side of the bed and grab my jeans, tugging my phone out of my pocket. I note the time.
Eleven-forty-two P.M. .
I flatten a hand to my stomach. Geez. No wonder I’m starving. I skipped dinner. The only thing I’ve had since lunch is a banana fosters cupcake and some tequila.
Grabbing Mason’s shirt off the chair on my way across the room, I slide my arms through the soft cotton and slip it over my head. The hem reaches my thighs. It smells like detergent and a faint hint of cologne. I bury my face in the collar.
I step into the bathroom to relieve myself and wash my hands. I gape at my reflection.
Jesus. Did we fuck in the middle of a tornado?
My hair looks atrocious. Matted and sticking out every which way. Some pieces still damp with sweat.
I tame the long strands with my fingers and gather them over one shoulder into a braid, securing the end with the elastic band around my wrist. I rub underneath my eyes to remove the smudges of makeup and pinch my cheeks.
There. Major improvement.
When I open the door and step back out into the loft, Mason is awake, lying on his side facing the kitchen, his weight braced on his elbow and the sheet gathered around his waist.
A plate of food sits on the bed in front of him. Grapes and cheese, by the looks of it. Maybe some raisins.
He pops a piece of fruit into his mouth and sucks on his finger. “Nice shirt,” he says, smiling.
I tug on the hem. “Yeah, you know. If we’re doing this whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing, I’m allowed full access to your wardrobe. Don’t be surprised if several comfortable pieces go missing.”
“If?” He tilts his head. “You love me, and there’s still an if?”