“It’s a combination of a few things, but essentially it’s in memory of JT’s mom.”
“In memory?”
“She passed away when JT and I were in middle school. Breast cancer.”
“I’m sorry, baby.” Mase grips my neck, his other arm wrapping around my middle and holding me a little bit tighter.
“Thanks.” I don’t need the condolences, but I appreciate them nonetheless. It’s been years, so the pain of losing the main mother figure in my life has faded with time. Like Pops, Moms Taylor was always a surrogate parent; it’s probably why when our biological mother abandoned us that first time, it didn’t hit E and me as hard as it could have.
“She loved the story of Peter Pan. There are copies of every version and retelling of it stored on the bookshelves inside the Taylor home.” Pops spent countless hours tracking down as many as he could, gifting her a new one for every anniversary or birthday.
“When it became clear she wasn’t going to get better—” Time may have lessened the pain, but I still have to stop to swallow down a ball of emotion. “We all flew to London to see the famous statue.” This time it’s a laugh that interrupts. “I think there are legit five hundred pictures from that day alone with all the combinations of groupings we made.”
“I think I remember seeing a few of them on the wall at E’s.”
I chuckle thinking of the ridiculousness of the pictures he used in making up the gallery walls around his home in Baltimore.
“E has a lot of pictures of Moms on display. It may have been years later, but I think part of the reason he loves Bette so much—even if it’s unconsciously—is because she stepped into that mother role for me without even being asked.”
The heavier conversation fades, nothing more needing to be said on why that would mean so much to us.
Behind me I feel Mase’s muscles bunch and stretch as he reaches for something. A moment later there’s the pop of a top, and the scent of vanilla fills the air. “God.” His teeth nip at my tattoo and he brings his arm around, the loofah held in his hand. “All your scents make me hungry.” Lust coats his voice.
I want to agree, want to tell him the smell of him fresh from a shower is one of my favorites and I’m grateful I get to experience it twice a day because of his rigorous training schedule, but I’m incapable of speech. Every nerve and brain cell in my body is focused solely on the drag of the loofah, down my arm, back over my shoulder, and across my chest.
Back and forth. A dip down into the water before a new round of circles traces around my breasts.
His free hand comes up to aid in the washing, cupping and squeezing, his thumb smoothing away the suds clinging to my now fully erect nipples.
My back arches, none of my earlier soreness registering as pleasure from him pinching my buds between his thumb and forefinger fills me. The slight twist he gives them shoots a bolt of lust straight to my clit, my legs falling open of their own accord.
His hard-on pokes my lower back as he continues to tease me. I breathe in the thick fragrant air, my breasts full, heavy, and aching for…more.
Instead, they bob slightly in the water as Mase releases them and shifts me to sit forward, the loofah washing a path across my shoulder blades.
I tilt my chin and level him with side-eye.
“What?” An evil smirk tugs at one side of Mase’s mouth. “You said you wanted help washing your back.”
And he says you’re the smartass? My inner cheerleader folds her arms in a huff.
“That was before you started teasing me.”
Two can play this game. I place both my hands on his knees, angling them so my fingertips fall toward his inner thighs, and start to draw lazy, almost absentminded figure eights up and down his skin, inching higher with each pass.
“Who said I was a tease?” His hips buck forward as I run my thumb along the crease where his thigh meets his hip.
“Me.” I cow-stretch, my ass brushing his erection with the subtle movement.
Water sloshes as an arm bands around my middle, tugging me until my back is suctioned to his front. In my peripheral vision, I watch the lavender loofah disappear under the surface of the water.
I hold my breath, anticipating it touching my pulsing center. Instead it runs down the length of my thigh, taking a slow trip down then up before dipping into the space between my legs. All I get is one quick brush over my clit before it’s lifted to repeat the process down my other leg.
Mase cups a hand under one of my knees, bending my leg and placing my foot on the outside of his to spread me open. Again he ignores where I need him most, washing down my calf and over my foot.
Finally I feel the rough texture of the loofah press against my center, Mase using his fingers to part me enough to give him direct contact with my clit, each pass both too much and not enough. I swivel my hips in search of some relief, but he clamps his free hand over one of my hipbones, holding me in place.
I’m about ready to beg or lose my mind, not sure which.
He releases the loofah, the puff floating to the surface, then two fingers plunge inside me. A keening moan escapes my mouth and my back arches with an audible suction noise as I rise away.
“Fuck, baby,” Mase moans, his breath blowing across my ear. “You’re soaked.” He scissors his fingers, setting off an orgasm so strong it has me seeing stars that have nothing to do with my concussion.
“Oh god.” My body collapses against his as he continues to work me. The things he does to me, the way he makes me feel should be illegal. Lord knows I could never tell him though. His ego is big enough; no need to inflate it more than it already is.
Once I recover from my release and he’s eased his fingers from the viselike grip my pussy has on them, I push to my knees and turn so we are face to face.
I pick up the loofah, add another dollop of body wash, and get to work washing his chest.
One would think being fresh out of the hospital, in recovery from reparative surgery, bruised, and concussed would mean sex is the last thing on my mind, but the feel of Mase’s muscular body under my hands has all that fading away.
“Careful, baby.” His eyes fall to the bruises mottling the right side of my torso. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“I’m fine.” I spread my knees to straddle his hips.
I know to Mase, and probably most other people, it’s crazy for me to be the one to protect him, but the thought of something hurting him drives me to the brink of insanity.
Stepping back from the situation, I can see that Mason could have easily taken Liam in a fight. He has a few inches and more than a dozen pounds on my ex, but in the moment, all I could think about was keeping him safe.
It’s like my body needs to reaffirm he is okay, needs to make sure he really wasn’t hurt the other night. I line up my entrance with his dick and thank the birth control pill gods as his tip slips inside easily. He was right—I’m so wet not even the water could wash it away.
“Kayla.” The use of my full name is a whispered curse, a warning I don’t heed as I continue to sink down until my still engorged clit is resting against his pubic bone. “Fuck.”
My hands go around his neck, my fingers locking together as I anchor myself to his body. His head tips back, our eyes locking, never breaking contact as I start to move.