Page 26 of Letting Go at 40

He tweaks my nipple, pinching it between his fingers before giving it a sharp tug. The sensation is unreal. A rush spreads through the center of my body, pooling between my thighs. The pulse jumps from a steady rhythm to a chaotic beat. I lift a leg, wrapping it over his hip and meeting the hard length of his excitement when he bends his knees, aligning our centers.

I grind forward. He presses back in response. We rock against one another.

Then his hand slips between my legs. Fingers coast over sensitive folds covered by silk pajamas. I reach for the waistband of his shorts, pushing at the edges. My fingers touch smooth skin and firm planes. A sharp V leading lower. The crispness of hidden hair. The solid shaft.

He pulls away, breathless. “Anna.”

“Ben,” I beg.

And we both freeze.

With my hand wrapped around his thick cock and his strong fingers between my legs, our eyes meet.

The blue inside the sparkle of his eyes is not the right shade.

“Mason,” I whisper on a shaky breath.

“Anna.” My name is a judge’s gavel. A halt on everything we’d been doing.

What were we doing?

I was kissing Mason.

He was touching me.

I am holding his dick.

His fingers are against my most private place.

Instantly, we release one another. Mason steps back, hands in the air as if to surrender to the crime we’ve committed. My fingers fly to my lips, brushing over them, swiping at the evidence of what we’d done.

We kissed.

I don’t blame him. I don’t know who reached for who first. Or if either of us even reached. We drifted. We leaned. We melted together like chocolate swirled into a vanilla recipe.

And it shouldn’t have been so delicious.

“Mason,” I whimper his name, full of guilt and shame.

“Nope.” His hands remain in the air before he swipes them both into his hair. I struggle to keep my gaze on his face and away from a peek at his manhood, still exposed and erect above the waistband of his shorts.

As if he read my thoughts, he reaches for his shorts and tugs them upright. I lose the battle with my eyes, as my gaze drops and I watch Mason adjust the long length, forming a firm wedge in his loose shorts.

“This never happened,” I whisper to his dick. As if saying the words to this part of his anatomy could erase how he felt in my hands. How his mouth tastes. How his body heated mine.

I lift my eyes.

Mason meets my gaze with pinched brows and eyes that reflect a kaleidoscope of hurt and upset that quickly fades to blank and unreadable.

I’d called him Ben. “Oh God, Mason. I’m so—”

“Nope.” A sharp finger points at me, willing me to stop talking. His hand trembles. His breathing ragged. He pauses and I hold my breath while he shakes his head. Then he’s turning for the door, exiting my room, and I’m left in the dark.

With my bone-chilling disgrace . . . and the white-hot desire to orgasm.

Chapter 11

2 Years Ago