Page 159 of Stay Scared

“Wear it.”

He looks at me, then the mask. Ash puts it back on. I step into him before the final clasp settles. His hands return to my waist. I take both wrists and pull them away. The Voice stands inches from me, arms at his sides. His breathing is louder now. I press my palm over the sealed mouth. Every want shows through the mask now. I move against him once. Ash’s fingers curl. I do it again. His head lowers. I feel the tremor run through him as I slide my hand down the front of his coat.

“You wanted this room to break me open.”

His answer comes muffled through the shell. “I wanted to see what you did when nothing outside you could perform the fear.”

“And now?”

Ash’s hand snaps around my wrist fast enough that my pulse jumps. He holds it against his chest.

“Now I want you on that table, and I am waiting for you to decide whether I get it.”

The words land hot and ugly. I pull his hand off me, then put it back at my waist. Ash’s fingers close. I guide the other to my thigh. His palm grips immediately.

“There.”

His shoulders loosen by a fraction. I grab the front of his coat and drag him toward the writing table. Pages shift when my hip strikes the edge. I sit, and Ash steps between my knees. His hands remain where I put them, for now. I reach behind his head and tear the mask off again. His mouth is flushed. The cut on his lower lip has reopened. Ash looks furious about both facts. I kiss him anyway. His hands climb. One slides beneath my shirt while the other spreads across my thigh and shoves my knee farther aside. The movement is confident enough to catch my breath. Ash catches the sound and answers with his mouth against my throat.

I grab the back of his neck. “Stay there.”

His teeth graze my skin. My fingers tighten, and he does it again, harder. I shift toward him, and the table scrapes across the floor. Ash’s hand finds the bruise near my shoulder. I flinch, and he changes position instantly, sliding lower across my ribs without stopping the kiss. No apology or announcement. Just an adjustment. Good enough. His palm moves under my shirt, and I arch toward him. Ash catches my reaction and drives closer. Pages crumple beneath my hands. I look down. My name appears upside down beneath my palm.

FINAL GIRL PROTOCOL.

I shove the stack aside. Several pages slide onto the floor. Ash glances at them.

“Leave them.”

“They are in my way.”

Something hot flashes in his face. I shove another stack off. Ash catches my thigh and pulls me to the very edge of the table. The movement forces my knees wider around him.

“Better?”

“Much better.”

His mouth covers mine. The table knocks against the stage again. I drag my hands down his chest. Ash catches one wrist and plants my palm against the table beside me. The hold sends heat through me. His grip is hard and possessive, exactly the kind of control he has been trying not to take without invitation. I look at his fingers around my wrist, then at him. Ash’s eyes lock on mine. I pull once. He releases me without discussion. My freed hand slides into his hair and yanks him back to my mouth. His control breaks a little more. One hand closes around the back of my neck while the other catches my thigh. He kisses me hard enough that my teeth knock against his. I make a sound into his mouth. Ash gives up any pretense of indifference and goes after another. His hand slides along my inner thigh. I move toward it, and he follows. My jeans stop him. I reach for the button.

Ash’s hand covers mine, holding it there rather than stopping me. His eyes stay on mine while I open the denim beneath his palm. He lowers the zipper. His knuckles brush my stomach. I drag his hand lower. Ash exhales roughly. His fingers press against me through my underwear. The first contact is controlled. I push harder into his hand. Control lasts another second. Then his fingers become firmer, more certain. The table shifts beneath me. I grab the edge. Ash watches my face. His hand moves again. I tilt my hips.

“There.”

He repeats it. My breath catches.

Ash’s mouth curves against mine. “You were waiting for that.”

“Do not get smug.”

“I have very little left tonight. Let me have this.”

I laugh against his mouth. It vanishes when his fingers press harder. My hand knots in his shirt. The plotter clicks behind the curtain. Neither of us looks. Ash’s forehead presses against mine. His breathing is ragged. I reach for the old mask lying beside me and pull it over my own face. The padding is still warm from him, and my vision narrows. Ash stops. His hand remains between my thighs. He stares at his own face looking back at him. I move against his fingers. That gets him moving again. His eyes darken. I hear my own breath trapped inside the sealed mouth of the mask. Ash’s hand becomes rougher, not careless, just rough. Exactly what I wanted from him before he tried to polish every desire into language.

I grip his shoulder. “Look at me.”

His gaze fixes on the mask. I tighten my legs around him.

Ash swallows. “That was mine.”