I squint disapprovingly at his cynical humor. “You’re awful.”
“I know,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming. “Now, please kiss me.”
He asks politely, so I do. I lean in and kiss him slowly and intentionally, letting it build.
His hand slips under the hem of my shirt, fingers brushing my waist, warm and careful. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t push. Just touches me like he’s trying to map out uncharted terrain.
I pull back just enough to speak. “We can, um... go upstairs, if you want to.”
He nods, a little breathless. “Yeah. I do.”
I stand and take his hand, leading him up the stairs. The house is quiet except for the soft creak of wood under our feet. When we step into my bedroom, I hate how sterile it looks. It’s too big. Too impersonal.
The king-sized bed sits neatly in the center, made with crisp white sheets and a blue comforter. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the far wall, overlooking the lake, the moonlight casting silvery streaks across the hardwood floor. The abstract artwork hanging on the wall looks like it belongs in a hotel room.
“My apartment in Shelby Harbor has more personality,” I insist. “I didn’t bother decorating this place since it’s just… temporary.”
Temporary. The word leaks into the space between us, all-consuming.
Mason doesn’t speak. He just meets my gaze, cautious, as his thumb strokes along my cheek. Then his mouth is on mine, gentle at first, his hands slipping to my hips. He urges me back toward the mattress, pressing me down before lowering himself beside me.
His fingers trail up my side, lifting my shirt inch by inch until his palm finds bare skin. When he tugs at the fabric, I sit up and peel it off, tossing it aside before reaching for his tank top. He strips it off in one fluid motion, and my breath hitches. My dick thickens at the sight of his muscles, my eyes glazing over the tan mounds of his abs and the dip between his pecs.
Our mouths crash together again, hungrier this time. His tongue slides against mine, his hands gripping my ass through my jeans. Igasp when he grinds into me, the hard press of him unmistakable against my thigh.
His head tips back, breaking the kiss. “What do you want?”
I swallow. “I… I don’t know.”
“I need you to tell me.” His eyes don’t move from mine.
Fucking hell. Heat floods my face as I bury myself in the crook of his neck, inhaling him. He smells of pine and sandalwood—probably one of those obnoxiously masculine soaps with a name likeForest Rage.
“Fuck me,” I whisper against his throat. “Please.”
He groans and clambers on top of me, arms bracketing my face. I stare up at him, admiring the way his lips are glistening with spit, cheeks flushed. His long hair falls down like a waterfall and tickles my face.
“I’ll fuck you so good,” he promises, and I believe him. Everything he does to me feels good.
He unbuttons my jeans, and I lift my hips so he can tug them down with my underwear. His fingers wrap around my cock, stroking, and a moan slips out of me as I buck into his fist.
“Do you have—“
“Yeah,” I pant against his lips. “Nightstand.”
He kisses me again, sweet and unhurried, before leaning over to open the nightstand drawer.
Then he freezes.
I glance at him, confused, until it dawns on me. Dread washes over me.
“This is a very pretty dildo,” he says, lifting a glittery pink shaft in his hand and examining it like he’s admiring a fine piece of art. He rubs his finger along the ridges.
“Oh my God,” I groan, hiding my face in the crook of my elbow. “I forgot that was in there.”
He laughs, and a second later I hear a loudslapas he smacks the silicone against his palm. “Very impressive.”
“Please, just kill me,” I mutter, voice muffled.
