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Rachel
Mason kept me waiting.
His footsteps up the stairs had been slow. Painfully, agonisingly slow. I’d listened to them like I’d listened to his pants when he fucked those women. Like I’d listened to the pounding of the bedframe against the wall. I listened with trembling breath. With a frustration that made me tear at the sheets. With fingers brushing against my nipples and then pulling away like I’d touched fire. Because it was wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
I was naked in his bed when he arrived at the door.
I was already wet when he paused there. Filling the doorway. My nipples strained already for contact, for friction, for his lips. I was struggling to keep still. Fingers balled in the sheets. Nails nearly piercing through the thin cotton. Mason came to the door. Filled it like I wanted to be filled. Like my escape was blocked. Like the cave entrance had fallen in and I was trapped.
It took everything inside of me not to groan. Not to writhe. Not to fucking beg.
I drank in his darkened silhouette in the door frame. The width of his broad, muscular shoulders. The length of his toned thighs. The slight quirk of his head. I couldn’t see him. Couldn’t make out his shadowed features. But I knew he could see me. Could see my struggle. Could see my need. Had I already soaked the sheets between my quivering thighs? Were the muscles of my lower stomach already twitching in expectation? Were my hairs raised along my forearms, everything inside of me excited, ready, eager?
Mason stood there. The sound of the closed door was long gone. Miss Last Night was long gone. It was just him and me. Alone. No one coming to interrupt. No one coming to stop us. No one coming to fucking save us.
Just when I couldn’t hold out any longer, thought that I was going to scream at the top of my lungs just to do something, anything, Mason spoke.
“What do you want, Rachel?”
Mason’s voice was steady. Gentle, but clear. Pained almost. Fearful, in a way. Because it could mean anything, his question.
And my answer? My answer could be anything. He could be asking whether I wanted to be on top. Or he could be asking whether I really wanted a divorce, whether there really was no mending us, no fixing us.
I could answer that I wanted him to tie my hands to the bedpost. Or I could answer that I believed in us. Even if it was stupid, I believed. I believed we could find our way back to one another.
It was as close to honesty as we’d gotten. This open question. This endless possibility of answers. Mason and I, since falling apart, we’d hidden so much from each other. We’d avoided the hard questions. Ducked the even harder answers. We’d skimmed the surface of the water and ignored the impending storm with its towering waves on the dark horizon. We’d touched each other everywhere but the heart, working around it like a game of Operation. Like we knew we’d get electrocuted. Because we would, I suppose.
Mason was silent in the doorway. Still in the doorway. I had my chance. My chance to tell him what I really wanted. To be honest. To be open. To take the shock that I knew, that he knew was coming.
And I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
There was a sadness in my voice that I was sure he heard.
“I want you to do what you would do to me if I was one of those other women. I want you to fuck me like I really am your Miss Last Night.”
I was sure that he heard the sadness because I heard it myself. Because it was as clear as day in the dark.
Mason, or at least his silhouette, hesitated a moment in the doorway. Then he moved toward me with a fury. He ripped off his jacket. Tore off his shirt. A streak of fear jolted down my spine at seeing the violence with which he threw away his jeans. The brutality with which he mounted the bed. The roughness with which he flipped me over.
I gripped the bars of Mason’s bedframe as his fingers dug into the flesh of my hips. There was no longer any hesitation in how he moved. He gripped me like it was the only way to grip me: hard, painful, sure. His knees spread my legs apart. His cock found my wet folds and I cried out as he drove into me. His thrusts were different than I’d ever felt from him. Mason had always been powerful in the way he fucked me. But there had never been this kind of urgency. Not urgency to come. To get release. To feel that white-hot bliss. But an urgency to be done. To have it over with. To collapse to the side of me and pass out. To find a different kind of escape.
The bed rocked just the way I imagined it would when I squeezed my eyes shut down the hall. His grunts were exactly how I thought they would be when I heard hints of them behind my closed door, between the pillow stuffed round of my head. The sounds coming involuntarily from my lips even mimicked perfectly the sounds that came from all those Miss Last Nights. I mewed like a kitten. Gasped when Mason choked me. Moaned and groaned and whimpered like all I wanted was for it to stop, like all I wanted was more, more, more.
The noise of our bodies filled the room. Our heat made the window fog. The air became heavy, stale, claustrophobic even. I realised that I was trying so hard to hold on that I wasn’t sure I could come. It was all so frantic. All so fast. All so brutal and faceless. I bit into the sheets when it was Mason I wanted to sink my teeth into. I clawed at the pillows, at the bars of the bed frame, at my hair, but none of that was Mason. None of that was him. His flesh. His body. His soul.
I could tell from the way the rock of Mason’s hips grew erratic that he was close. I imagined the long, drawn-out groan I would hear when he came. When he shuddered against me. When he sank his nails into my hips. I tightened around him at the thought. He would come for me now. Not some Miss Last Night. Not some random girl. Me. His wife.
I cried out again because he drove into me with such anger that it was very nearly painful. I don’t know when the switch happened, but I found myself with a mouthful of sheets. I didn’t tell him to stop, please, stop. It was too much. I was too invisible when he fucked me like this. I clutched the bars to keep myself from disappearing completely.
I told him this was what I wanted, but it wasn’t. I didn’t want to be fucked like them. I wanted him to see me. I wanted him to love me.
Mason screamed, loud and angry and violent, and I thought he must have come. He must have let himself go. He must have allowed me to be just anyone else. Just another warm body. Just another Miss Last Night.
So it surprised me when he growled out, “No.”
Before I could stop him, Mason pulled out and flipped me over like a rag doll. He pulled me up to him, held me on his lap, cock twitching against me. He shuddered as he buried his head against the crook of my neck.
I found my fingers carding through his mohawk.
