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I pick up the shopping bags from where Mase dropped them, setting them on the table. Even though Mase bought the shoes and the jewelry for me, it seems wrong to open the bags. If he thinks I’m only here because of his money, wouldn’t it prove his case if the first thing I do is start counting my presents?
I’m not here for his money. I don’t care about his family making the Forbes list.
I care about what might happen in this bed.
I’m here because there is something between Mase and me, something I’ve never felt before. Something special, and exciting, and scary, and also moving extremely fast, like some bullet train that Mase has probably been on.
But for once, I’m not looking to jump off the train.
Perching on the end of the bed, I press my hands together between my legs, wondering what to do.
The bed isverybig. I know what happens in a bed that big; not the details, but the logistics of it. In a place like this, in a bed like that, two people will not be sleeping on either side with a pillow wall between them.
My sexual experience can be divided into three—the good, the bad, and the ugly.
“The ugly” involved nearly eight years of unrequited love of Bradley Cooper, from when I was sixteen to almost twenty-four. I spent three of those years actually involved with him, to put it loosely; he would return to the city from university and look me up.
For sex.
And back then, I was happy to get any attention from him, so I took everything he gave me.
Fast forward to when I was twenty-five and finally gotten Bradley out of my system, only to move on to “the bad”—Bryce. His concern over my life quickly became possessive, his wanting to spend time with me soon became a demand for my total attention. It was the only time in my life Bexley gave me explicit advice—dump him. Now. Luckily, I listened to her.
“The good” was Brad, and that ended amicably two years ago. I’ve been celibate since then.
The sounds from behind the bathroom door suggest that status might not be changing anytime soon.
The toilet flushes, and I take that as a sign to open the door. Mase is still kneeling on the floor by the toilet. “You okay?”
He’s as white as the duvet on the bed, without a dimple in sight as he gives me a wan smile. “Sorry about that. Feel better now.”
He breathes deeply through his nose and I rub his back like I suppose a wife would after her husband over-indulged on champagne and maple syrup. I’ve gone from wanting to rip off his shirt to smoothing the damp fabric across his shoulders. “Maybe the pancakes weren’t the best idea.”
“It’s not that.”
“The beer, then.” The sarcasm sneaks out without me realizing it.
His chuckle echoes in the toilet bowl. “You sound like a wife.”
I sound like a woman who has been awake for over twenty-four hours. My face creases in a huge yawn as I try to figure out the Biba-level math of how long I’ve been on my feet. “I guess that’s because I am? A wife.”
“Hence the throwing up.”
Disappointment drops in my stomach like that toilet being thrown out the window. “That’s… nice to hear.”
“I’m scared,” Mase corrects, still speaking into the bowl. “I either eat or lose what’s in my stomach because of nerves. Sometimes both.”
“You’re scared of… me?”
“Of making you my wife.” He pauses before finally lifting his head. “In the biblical sense.”
“Oh. Really?”
He touches my ankle and trails a hand slowly up my calf, stroking the inside of my knee. That doesn’tfeellike someone scared of what goes on between a husband and wife.
And then he grips my leg as he retches again.
“We don’t have to do anything,” I tell him quickly. “We can just sleep until you feel better. You should sleep.Weshould sleep.”
