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When she made no move to do so, Mason said, “Hannah? You okay?”
“I’m sorry. I… Yes. Yes. I should definitely get that.” She turned and walked abruptly away.
Bemused, Mason followed her through a comfortable living room. The space was furnished with plump sofas and deep wing-backed reading chairs, woven throw rugs set here and there on the hardwood floor.
They entered a large, old-fashioned kitchen with brightly painted yellow walls, hanging pots and pans and a fifties-style white Formica table with red chairs. A blue enameled KitchenAid mixer stood on the countertop in pride of place amidst a barrage of mixing bowls and measuring cups. Flour seemed to dust everything in the place.
Hannah moved quickly to the gas range and turned off the burner beneath the now urgently whistling tea kettle.
Mason’s eye was drawn to a tray of beautiful éclairs that sat on the table beside a large metal bowl with melted chocolate dripping down the sides. “Those look amazing,” he said sincerely.
She turned from the stove with one of those dimpled smiles that nearly took his breath away.
“They came out pretty good,” she acknowledged, no longer quite as flustered as she’d been. “Though I haven’t tried one yet. You’re just intime to test the final product. But be gentle, chef—I haven’t made these in years.”
Mason smiled back, relieved to have something other than his trepidation and uncertainty to focus on. “No worries. I left my chef’s hat in my kitchen. Promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” She gestured toward the table. “Have a seat. I’ll just make the tea and join you. Irish breakfast okay?”
“Sure,” Mason agreed, though he wouldn’t have minded a couple of fingers of whiskey right about then to fortify his nerves. He wasn’t used to apologizing.
He watched as she poured the hot water into a white china teapot. Even baggy sweats and the apron couldn’t hide her voluptuous figure. He imagined coming up behind her and pulling her back against him as he lightly bit her neck. He remembered her shocked reaction when he’d touched her chin and remained firmly in his seat.
She came to the table carrying a tray on which she’d placed the teapot and two mugs, along with two plates and a small stack of napkins.
“Here, let me,” Mason said, getting to his feet as she set the tray on the table. He poured the steaming tea into the mugs as she returned to the counter and came back with some sliced lemon and a small jar of honey.
As Hannah added lemon and honey to her tea, he asked, “What’s the occasion? Or do you typically bake complicated French pastry on a Friday afternoon just for something to do?”
“My friend, Charlotte, oh, wait, you know her.” A small laugh, another flush. “I mean, obviously you know her. She’s the one who first brought me to The Enclave. Anyway, it’s Jim’s birthday on Sunday, and I volunteered to bake. I haven’t made eclairs in forever so this is my practice run. They came out pretty, which is a good thing. But the real proof is in the pudding, or rather, the custard.”
Mason lifted an éclair from the plate and took a large bite. The pastry was light and airy, the custard rich and creamy, the semi-sweet ganache the perfect complement. “Wow,” he enthused. “This is fucking awesome,Hannah. I could totally serve these in my restaurant. Do you need a job?”
She laughed, clearly pleased. “I’m glad you approve.” She lifted an éclair and took a bite, her eyes fluttering shut with sensual pleasure. “Oh, yeah,” she breathed. “They are pretty awesome, if I say so myself.” She licked a bit of chocolate off her full lower lip. Mason bit back a groan of pure lust.
Focus, he silently ordered himself.You have a job to do.
He took a second, fortifying bite of the confection, wiped his mouth with his napkin and plunged in. “I owe you an apology, Hannah. I let you down. What happened was one hundred percent my fault. There’s no cleaning it up, but I want you to know I’m really sorry. Sorry I didn’t pay enough attention to your cues, sorry I pushed you too far, sorry I let you go without insisting we talk things through.”
Hannah dropped her gaze, suddenly going very still.
Mason held his breath. He wanted to say more. He wanted to explain himself, excuse himself, demand that she say something—anything—to let him know where he stood. But he held himself in check, waiting.
Finally, she looked up, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, too. I’ve given it a lot of thought these past couple of weeks. I was complicit in what happened. I was trying to be something I’m not. I understand that now.”
The fault line that had cracked along his heart when she’d bolted from his room widened at the sad finality of her words. But his stubborn mind refused to accept what she said.
“You’re a courageous, sexy submissive, Hannah. One botched scene doesn’t negate that. You have real potential as an erotic slave. We just need—”
“No, Mason,” she interrupted, her tone quiet but firm. “It’s not a matter of tweaking my training or whatever. The experience was amazing, and I’m grateful for all of it. Even my fuckup at the end,” she added with a rueful smile. “It really clarified some things for me. After a lifetime of subjugating my true sexual nature, I got so caught up in the romance and fantasy of it all that I forgot to listen to my gut.”
She placed a light hand on his arm. He resisted the urge to pull it to his lips.
“I’m not slave material, Mason. I don’t want a Master.” She managed a small laugh. “I’m way too bossy to be a 24/7 sub.”
Mason chuckled in spite of himself. “Actually, most subs are bossy. It makes their genuine submission all the sweeter.”
Instead of replying, she lifted her mug and sipped her tea.
