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I’m writing, and I’m furious, and I’m heartbroken for him. It takes all of my professional composure to remain calm and gently query him about the truth of his childhood.
When we’re done, I’ve got enough to put together an excellent response if she runs wailing to the press about how her wealthy son won’t give his poor mother a dime.
We’ve somehow moved closer to each other. I didn’t even notice.
I shove my notepad and pen back in my briefcase. We both fall silent. Mason looks at me, and his stare is intense. I feel the pull between the two of us.
Need slowly unfurls inside me, a gentle pulsing ache, but I don’t want to make the first move for a million reasons. I still don’t trust what we have. I don’t even know what we have. He texts me a lot, he calls me a lot, we have amazing mind-blowing sex, he keeps telling me that he’s not seeing anyone else even though I haven’t asked ...
And he’s also just been through something really heavy emotionally. I almost feel like I’d be taking advantage.
Very carefully, subtly, I move a few inches away from him on the couch and let my gaze drop. I stare at the floor, at his expensive gray and black rug with its abstract patterns. I think about how he hasn’t made this apartment a home, and I wonder what home actually means to him.
“Don’t do that, Rowan.” His voice goes low and urgent.
“Do what?” I guess I wasn’t that subtle after all.
“Don’t pull away from me.” His sea-green eyes burn with hunger as he looks at me.
I sit frozen, my hands clenching together. “I just ... I just don’t want to be your escape.”
“Why?” he asks softly. He slides closer to me, and his muscular leg presses up against mine, his body heat warming me.
“Because I want this to be real.” The words spill from my mouth unbidden, like a shameful confession.
He’s silent, and the room is so quiet that I can hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears. I just asked for ... more. I just asked for a relationship, for an acknowledgment that there’s something more here than very hot steamy sex.
Long moments stretch between us, and he’s not moving away, not flinching in disgust at the thought, not spilling out excuses.
“This might be the one thing in my life that’s ever been real, Rowan,” He says it gravely, his gaze seizing mine and holding it prisoner. There’s not a hint of humor in his voice.
“Then we shouldn’t mess it up,” I say faintly.
“Would having sex with me today mess it up?” He arches an eyebrow.
“Sex has ruined a lot of good things.” I’m quavery inside, turning his words over and over in my head. Things have just changed between us, which means my life has changed in some way. We’re not friends with benefits. We’re ... what are we?
We still haven’t named it, and I am not going to push, because I don’t know what I want from him either. Under other circumstances, I’d take the risk that Mason has changed or that I’m actually his person, and that alone is a big risk because he’s a man with a very public past.
But there’s the job, which is everything to me.
Why does such a good thing have to be so complicated?
“So ruin me, Row. I’m tough. I can take it.” That humorous gleam is back in his eyes, and I smack him against the chest playfully, but he grabs my hand and holds it there. I can feel every thump of his heart.
He leans forward, hand cupping under my chin, and kisses me. It starts tender, then gets hungrier and hungrier, until he’s moving in, grabbing my shirt, and pulling it up over my head. It tangles in my arms and he pushes me down on the couch, my arms trapped and pinned by his hand.
“I want you to let me take charge,” he says, and there’s so something sexy about submitting, but with consent.
“Yes,” I breathe.
He cups my face in both hands, sliding on top of me, kissing me until I can’t see straight. He seizes my lower lip between his teeth, tugging it gently, and I moan into his mouth.
Then he moves south. Oh, God. He is so good at that. I whimper in anticipation as he tugs my pants off.
“Don’t move,” he growls. “Don’t try to take over.”
“Are you calling me a bossy bossy-pants?” My voice is breathy as I laugh.
