Chapter Twelve

- MASON -

Dammit.

“I can’t handle anymore rejection tonight.”

That’s what she had said to me. I remember it so clearly. Just before I peeled off her clothes and buried my face in the promised land.

I hadn’t pushed for details. I should have. I should have kept asking until she told me. But as I recall, her sweet fingers had just disappeared into my briefs and it kind of slipped my mind.

It all makes sense now, though. She was reeling from a rejection from that damn agent and a little tipsy on beer and—bam!—ends up in the sack with some letch all too willing to take advantage of her vulnerable state.

That letch was me.

Dammit. I should have offered her a shoulder to cry on, not a cock to fuck. What the hell kind of a friend am I? A couple fingers of whiskey… and five glorious fingers wrapped around my dick and I’m ready to toss any scruples I’ve got into the can, like a used condom.

Or three used condoms, as the case may be.

Yet still, guilt-ridden as I am (and mildly sickened by the sight of a text from her mom so soon after I’ve fucked her daughter) I’m having a hard time regretting this.

If I’d had any idea that sex with Freya would have been like that, there’s no way I would have survived two years of being just friends. But now what?

She’s mine. Mine. That’s all I can think when I picture her face (or right now, with her naked in the shower, it’s not just her face I’m picturing). The idea of us going back to being just friends feels unfathomable—the thought that while I’m away, someone else will undoubtedly come along for her. And after a year or two and a handful of missions, I’ll come home one day to a thick, pastel-colored envelope in my mailbox, the kind with the flowery lettering and a stamp with hearts on it, and find out that she’s going to marry someone else.

I’ll have to send them a $400 gourmet blender for a present, just to overcompensate for the fact that I want to kidnap the bride.

 Or… we could try to make this work somehow.

Two years in Little Creek, I think as I flop down on her bed that smells like a mixture of sex and fabric softener.

Factoring in the weeks that I’ll probably be on training exercises or God-knows-where kicking down God-knows-whose door, we might be able to see each other about twenty weekends. Four-hour drive down, four-hour drive back.

My body warms picturing her face again. Just the face this time, seriously—with that same bright smile she always shot me when she’d burst through the doors of The Buzz when we’d meet for coffee.

Yep, that would be worth some serious mileage on my SUV.

But she might not want that. As mind-blowing as the sex was, she’s a budding romance novelist. She conjures up cosmic sex in her imagination on a regular basis. Who knows? I might have fallen short of her expectations.

A smile eases up my mouth for a moment, remembering her moans of pleasure and the way her voice crackled slightly when she screamed my name.

Short of her expectations? Nope. Not a chance. And the feeling is definitely mutual.

When I hear the bathroom door open, I try to hide any confusion I feel. No girl wants to see that on a guy’s face, especially after she’s just given him the night of his life.

“Sorry I saw that email,” I tell her quickly. “I really wasn’t snooping. It was just—there.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

I reach over and hand her her phone. “Did you want to text your mom back?”

When she glances down at the text, the right side of her upper lip curls as she reads it. “I think this is the first time any person has ever used the word ‘virtuous’ in a text,” she grumbles.

“At least you can read this one,” I offer.

She shakes her head. “Not much of it. Unless ‘donut four get the weigh you word aced’ means anything to you.”

My brow furrows in thought. “Don’t forget the way you were raised.”

Squinting at me, she cocks her head. “How do you do that?”

I chuckle. I can’t help it. She says that every time I translate her mom’s texts.

She taps in a reply, and I’m just smart enough to not ask what it is, and sets down her phone.

She’s wrapped in a towel and if it was any other gorgeous woman standing there, I’d ease up to her now, lay a few tempestuous lines on her, and toss that towel on the floor.

But I can’t because it’s Freya. And as certain as I am that the sex we shared last night was equally satisfying to both of us, I’m still wondering if she has regrets. She’s not the type to do anything spur-of-the-moment. She writes up a pro-and-cons list before she chooses a particular brand of cheese.

Sleeping with me after a few drinks was way out of her comfort zone.

“I need to change,” she says, her voice small.

“Oh—yeah, of course,” I squawk like a fool, suddenly remembering that even though I’ve explored every square inch of her body last night, nudity in the light of day is a little different for some people.

Not for me, of course. Military life pretty much strips away any sense of modesty in a guy.

I walk backwards to the doorway and shut it. My hand rests on the knob for a moment, and strangely, it feels warmer than the rest of me, just being that many inches closer to Freya. Shit. What’s happened to me?

She re-emerges looking more like the Freya whom I’ve known for two years—the fully-clothed friend I don’t fuck. And I catch myself missing the other side of her, the sleepy eyes and lips plump from my kisses. And her body—how could I ever have guessed that her skin would be so soft… everywhere?

Yep, whether I want to admit it or not, having sex with Freya has changed everything.

“Ready to go?” I ask. She has no makeup on, except maybe a touch of mascara, and that’s pretty customary for our drives over the Bridge to grab breakfast.

“I’m ready.”

When we step into the hallway, I can smell the deli below her apartment, reeking of a mix of onions and fried ham. I can never decide whether I like the aroma. Freya swears she can’t even smell it half the time anymore.

A brisk breeze tosses her hair when we step out her building’s door and onto Main Street. I had parked a block away from O’Toole’s last night, never suspecting I’d be spending the night here. We take my SUV like we always do. Freya won’t drive across the Bay Bridge if her life depends on it.

White-knuckling it all the way across its span, she grips the side of the open window as we drive to the Eastern Shore. She makes me unlock all the doors and open the windows when we drive across the Bridge because she really thinks there’s a chance we might go sailing over the side.

“I wish you’d try to drive across this sometime.”

“It’s so nice that you’re leaving and you won’t be nagging me about that anymore,” she snaps back, slightly breathless.

I dismiss how bad it sounds to hear her say the words that it’s nice that I’m leaving, and press on. “But you love the Eastern Shore. Without me here, how are you going to get there? Swim?”

“I’ll find someone else to chauffer me.”

I picture Harris again—I can’t help it. The guy’s got a sweet SS Camaro he loves to shoot around town in. I can totally see him offering to take her for a nice long spin in it. And after having slept with Freya, the image burns a hole in my stomach.

Picturing it, I’m feeling more justified in my plan for today. I’ve had it for some time now. But its urgency is even more apparent to me now.

Only trouble is, I’m not sure she’ll want to be my friend after this… much less ever want to have sex with me again.