Chapter Four

- MASON -

She’s limber.

I’ve learned a lot about Freya over the past two years. I know that she likes to sleep with her nightshirts inside out because she hates the seams. I know that she sneezes if she laughs too hard. I know that she gets chills on her arms when she hears the theme to Star Wars, and that she won’t pay more than exactly eight dollars for any makeup item, but will break the bank to buy star fruit at the grocery store when they’re in season.

But I never knew she was limber. And knowing it, especially having learned it with my crotch smashed up against hers as we wrestled on the ground, has just about laid waste to my self-control.

I glance over my shoulder at her as I sit up. I got half-chubbed with her grinding against me like this, and am anxious to put a little space between us. Sure, she’s been like a little sister to me, but tell that to my cock right now.

“Aw, don’t pout,” I chide.

“I’m not pouting.”

“God, you hate losing. I’ll buy us beers tonight with the ten bucks.”

“It’s not that. I’m mad that I’ve had such boring sex in my life that I couldn’t even figure out on my own that you can’t get from missionary to doggie style.”

I frown, holding back any comments about her sex life, even though I’m tempted to tell her if she started dating men with a little more personality rather than asshats like Patrick, things might stand to improve in the sack. But she doesn’t look like she can take it. “You can get from missionary to doggie style.”

“You can?”

“Yeah. Just not the way you wrote it. Come here.” I tug on her hand and nudge her back onto the floor. All downhearted like she is, she looks adorably vulnerable, with her hair fanning out onto my landlord’s cheap carpeting. Her eyes widen hopefully, making me seriously want to brush a kiss to her forehead (merely as a sign of encouragement, of course). But then the idea of touching my lips to her has my Johnson perking up again, like a puppy awakened from a nap and immediately wanting to play.

Down, boy.

I let out a long-suffering sigh. Better make this lightning fast. A quickie to end all quickies.

“So you’ve got your character like this, right?” I say, my chest grazing against her breasts as we assume missionary position. Fuck, this is not good. “So all you have to do is have him lift her leg up to his shoulder like this.”

Her bare leg is on my shoulder and I can feel the soft skin against my neck. It’s taking every bit of self-control I’ve got to will my cock to not go granite on me. I’m not a teenager. I can do this.

“Then just have him lift her leg over his head like this.” I catch a whiff of that body lotion she’s always rubbing on herself and, just as she’s about to find out just how male I really am, her foot slams into my cheek and I go soft in the blink of an eye.

I never thought I’d be so grateful to get coldcocked by a Nike.

“Shit. Sorry, Mason.”

“No problem. So, anyway…” I finish turning her, my moves swift and efficient, with us on our sides and her back to me until I nudge her upwards into the desired position. “There you go.”

“You’re a genius.”

I’ve been called a genius before; I was a Fulbright scholar and got straight As at the Academy. But I’ve never been called it by a woman while I’m staring at her ass.

“No. Just spent two years on the wrestling team,” I say, quickly standing before a certain appendage of mine gets any bright ideas. Heading straight to my kitchen to make a cup of instant, I suppress a strangled sigh.

I think I need a cigarette. And I don’t even smoke.

There’s a hard rap at the door, and the chill of reality is just what I need to bring my body temperature back to normal. “That’s probably Harris.”

“Harris?” She runs her fingers through her disheveled hair.

“Yeah. He’s returning my paddleboard,” I explain. My officemate should probably keep the damn thing. I never did get the hang of it. I pop my water in the microwave and head to the door.

“Hey, Harris,” I greet him.

“Hey—Freya.” His eyes barely even glance at me before they fly straight to Freya. I don’t blame him. She’s particularly cute, especially when she’s all disheveled and flushed from tussling on the floor with me.

Feeling an odd pinch of jealousy, I watch her flash a smile at him. There’s no explanation for why my skin is prickling uncomfortably right now, except that I’ve just been pretending to copulate with her for the past ten minutes and now she’s already checking out someone else.

Writers are a fickle lot.

“Hi, Harris,” she says.

She sucks in her lower lip in that way she always does when she thinks a guy is fuckable.

I frown, my overprotective side bearing its ugly face. “Freya was just headed to work,” I remind her. My tone sounds so much like my dad’s that I almost have to look over my shoulder to make sure he’s not here.

Eyes widening, she quickly glances at her watch. “Oh my God. You’re right. I better go. Thanks again, Mason.” She gathers up her pages into a stack and grabs her purse. “Good to see you again, Harris.”

I’d swear to God almighty that there’s flirtation lacing her tone. And why shouldn’t there be?

And why is it bugging the ever-loving-hell out of me?

“See you,” Harris replies, letting her whisk by him as she heads out the door. His eyes don’t leave her till I hear her car door slam.

“She always smells so damn good,” he comments. “You ever notice that?”

“No,” I lie.

“Are you dating her now that Greta is out of the picture?”

“Dating Freya? Hell no.”

“But you went out with her last night,” he says casually.

“Yeah,” I say, bristling defensively. “But it wasn’t a date. Flynn and Cartright were there.”

“I know. Flynn called me and told me to join you guys. But I had papers to grade.”

“God, you’re dull. You should have come. They had mussels half-price.”

Harris furrows his brow. “You know I won’t eat something that looks like it came out of my nose on a very bad day.” He glances out the open door again, as if to confirm that Freya’s gone. “Was Patrick there?”

“Patrick?” I lean against my counter. “How’d you know about him?”

He shrugs. “I’m an intelligence officer. I notice everything,” he brags. “Was he there?”

“No,” I reply, cutting myself short of volunteering anything else. Harris is a halfway decent guy and I should probably tell him that Freya’s now as single as a slice of Swiss.

But fuck Harris.

He’s an intel officer. He can figure it out for himself.