CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MASON
I’ve been sitting in the dark stewing over this failed experiment and wishing like hell I wasn’t born into this so called ‘privilege’ that has been more of a sentence than anything else. I’ve been drinking and longing for a certain pair of green eyes, for a forgiveness I know better than to expect.
Now, the heavy bass thump of Nine Inch Nail’s Closer is playing and she’s suddenly here, like some kind of mythical creature, summoned by my thoughts, driving me towards the edge of desire and reason.
It’s probably the scotch talking, the fog of it clouding my head, my thoughts, most of my senses, but not my taste. In my mouth, on my tongue is the sweet taste of her… innocence, decency, morality… all the things I’ve been denied by virtue of who I am and the name I was born into.
I feel like a starved, jealous maniac, wanting to consume her, to absorb her goodness and let it wash me clean. I need her with an urgency I’m ill equipped to deny.
“You taste so fucking amazing,” I manage to say in between the heavy pant of our breaths.
It’s primitive and sensual and intense but it’s also more. More than sexual, more than just the hot, delicious friction of our bodies. There’s absolution in her arms, deliverance in her kiss, redemption in her touch. The bruised and battered parts of my psyche are clawing for it.
Pushing her against the wall, I hear the clatter of glass as frames go crashing to the floor. I’m barefoot, fresh from the shower, and the painful sting of a slice to the top of my foot barely registers.
I can tell she wanted to talk, but I don’t. Not right now. And I’m selfish enough to let her be distracted by the physical magnetism between us.
I know it’s unfair, cheap of me, even. I know I should face the inevitable end of my time with her, but it feels like I’m possessed. Driven by a demon of lust and craven demands. My own darkness reveling in her purity.
She’s still wearing her uniform and the insanity that’s driving me isn’t patient. I grab her cheeks and she responds in kind, wrapping her silky legs around me as the hem of her blue cotton dress, the one with her name sweetly embroidered above her breast, gathers in sweaty, wrinkled chaos at her hips.
Fitting my fingers beneath the thin satiny fabric of her panties, I tear, ripping them off of her. With one quick movement at the button of my own pants, my cock is free, bouncing against the warm, wet mound of her snug against me.
I hear her gasp, her hands in eager search of purchase as she grips my shoulders. I dig in my pocket, finding my wallet and tearing the condom wrapper with my teeth, rolling it on, and preparing to bury myself in sweet, sensual relief.
I lift her slightly and let myself slip into her plush heat and the relief. The perfection in the way her body fits around mine is breathtaking.
Her body is gripping me, beckoning me deeper into what feels like a place I’ll never be able to escape.
I dip my head into the cavity of her dress between her swollen breasts, swirling my tongue, laving at the sweet, salty taste of her skin as I thrust into her. With my teeth, I yank at the lapel of her dress. A button springs free and bounces with a ping off the hard wood floor.
It’s not enough. Surrounded by her but separated by all this fabric, I feel angry at the dress, at my own clothes that exist in the divide between our bodies.
With a frustrated groan, I lift her and carry her to the couch. I fall back against the pillows and she lands on top of me, still riding my cock. I work furiously at the buttons of her dress, needing to see her body, to indulge in the image of her overset with the erotic pleasure I alone have given her.
I know it’s corrupt to take pleasure in defiling such chastity, such wholesome beauty, but for a brief moment, it feels like I’m stealing hope, stroke by stroke.
She’s moaning and rising up, riding me, setting the pace a little slower, achingly languorous. Every fiber in my body is drawn out and tortured as she undulates on top of me.
I let my hands rise up to her heaving breasts, still hidden behind the white lace of her bra. Through the fabric I pinch at the tight buds of her nipples, dragging a low, throaty sob from her.
The heavy cup of her full bra against my palm, I massage her and drop my other hand to her soft curls, to the tight peak of her clit, rubbing her, whirling my thumb over the sensitive apex. The way she’s throbbing beneath my hand and stroking me, it’s like an escape, and I want to throw myself towards it.
Letting my hands leave her, I grip her hips and sit up, pushing her to her back against the soft cushions. Her hair spreads out like a halo against the blue fabric of the couch, her face darkened with desire as I plunge into her.
Our eyes meet and I know I’m bare, exposed to her—all the words I don’t have, the uncomfortable feelings I push away are there, in my eyes, in my face. It’s galling and overwhelming and I try to look away, but I can’t. Something in me is forcing me to stay there, unmasked before her.
She tightens and I feel ravaged by the sincerity of this moment. The sensation plays across her face as release courses through me, unfettered and electric.
I grind into her, even after my own orgasm has reached its crescendo, driven on by her voice, crying out my name.
“Mason!” The sound of it reverberates in my ears. Neither condemnation nor pardon, just this moment… and I’m lost to it.
*
Jeanie’s in my bed and dawn is only a few hours away. If you asked me now, I might be willing to part with what remains of my soul just to stay forever in this bed, unburdened by everything beyond.
Of course, nothing lasts forever. The weight of everything between us is adding up and I’ve reached the tipping point. I can’t put it off any longer.
Jeanie is smiling, curled in against my side, looking blissful and satisfied. On an elemental level, I do feel content, but I also know if I don’t act now, there may be no way to recover.
Don’t kid yourself. You’re already past that point.
But maybe she’s not.
“Jeanie?” I whisper quietly, almost hoping she won’t hear me, postponing this conversation, if only for a moment more.
She writhes against me. “Hmm?”
“I need to tell you something,” I say, feeling my mouth grow stiff in rebellion.
Jeanie leans back slightly, looking up at me, a gleam in her eyes.
She thinks you’re going to say something profound.
“I’m leaving.”
The gleam is gone. “What?” she blinks in semi-smiling disbelief.
And oh, how I wish it was a joke.
“I have to go. I’m leaving Silver Springs in two weeks. I’ve only just started making arrangements and I wanted you to know.”
She’s pulling back, gathering the sheet up around her like armor, but her face is registering the hurt I was trying to prevent.
“What are you talking about? How are you leaving? You just got here!”
“I know, and believe me I wish I could stay, but…”
“But what? What could possibly be so important you have to uproot after you just barely moved here?” I can see fear on her face as she’s saying it, wanting to know the answer but also not sure she’s prepared to hear it.
It’s always been my destiny to disappoint her, though.
“I can’t… I’m sorry, but it’s not something I can explain to you,” I say even though I know it won’t be enough.
“What do you mean you can’t explain it to me? I’m your only employee, for one thing, and whatever this is,” she says, gesturing between us, “it’s something, damn it. Even you can’t deny that. I deserve to know just what in the heck is going on.”
I admit, feeling a little empty, “You’re right, you do deserve to know. In fact, you deserve a lot of things, but I can’t give them to you. I don’t have anything to offer you, Jeanie, no answers to make this tidy or palatable. I’m sorry, this is just how it has to be.”
She looks like I’ve struck her and I’d give just about anything to take it back, to undo all of this.
“So, you’re just… you’re just closing down and going? That’s it? I don’t even mean enough to you to know why…” she’s shaking her head, her voice sounds strangled with pain.
I don’t know what to say. I want to tell her the truth, but I can’t. She’s looking at me right now like I’m a monster, but if she knew everything in my past, the raw loathing and disgust she’d surely view me with are simply more than I can bear.
She’s rapidly gathering up her clothes and I’m watching her, feeling like the biggest asshole in the world.
There is most definitely a reserved table in hell with my name engraved on it for all the shitty things I’ve done, but this one in particular, it feels like maybe Dante got it wrong and there’s an eighth level of hell waiting just for me.
Jeanie moves to the foot of the bed looking at me behind the rumpled curls of her hair with aching, injured eyes.
“I thought you were different, you know. I thought… it doesn’t matter what I thought. I clearly mean nothing to you, so go ahead and keep your secrets.”
She rushes out of the room and I pound my fist against the mattress beside me, wanting to chase her, but knowing I can’t, knowing this is the way it has to be—me, alone. If I was half as decent as I know I’m not, I would never have looked at her to begin with.