Past…
“WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE COLOR?” I continue baiting Mason’s patience with my quiz.
Earlier this evening, my phone rang. I knew before picking up who was calling. I had been in my bedroom watching Mason sitting in his truck, as it sat at the end of my driveway. He never comes to the door. Usually he’ll send a text and wait. If my dad’s sedan is gone, he’ll call.
But he’s never walked to my porch and rang the bell for me to answer. That’s not his style. Even with our mutually agreed upon Friday nights together.
So, being my dad is out of town, I wasn’t shocked or surprised to hear his greeting come out as, “I’m waitin’ outside, Katie Mae. Get your shit and let’s go,” then the click to disconnect.
Over the last three months, I’ve gotten to know Mason. And all of this has been exciting. Not wonderful, not fun, not great.
Exciting.
My stomach flutters when his face comes to my mind’s eye.
My breath catches when he gives me that look he does a lot; the tilting of his head along with a small heartwarming grin. His way of telling me I’ve done something he thinks is cute.
My hand trembles when he grabs it, no matter how often. We could be walking through a crowd of people; he’ll latch on and not let go until we’re safe and together.
And the way he shares his stories. Not many. Not in great detail. But I’ve learned a lot about Mason Cole and not by listening to him talk to my dad while I was hiding behind trees and bushes.
Since the night Mason took me home from the frat party, we’ve been in contact—kind of.
At first there were a few simple texts, where he declared I better be ‘fucking behavin.’
Then there had been an occasional telephone call here or there. Each had a purpose then a fast hang up.
Then as time passed, Mason decided we’d be friends.
We’ve been to dinner once, albeit a quick run around the Dairy Queen drive-through.
We’ve been shopping, though only to Walmart to ‘pick up some shit’ he needed.
We’ve also been alone, just not often, and never anywhere which allowed quiet late-night talks.
We do everyday things that everyday people do. Dates in a sense, but not really.
Until tonight, under the stars, in the bed of his truck, I felt my dreams of Mason being the Prince Charming slipping away.
Since he’s never been good at easy conversation, the burden of getting to know each other better has fallen on my shoulders. Not that I’ve minded. I’ve started to enjoy taunting him. As I’m doing right now.
“I don’t have a favorite color,” Mason returns, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after downing a pull of his beer.
“You don’t have a favorite color?” I question, shocked and confused.
“Do I fuckin’ need one?” he counters tersely.
Only Mason Cole would ask if he needed a favorite. Every person has a preference, whether they realize and admit it or not.
God.
“Well, yeah. I mean, how do you decide on things?”
Cocking his dark brow, he rests his elbows on his knees. Mason is sitting directly across from me. I’m lying down, most of the time concentrating on the star-filled sky. I don’t want to get caught eyeing him in a way I shouldn’t. But, lucky for me, I’ve stolen a few glances of him in the moon’s light.
For the first week in September, the weather is humid and warm. Even still, considering it must be close to midnight.
The CD playing is one of my favorites. I love all things Garth Brooks. But “Shameless” is a song I consider a classic.
“How do I decide on things like what?” he prompts.
“You know,” I assert. “The color of cars, clothes, crayons, pens…whatever.”
“Next question,” he pushes. “If you have to ask another one.”
“I do happen to have another one.”
“Can’t wait,” he utters, then lifts a bottle of beer to his lips and taking another healthy drink.
“Why don’t you sign the greeting cards you send to my house?”
Since Mason found out when my birthday was, I’ve received a card on that exact day every year. I also got one unexpectedly after Mason ran into my dad in town. The two chatted and Dad shared that I was scheduled to have my wisdom teeth pulled.
He mails them directly to the house, addressing each not as Katherine Morris, or even only Katherine. All those from Mason read Katie Mae. They arrive with no return address and not a single one has ever been signed. Without having to open or ask, I know the dark, bold, nearly violent script on the envelope is Mason’s.
I’ve never talked to him about the cards, never asked his reasons why. I feared if I did, he’d stop sending them. And I love and save them. They’re in a box beneath my bed.
Now that we’ve become more acquainted, I’m too curious not to know how come he’s never made that extra effort.
“Why should I sign the card?” he pushes back in defense. “You already know the damn thing is from me.”
“You could say something inside. Maybe Happy Birthday or Get Well Soon?”
Shaking his head and tossing his used beer bottle into the empty field, he argues, “Fuckin’ card already says what I paid for it to. Why repeat myself?”
I suppose, in a way, he’s right.
Still, though. “Maybe I want to memorize your signature?”
Reaching in the cooler of beer he brought, he questions, “So you can forge it?”
“Maybe I want to remember every time I look at your handwriting there was a time you were thinking about me?”
“Again, Katie Mae. The card itself says that.”
I won’t win so I concede with a mumbled, “Never mind,” and let it go.
“Thank fuck.”
“You surprise me, Mason Cole,” I tell him, adjusting my head on the jacket he rolled for me and passed off as a pillow.
“How do I surprise you?” he questions.
Turning my head toward him, I admit, “I never figured you for a guy who dates.”
“I don’t date,” he denies.
“This is a date. And this isn’t the first date we’ve been on.”
“It’s not a date,” he hopelessly tries to correct again. “And we’ve never been on one.”
“Um, yeah, Mason. It totally is.”
“Have I had my tongue in your mouth?” he berates.
“No,” I return.
“My hand up your shirt?”
“No.”
Confirming he holds fast to, “It’s not a date.”
Not letting one go, I return, “I’ve been on other dates and this is definitely that.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Nodding, I give, “Yeah.”
“Any of these dates not include being drunk and high at a party you had no business being at?”
“Thomas apologized,” I explain.
“Thomas is a fuckin’ moron who doesn’t know fuck all about anything.”
Well, okay then.
“Grrr,” I sound out in a word.
“So for once you agree I’m right.” He smiles. “Good.”
Thomas and I still talk. He apologized for being an idiot—his word, not mine—at the party that night. I told him all worked out.
Since, he’s asked me to the movies a couple of times, but I’ve always politely declined. He’s also asked me to dinner.
He’s a really nice guy. He’s going to be successful, no matter what he decides. He’ll make some woman a really good husband.
But Thomas Dyer isn’t for me.
I’ve already decided that Mason is.
“Speaking of the party,” I start, suddenly curious as to where marvelous Mallory went. “What happened to you and that blonde woman?”
“Mallory?” he reminds and my heart trips. She must’ve made quite an impression to be remembered so easily.
“Yeah, Mallory.”
“Shit didn’t work out.”
“Why not?”
Leaning toward me, Mason’s mouth stops only inches of mine. With a devil’s grin, he answers, “Mallory insisted I sign those fuckin’ cards.”
A laugh erupts and I hold my stomach. He’s trying to be funny. Mason has never been funny.
Once I’ve settled, I look up to note he’s staring at me. His expression is guarded, but still gentle in a way I know he’s ruminating over something important.
“So, tell me,” I start, pulling his study of me away. “What do you do with girls when you have them all alone on a country road at night?”
“Kiss them first,” he replies abruptly and without humor.
My thighs quiver as Garth belts out the chorus to “Unanswered Prayers.”
I’ve had sex. Once.
I hated my first experience and unequivocally choose to forget it. This isn’t to say I’m necessarily saving my next for marriage. And truth be told, I’ve thought about sex with Mason. Just the idea of what being with him might be like has ruined me for others.
“You kiss them?” I ask. “That’s all?”
Mason puts his beer bottle down and settles his large frame next to where I lie. My skin pebbles with anticipation when his side brushes purposefully against mine.
As he rests his head on his hand, Mason’s eyes grow lazy. The moon casting its glow over his face showcases every beautiful feature.
“You’ve kissed me before,” I lie.
Releasing a one-syllable laugh, he rests his free hand over my stomach. My smile fades while my stomach knots. He’s never intimately touched me in all our Friday hangouts. Not once.
I’ve wished for him to grab my waist in a growing crowd, ushering me away. Or moving me at his side, with his hand settling at the small of my back. I’ve daydreamed of having his hand caressing my jaw, his lips whispering across my cheek.
So far, nothing. But as his touch here burns through the thin material of my tank top, I fight not to close my eyes.
“I fucked that up. Shouldn’t have happened.”
“You regret kissing me,” I whisper with defeat.
“Nope. No point in ever having regrets. Especially if you enjoyed something as much as I did that.”
“You enjoyed kissing me,” I whisper again, this time to myself.
“I did.”
Pushing, I prod, “What else do you do with a girl on a date?”
“You really wanna know?”
All thoughts of playful banter disappear. The route and time it took from my house to here has become a blur.
“Yes,” I whisper into the dark. “I want to know.”
Mason’s face draws closer to mine. The smell of beer, sweat, and all I know of him, becomes more vivid with every inch he advances.
“I’m not a virgin,” I blurt, filling the tension with ridiculousness. When Mason’s head rears back in surprise, I move for damage control. “I mean, I don’t know why I told you. That detail isn’t important. I’m sure you’ve dated other women who weren’t virgins, not that you’re considering anything with me at all. Ever—”
My rambling stops when his warm hand cups my cheek and his nose runs along the side of mine.
Perfect.
“Stop talking, Katie Mae,” his voice rumbles in my ear.
“I don’t think I can,” I admit, my voice trembling, and my heart beating so loudly I can hear and feel its frantic cadence swooshing in my ears.
“What would you want?” he asks. “If this were a date. Tell me what you would want.”
What would I want?
To never leave the bed of this truck.
To always have his attention the way I have it now.
To touch him.
To have him touch me.
To taste his breath. To taste what ours would be like together.
To be with him in a way I’ll never ever forget.
“I don’t want to be scared,” I hesitantly confess.
As soon as that sentiment flies from my mouth, I freeze, expecting him to laugh or move away.
He doesn’t.
Bringing himself closer, at the same time pulling my waist to bring me completely into him, he leans down and kisses my neck. The coarse stubble of his jaw scratches my sensitive skin and my toes curl. Another kiss, this one rougher than the first. Then he brings his eyes to mine. My heart thumps and my nipples tingle like I’ve only felt when I’m alone in my room at night.
“You’re not scared,” he whispers. “You’ve never been afraid of anything.”
He’s right and wrong. Each time he drops me off at my house, I’ve been afraid of never seeing him again.
Every time we’re out and a pretty woman walks past, I fear he’ll find something in her that he never will in me.
He’s so very wrong. I’m scared of ever losing this.
“Kiss me, Katie Mae,” he gently orders.
Doing as he says, I tilt my head. My tongue sweeps across his bottom lip but he doesn’t open. When my hand reaches the back of his neck, my fingertips sifting through his thick hair, he gives in and I take advantage.
I move in deeper.
The kiss becomes frantic—wild, hot, and passionate. A whimper from me. A growl from him. Tongues duel, teeth clash, and our breathing becomes uneven.
The best first date kiss I’ve ever had.
Mason pulls back and looks down. He’s smiling and his wet lips are mocking. They tasted exactly how I remembered all those months ago.
“How drunk are you?” he queries, his eyes narrowing as they rove my face.
“I’m not drunk,” I don’t lie. I’ve only had three beers. One could say I was headed toward tipsy, however being close to him like this—I’m sober.
“You sure about that?”
“I’m not drunk,” I assure.
“All right. Then you’ve got ten seconds to decide how far you want this to go.”
“How far I want this to go?” I clarify to stall.
Mason’s gaze is determined. And impatient. “Ten seconds, Katie.”
“Ten seconds?” I mimic.
“My guess, you’ve already thought about what my hands would feel like.”
Oh God. He’s right but I don’t verbally confirm.
“Probably thought about my mouth, too.”
My lips part for needed breath, staring into that same mouth that I have, indeed, thought about. Many times.
“Baby, you gotta say somethin’,” he pushes.
“I want you to keeping touching me,” I blurt.
Smiling, his mouth falls to mine, where he murmurs against my lips, “That I can do.”
Mason moves fast. For a split-second he’s above me smiling down, then he’s on his way down.
Lifting the bottom hem of my bright pink tank top, he kisses the heated skin at my waist. A tug near my hip, and a tickle from his jaw, sends a quake of need as Mason licks just below my navel. With each brush of his lips, he’s tugging my oversized, cutoff jean shorts down as far as they’ll go.
I sigh, closing my eyes and blocking the stars. Images of what he’s doing take over. My body starts to fever and my thighs fight not to spread.
The buttons to my shorts loosen. Next, the night echoes with the sound of my zipper being drawn down. The touch of his mouth…so close to….
Mason’s large hands grasp each side of my shorts, taking them down with ease. The late night breeze strikes my center, lending fact that I’m completely bared.
Half-embarrassed, half-aware of what’s about to happen, I open my mouth to ask for a second to think.
But I’m too late.
Mason parts my thighs, his fingers wrapping around, his thumbs digging deep, wordlessly conveying where they need to stay. His mouth covers me completely. His tongue pushes against my clit before he sucks it in with greed.
Never has intimacy been like this. Open. Raw. Exposed. Safe.
My fingers run through his thick dark hair, holding him to me as my hips move in sync with his mouth.
Mason’s aggression continues.
His tongue enters—again and again, triggering a small whimpered cry to break from my throat. His thrusts become aggressive, each coming with fiery punishment. When a charged, guttural moan breaks, this time from my chest, a carnal growl explodes from his.
“Oh, please don’t stop doing that,” I beg, jutting my hips and seeking more.
“Fuck,” he hisses, taking his mouth away.
Looking at him, Mason’s wet lips wear Lucifer’s grin, paralyzing my next plea.
Holding eye contact, without warning, Mason slides his finger inside, filling me so full my neck snaps, aiming my head to the sky, and my eyes slam shut.
“Don’t look away,” he orders while I pant. “Hold on, baby,” he utters, just as I start to get lost again.
As Mason’s thumb works my clit, his fingers continue their search inside.
“Responsive as fuck,” he tells himself, continuing his assault.
Torture: his mouth, his fingers, his thumb.
I’m so close!
“Fuck!” I scream, pulling his hair and thrashing my head side to side.
My knees bend, offering him more room. Then when I don’t think I can take any more, when my body is no longer under my mind’s control but his, I have no choice but to cry out. And I do.
Abruptly. Loudly. And without shame.
That is, until the sensation passes and the air around us shifts.
The fear and humiliation of what we’ve done creeps in. I’ve never come apart like this before. Not even by myself and I know my body more than anyone.
Mason sits up. I don’t chance another look down.
Covering my eyes with my arm, I hear rustling of clothes, likely those of mine he’s putting back together. I focus on taking in even breaths. My breathing is shallow. My chest moving up and down. My mind is full of images of Mason between my legs and how he felt doing what he did. My thighs try to come together to ease a newly stirring ache, but they can’t.
Mason hovers from above. His shirt is gone, his bare chest flat against mine. His jeans have been removed.
Oh, my God.
“You scream fuck, and all I wanna do is show you what that word means,” he tells me.
Narrowing my eyes, I’m pulled from all I’ve seen, which is to say Mason’s large cock fitted in a condom and rubbing against my thigh.
We’re doing this. He’s giving me this. After he already gave me that.
My insides throb with familiar ache, as if my body can handle any more. As if he could do more to my body than he’s already done.
Oh, my God.
We’re doing this!
Mason’s hand cups my jaw, tilting my face toward his. He searches my expression. This is my last chance to refuse. Not that I ever would, but his attentive consideration is sweet.
“Kiss me,” I instruct.
He smiles then sets his lips to mine. I taste myself. I taste all of him mixing with all of me.
When he positions his hips firmly between mine again, lifting my leg at the side, I lose his mouth and my neck extends. He takes advantage, biting then sucking the skin below my ear.
“Mason,” I breathe out.
My tank comes up, the bra along too. Using his mouth, he covers my chest from one side to the next. His ministrations are merciless; his mouth as hungry as his determination.
Mason doesn’t ask permission. Settling his hand between us, he holds himself at my entrance. My hips flex in search for what’s to come.
At the same time his finger rolls over my clit, he bids, “Eyes to mine when I’m inside you.”
At his order, my eyes open and I concentrate on his gaze. Mason slides in deep and I gasp. He’s stretching me, enveloping me.
He’s consuming me.
“Fuck, so beautiful,” he murmurs, staring down and starting to move.
“Mason,” I utter.
“Breathe,” he eases. “Eyes to mine and breathe.”
The truck bed rocks with each controlling thrust. My back arches, taking him in—again and again.
“You’re not his,” he states as promise, his eyes still locked on mine.
I never was Thomas’.
When I don’t respond, his drives become aggressive. “You’re with me.”
I’ve always been.
In and out. Over and Over. Fast, furious, and deliberate. My body begins to move up the bed and Mason wraps his arms beneath me, grasping my shoulders tightly in his hands.
Another build is cresting. This time, with him all over me, its momentum becomes too much. My insides tighten, anxious and ready for the release I know is coming.
“Mason,” I voice softly and out of breath.
“You’re close, Katie,” he insists. “But you hold it.”
“I can’t,” I utter, feeling my body warm all over.
“You’ll wait.”
“Mason, please,” I beg, the warmth heating beyond measure.
My legs at his sides start to quiver. Mason positions his hands to my ass, squeezing tightly to the point of pain. He tilts my hips, driving deeper than before. With the weight of his body on top of mine, the solidity of us together takes flight, and I give what he’s demanding.
“Now,” he instructs. “Let it go.”
Again and again, I cry his name until his drives are no longer deliberate and controlled. They’re fevered and unpredictable.
His release follows, and his cock pulses inside. A feral groan of satisfaction vibrates against my chest when his mouth takes mine in a painfully punishing kiss.
Mason’s lips touch my neck, and I wrap my arms around his shoulders, holding him as tightly as I’m able. The stars in the sky shine down brightly, leaving us in silence and peace.