Mason
I went home with Claire and Avery. There was no way I could stay at the bar knowing what Avery was going through at home. I stayed in the kitchen and watched Claire work with Max, walking him through his folder from school, and explaining what homework is. She’s amazing with him—the way he responds to her. It’s hard to believe she’s working in a bar and not doing this—working with kids like Max—fulltime.
Avery keeps coming downstairs, asking us questions about what she should wear. She finally settles on a pink and yellow dress that ties behind her neck. It’s beautiful—she’s beautiful. And that dickhead Adam doesn’t deserve it.
Avery’s nervous—first-date kind of nervous. She’s sitting at the kitchen table with us, just chewing her nails, and watching the clock. She’s meeting Adam somewhere in town, not wanting him to come near the house—near Max—until she knows more.
When the time comes for her to leave, she stands and walks with Claire to the door, away from Max’s view, and gives her friend a hug. I stay in my place at the table, but I catch her eyes, and when I do, she keeps them on mine. I nod slowly, letting her know she can do this—she can handle whatever he throws at her. Her eyes are telling me she can’t, but I know she can. And I’ll be right here, waiting for her to come home.
I help Claire get Max ready for bed, watching her go through the list with him one item at a time—teeth brushing, pajamas, story time. I ask Max if I can read tonight, and he’s surprisingly okay with it.
“You have to read all of chapter eleven. That’s where we stopped; it was eleven. Make sure you read eleven,” he’s very insistent, and it makes me smile. I’m tempted to tease and start with chapter twelve instead, but I know Max isn’t someone you can do that with.
“Chapter eleven, The Rules of Gravity,” I pause for a second to look over the back and front cover of the book. It seems kind of advanced, and I look at Claire who just shakes her head and smiles, so I get comfortable on the floor next to Max’s bed and read on. “Gravity is a natural force that gives weight to an object. It is the force that attracts all heavenly objects to one another.”
I read three pages of something that feels more like a sixth grade text book, and I notice the few times I look up at Max, that his eyes are closed tightly, but his lips are saying the words along with me. I can’t help but smile at my inner thoughts; knowing how easy science is going to be for this kid. He may have so much to overcome socially, but hell…I would have given anything to understand half the crap I just read. And I’m twenty-five!
When I’m done, we shut off the light, and tiptoe the rest of the way out of Max’s door. Max isn’t asleep yet; I can tell he’s not. But Claire says he’ll lie there and pretend until he actually falls asleep—because that’s what he’s supposed to do.
“I’ll stick around, wait for her to get back,” Claire says, picking up our plates from the table, and cleaning up the kitchen from our small mess.
“You don’t have to. I mean…I’m not going anywhere,” I say, unable to hide the guilty grin on my face.
“No band tonight?” she says, dusting away the last few crumbs from one of the chairs before pushing it in all the way.
“Nah. I texted Ben, told him we’d hook up tomorrow night and rehearse,” I say, pushing my hands in my pockets and holding my breath, almost like I’m waiting for her to change her mind.
Claire studies me for a few extra seconds, her eyes focused and intense, before giving in. “Okay. I’ll call it a night then,” she says with a shrug. “If you think you’ll be okay.”
“I’ll be okay. If Max wakes up, I’ll just follow his lead,” I say, and she pauses to look up the stairs before coming back to me.
“He likes you, Mason. She likes you, too,” she says with a certain sense of warning to her tone. I don’t have a reply for her, and I don’t think she wants one—she wants me to know how Avery feels. For some reason, Claire is rooting for me, and I’ll take anyone in my corner that I can get.
I walk Claire to the front door, and flip the porch light on so she can see her way to her car, and so Avery can see her way home. “Remember what I said, Mason,” Claire hollers over her shoulder while she opens up the passenger door and dumps her stuff inside.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Don’t fuck this up,” she says, her smile big, and I hold up two fingers, giving her my scout’s honor. Yeah, I’m a real Boy Scout.
I don’t know what I was expecting when Avery came home. For the next two hours, my emotions pretty much run the gamut, and the longer it takes, the more stressed out I get, until I’m full-on pacing from the kitchen to the living room. I actually pick up a book that’s sitting on the coffee table, some stupid romance of Avery’s, and I even read a few pages—like I’ve read a book…for fun…ever! I feel like the father of a teenage girl—the way I keep flipping up the blinds with every set of spotlights that come down the road, and when it’s finally hers, I can’t help but open the front door and stand out on the porch.
“You didn’t need to wait up,” she scoffs, brushing by me quickly, and heading right up the stairs.
Oh no. This is not happening. I may screw things up a lot, but this time, whatever’s up her ass, well…that ain’t my fault—it’s his. I follow her to her door, and catch up to her just as she reaches for the handle, and I pull it first, keeping it shut.
“Mason, I’m tired. I just want to go to bed,” she’s fuming. Whatever that asshole did, his time will come. But she is not making this about me tonight. I step in closer, and force her to look into my eyes, and it takes her several seconds to break away.
“Seriously, Mason. I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, her voice softer, but not by much. Her nostrils are still flaring, and I can tell she’s still angry. She’s not going to go to sleep. She doesn’t have to talk to me, but she’s got to let out some of this stress from this…this…crap deck she’s been dealt.
“Come with me,” I say, grabbing her hand in mine, and pulling her reluctantly behind me. She tugs in resistance a few times, so I wriggle my hand higher on her forearm to show her I’m not backing down, and eventually she gives in and follows me back down the stairs to the front door, but not without stomping her feet.
“Max is sleeping; I can’t go anywhere,” she sighs.
“I’m not an idiot; just come out front,” I say, leaving her standing on the porch while I run out to my car.
“Wait a second, where’s Claire? Did she leave you here…alone?” She’s shouting at me, and I already know where this is going, and I’m stopping it before it starts.
“She left after he went to bed. Like I said, I’m not an idiot. I can handle watching the house while a child is sleeping,” I half yell and whisper, waving my hands over my head while I sift through the crap in my trunk. I’m yell-whispering—what the hell? I’m so angry and frustrated right now; I want to kick something, but all I can think about is how I owe this damn girl a kiss, and how more than anything I want to give it to her—I want to give it to her right now. But to hell if I’m gonna make her associate my lips with whatever pissed-off juju she’s got brewing in that head of hers. And if last night wasn’t the right time, right now sure as hell isn’t.
I find what I’m looking for, and slam the trunk closed.
“Jesus, Mason! Quiet, you’ll wake Max up!” she says, and I can’t help but stop in my tracks at her absolutely ludicrous statement.
“Really? You think I’m making a raucous? You don’t think all this is probably enough to wake up half the damned street?” I say, pointing into the fully lit and wide-open house behind her, then circling her and finally pointing all around us in one big-ass motion.
She slips out a small giggle at first, then she covers her mouth, trying to hold it in, but she can’t, and pretty soon she’s laughing, full-on belly laughing. Oh my god, she’s laughing. It’s the greatest sound ever, and all I want to do is kiss her!
“You…” I point to her, “are going to ruin me woman.”
Her smile grows when I say that. I’m not even sure where it came from. I’ve never given anyone an edge like that; never let them know they have anything—any power—over me. But she laughs like that, one more time, her arms wrapped around her body and her green eyes lit up under the moon, and yeah…I’m ruined.
“Now get down here,” I say, and she steps cautiously down the steps, still unsure about me.
“Golf clubs? What are we doing, breaking windows? You want me to drive over to his hotel, take a club to his Tahoe, and go all Carrie-Underwood-song on him?” she asks, but takes the club anyway, gripping it tightly, like a baseball bat, to the point where I start to think she might just beat the hell out of my car.
“No, nothing like that,” I say, pushing the club back down because, hell, she’s making me nervous. I hold up one finger so I can run over to the side of the house. I come back with about 15 Coke cans cradled in my shirt, and I drop them on the ground.
“Shhhhhhh!” she says, all serious at first, but soon her smile creeps in. She’s playing with me—this is good, this is the right direction.
I stand a can up on a small steppingstone in the middle of her yard and hold my finger up, like I’m calculating the wind. She laughs quietly, and it’s raspy, and it’s sexy, and I want to make her do it again. I scrunch up my shoulders, and then crack my neck to both sides to focus on my swing. I line it up like I really know what the hell I’m doing, like this—hitting a can with a golf club—is a thing people do.
I take a deep breath, and then I hit the shit out of the can, sending it about 30 feet into the street. I set the next can up for her and move the few pebbles I kicked up out of her way.
“I don’t know, I think I need a different club,” she jokes.
“I only have two. Got 'em at a garage sale,” I say, and she squints at me. “What? You never know when you’re going to need a driver and a…lemme see that for a sec? Yeah…a seven iron.”
“Well, then I want the driver,” she says, reaching for my club. I move it back, playing with her. It’s probably not the night to flirt—just a second ago she wanted to murder someone. But I can’t help it, and I think it’s helping her forget.
“I don’t know…this isn’t just any driver,” I say, flipping the club handle over in my hand to read the brand. “It’s a Big Bertha…Big Bertha? Shit, if I knew they made clubs with names like roller-derby broads, I would have taken this game a whole lot more seriously a long time ago.”
She’s laughing again, so I give her the club, and her eyes linger on mine for a split second longer than they have all night. Everything about what I’m feeling right now is probably wrong, and I won’t take advantage of it—this friction we’re both feeling—but there’s something there. And I know she feels it, too.
Avery lines up her shot, changing her grip, and bending her knees before wiggling her ass for effect. She’s doing it for a laugh, so I do—but all I’m thinking about is her unbelievably adorable ass in that pink and yellow dress. She gets more serious when she moves her arms back to swing, and when she drives the club head through the can, sending it almost as far as mine, she’s no longer smiling.
“Give me another,” she says. It’s almost a command, so I line one up for her and stand back to let her swing. She hits this one almost as far, a breathy grunt escaping when she swings.
“Another,” she says, so I do it again, and she swings harder this time.
She finishes every can in the stack, and I run to the side of the house to get her a dozen more—every single one of them she sends to the street. By the last one, she’s breathing hard, but she pulls the club back behind her head for one last rip anyhow.
“He’s getting married,” she says, and I can feel every ounce of hurt she’s feeling wash over me while she sends the last can to the curb. She holds the club out and stares at the aluminum carnage for a while longer, and I let her.
“She has two kids, and he’s adopting them,” she turns to look at me with complete emptiness. She is walking devastation—and I know why. “He wants to waive his parental rights…for Max.”
I’m speechless. All I can do is stand there in front of her and mirror the same goddamned stunned face she’s making. I want to hug her, pick her up in my arms and tell her she’s worth so much more, but my feet are buried in a thick cement of fear and regret. I don’t know a single thing I can say that will make this—any of this—even remotely okay.
“Can he…do that?” I ask, swallowing hard. My question seems so pitiful, so small, but it’s the only thing I can think to say.
“Guess so,” she says, shrugging, and looking down at her feet where she drops the club. “He doesn’t want her to know about him.”
I’ve been in exactly five fights in my life, and I was drunk for every single one of them, but what’s raging through my veins right now is so much more powerful than the whiskey from the road. I know in that instant that it’s not a matter of if I see Adam Price again, but when. And when I do, I’m going to make sure he’s got a permanent mark to carry around to let the world know what a grade-A asshole he is.
If I could get in my car and hunt him down right now, I would. But tonight, Avery needs me, and I don’t care if I have to be up all night just to get her to sleep. I’ll figure out how to get Max to school in the morning if I have to, I’ll make lists and call Claire. I’ll do whatever it takes to make that pained look on her face go away, if only for a while.
“You wanna drink?” I say, nodding to the porch behind me.
“Yeah, I do,” she says, her lip barely curling at the corner. I wait for her to catch up, and when we both take the first step onto the porch, I feel her fingers against mine, and I grip them hard.
Avery
I told Mason to make us rum and Coke, and I can tell he made it super weak. I might as well sip on cough medicine, but I appreciate that he’s being so sensitive. We take our drinks up to his room, and shut the door so we don’t wake up Max; the second his door closes my heartbeat picks up its rhythm.
Adam shocked me tonight. He shocked me by showing up in the first place. But as strange as it sounds, what he said didn’t surprise me at all. Maybe it’s because I wrote his parenting rights off in my own mind years ago, or maybe it’s because he was always selfish and worried about what people think.
Adam’s words hurt—they hurt to hear because they were about Max. But they didn’t surprise me. What did surprise me were my instincts. Adam was busy doling out fake apologies, talking about how this is all for the best, and how he’ll still pay his child support, but that we have to make it seem like a business venture. And all I wanted to do was run home—to Mason.
“You want me to play something?” his voice startles me.
“Huh? Oh…if you want…I guess,” I say, my eyes trained on his fingers, and how they grip his guitar.
“Nah, that’s okay. I only thought it might distract you,” he says. He starts to put the guitar back on the floor, but I grab his forearm to stop him. When I touch his skin, I hear him gulp, and his eyes flicker to my hand.
“I’d like that. Play something…anything,” I keep my voice soft, almost like we’re sneaking around. It’s barely nine at night, but here behind Mason’s closed door, it feels like the wee hours of the morning.
“Anything…hmmmm? Okay, well…I was sort of messing around with this; let me know what you think. I thought I’d play it with the band this weekend,” he says, tuning lightly and dampening his strings to play quietly. I recognize the song instantly. It’s Otis Redding’s “I’ve Been Loving You.” My dad played a lot of Otis records when we were kids, and he and Mason used to play those songs together in the garage. But they never sounded anything like this.
I spend the first half of the song just watching his hands—the way they move, the careful selections they make, and the perfectly timed moments. When he hits the chorus, I’m drawn to his face. His eyes are closed; he’s feeling this so much. That’s how Mason sings—he feels every word, his lips breathing life into each lyric. It’s a song I’ve heard a thousand times, maybe more, yet when Mason sings, it feels entirely different.
He opens his eyes for the last verse, and I look right into them. I know it’s an act—when Mason sings, especially on the stage, he has this power of singling you out and making you feel like he’s making this poetry, and it’s just for you, and you alone. But tonight, I’m the only one in the room. There’s nowhere else for his eyes to go, but I think even if there were, they’d still be here, in this place, with me.
When the song is over, the air feels thicker, and I can tell it’s making him uncomfortable. I straighten my legs for a stretch, and then bend my knees to stand, but Mason halts me.
“You don’t have to go. I mean…unless you want to. We can talk. We can talk about stupid pointless stuff, I mean. Not the heavy shit,” he shrugs and flashes a single dimple that has me back on the floor again.
“Okay. What do you want to talk about?” I ask, grabbing an old sweatshirt I find on the floor, and folding it up into a ball behind my neck.
“Come here,” Mason says, moving to the far side of his blow-up mattress and laying back with his arm out. I’m weighing this one, everything inside me screaming for me to curl up into his arms, but this tiny voice warning me not to. “Stop trying to find my damn angle, Avery. I feel bad you’re lying on the floor is all.”
He’s right, so I crawl over to the mattress and slide in next to him, my weight making the mattress bounce and shake like a birthday fun house. “Gee, yeah, Mason. This is so much better than the floor. You’re a real gentleman,” I joke, and he pokes me in the side.
I kick the straps of my sandals loose from my ankles, letting them fall to the floor. Reaching down for his blanket, I pull it over my knees, mostly because I’m still wearing a dress, and the quilt makes me feel less exposed somehow.
“All right, Miss Abbot. Let’s see—why don’t you tell me about something I don’t know. Like…oh, I know! What’s with Max and the planet book? Like, seriously—I learned something from that bedtime story tonight,” Mason asks. I love that he’s asking about Max, and I love the details he notices about him, like how unbelievably smart he is.
“Okay. Well, it’s pretty clear he likes science,” I start. I turn my head to face him, twisting my body ever-so-slightly to the side when I do, and I feel his fingers curl around my shoulder blade, almost cradling me—like he’s hovering. His barely-there touch sends the tiniest chill down my spine, and I find myself wanting him to hold me harder, and I mentally wish for it.
“We went to the planetarium over the summer, and there’s a guy there who runs the show. He’s like Max,” I pause, waiting for him to understand, and when he nods slowly, I continue. “Max really liked the guy. I think he just liked the way he spoke. There wasn’t a lot of fluff, just facts—lots and lots of facts. And when the show was done, Max asked to look at the store. He’s usually not interested in things like that, so when he picked out a book, I jumped at it and bought it—all fifty-nine dollars of it.”
“Damn, that’s a rip-off,” Mason says. I laugh in response, and I feel his hand get firmer along my back when I do, and the same chill travels down my body.
“Right. Well, joke’s on them, because we’ve read that thing through, cover-to-cover, forty times. Max has it memorized. We’re almost to a buck a read,” I smile at my joke, and when I look up, Mason’s smiling back, his dimples deep. I want to touch them, so I take my right index finger and reach up to his cheek and softly run the tip of my finger over the divot.
“Uh, that’s…different,” Mason says, his eyes almost crossed while he peers down at my finger on his face. He’s unshaven, and I want desperately to cup his chin with the rest of my hand, to feel how rough it is, but I’m embarrassed enough already, so I pull my hand away and turn my face into him so he can’t see me.
“You’re dimples are cool. Kinda always wanted to touch them,” I say. What the hell, I already violated his face—might as well own up to that one. I can feel Mason chuckle deep in his chest, and then his thumb gently slides back and forth on the bare skin of my shoulder. I. Never. Want. It. To. Stop.
“Your turn. Ask me something. Ask me anything,” he says, almost eager for me to want to know one of his secrets. I think about it, and then I spare a glance at his face for inspiration. He’s looking straight up at the ceiling, his other arm tucked under the back of his neck, completely at ease.
“The tattoo,” I start, and I watch as his eyes close tightly, and he slides his hand forward over his face, almost wincing. He tilts his fingers up just to glance at me, and then he shuts them back over his eyes when he sees I’m watching. “What’s the story?”
I’ve hit a nerve, and Mason Street is actually embarrassed, which only causes me to prop my head up with my fist to look him in the eyes. He laughs lightly when I do, and he turns to face me more, but he leaves his arm under my neck. His fingers are playing with my hair now. I wonder if he knows I can feel it? I don’t react, though, for fear he’ll stop.
“All right, so I’m on the road with the guys…for like…six months. We started out playing some pretty decent venues, but then it turned into some pretty shitty dives,” he looks at me when he says this, probably more embarrassed admitting that his tour wasn’t a great success than about the tattoo. I just shake my head, urging him to keep going.
“So, we end up in this nasty old casino in the old part of Vegas. I mean, rooms are being rented by the hour, and there’s a guy they call the King of Heroine on one of the floors—that kind of a shithole. Anyhow, me and the guys decide to party with some chicks we meet at the casino; they were in town for a bachelorette party. We start drinking at this rundown club, and this one girl, Teresa, is really putting herself out there for me. So we drink more, and then we bring it back to the hotel, and we drink more. And—” he pauses, his lips suddenly getting tight; I prod him with my elbow. “I don’t know…are you sure you want to hear this story?”
I nod yes, my smile bigger with every piece he tells, probably because it embarrasses him. For some reason though, my wanting to hear makes him get quieter, and he’s staring at me hard. “Okay, I’ll tell you. But you have to promise me something…”
His words make me a little nervous, but I say, “Okay,” anyhow.
“Promise me you’ll still see me the way you do right now?”
I nod yes slowly, but without hesitation. I’m in—I’m deep into this…this…whatever this is that I am feeling for Mason. And who am I to talk—the girl whose ex just told her he basically wants to hide her existence away, like an offshore money account. Mason has a past—I’ve seen it. And I don’t think this is the story that’s going to make my heart do a complete U-turn.
“Okay, well…me and Teresa ended up ditching the room party after some pretty crazy, uhm…stuff,” he coughs, and I know he means they had sex. And I know it was a roomful of people. And I’m not surprised Mason was in the middle of it. I don’t really like imagining it, but I’m not shocked or angry. “We sort of ended up at the chapel. And next thing I know, it’s the morning, and we’re married.”
“Ohhhhh,” I start laughing now, uncontrollably, because you hear about rash wedding chapel runs in the movies—I never thought they were real.
“Right? But wait, it gets worse,” he says, rubbing his hand over his face at the memory. “Turns out Teresa…was the fiancé!”
“Oh shit!” I’m laughing even harder now, covering my mouth with my hand to stifle the noise.
“We got it annulled, of course. But I’m pretty sure she ended up calling off the wedding. Or the dude did. Never saw him, but she told me he found out,” Mason says, nodding at the memory.
“So…how does that fit with the tattoo?” I ask, and Mason takes a deep breath, finally pulling his arm out from under me and sitting himself up a little to pull off his shirt. And I now suddenly could not care less about the tattoo—because he’s lying back down, his bare skin right there, touching me, and it’s bronze, and it’s perfect, and there are abs happening and…oh my. I force myself to listen to him even though all I want to do is run my fingers up and down his chest.
“If you look carefully, you can still sort of see it,” he traces his finger over a few stripes within the delicate tiger wrapped around his bicep. I don’t know what he’s pointing at, exactly, but I take the opportunity to study his arm. “Look there…it’s her name. I tattooed that chick’s full fuckin’ name…on my arm! I covered it up with the tiger a few weeks later, but the guys kept calling me Mr. Teresa Westerhouse for months.”
It might have been a mistake that put the ink on him in the first place, but damn did it turn into something special. I can sort of see a few of the letters, but even knowing the story now as I do, I don’t see her name. I’m probably just a little drunk on the high of being in so much contact with Mason’s body—but right now, I’m ready to tattoo anything he wants on mine, just to get closer and to touch him more.
“I think it’s beautiful,” I let the words slip, and my eyes flair when they do, but I just hold my breath, thankful that from this angle, Mason can’t see my face.
“Yeah, well I think you’re beautiful,” he says in an instant, and now my heart is officially in my throat. His hand is back to stroking my hair, and he’s no longer trying to hide it, instead, his fingertips start at the very edge of my hairline, lacing deep into the strands, softly brushing them out across my bare shoulder.
When I feel his hand run lower down my neck and pull my head in close, I stop breathing, afraid that I’ll do something…say something…that will make him stop. In seconds, his lips are on my head, and I can feel him inhale. My body is telling me to look up, to make a move—to take a leap of faith. But then a familiar light floods his entire bedroom, and time actually freezes.
My dad has driven the same damned pickup truck for fourteen years. The lights cast a very distinctive hue, and when I first started dating Adam in high school, I had it down to a science. The second I saw those lights pour in through the front living room windows, Adam was quickly pushed out the back kitchen door.
“Shit, that’s my dad!” I say, practically jumping to my feet and cracking open Mason’s door. I step one foot into the hallway, just enough to flip the bank of lights off, and then my dad’s keys are at the door. I push Mason back into the room and shut his door again behind us, holding my finger up to my mouth. “Shhhhhhhhhh!” I say, giggling uncontrollably.
I lay my ear flat against the wood so I can hear my dad move through the kitchen, get a drink from the fridge, and kick his shoes off by the stairs. The fourth one creaks as he passes it, and I widen my eyes at Mason, warning him that he’s coming. Mason leans forward against me, pressing his own ear next to mine, and we both wait. It’s hard to tell, but it seems like my dad is standing at the top of the stairs in the middle of the hall for an unusually long time before he makes his way to his own bedroom. I finally hear his door close, and let out the breath I’ve been holding, sliding my back against the door so I’m facing Mason.
“Avery, you know we’re like…in our twenties, right?” Mason says, his dimples back again. I want to touch them. And now we’re inches apart, and his bare chest is right here, up against me, pinning me to the door.
“I know, I just…” I start to explain my craziness, but he stops me.
“I get it. It’s your dad. He scares the crap outta me, too. He’d kill me, you know?” he says, raising one eyebrow. His body is still right here—with me…against me. And now, it is all I can think about.
“He wouldn’t kill you, Mason,” I whisper, half trying to be quiet, and half petrified by the feeling in my chest. Almost as if I’ve lost control over my own body, my fingers slide up Mason’s side. I graze the firmness of his stomach with my thumbs, taking my time to trace along the hard lines of his abs and chest until I’m at his collarbone. I hesitate, the reason-side of my brain questioning everything I’m doing, but then Mason’s hands find my wrists, and he holds them in place against him, his feet closing the inches now between us until I can feel every breath tickle my ear.
“You sure about that?” he asks, dragging those words out slowly across his lips. The sound of his voice is different now. It’s not flirtatious like before. This sound is deeper, hungrier—it’s suggestive and luring, and it’s breaking down every defense I have left. My eyes are trained on his fingers, his grip strong around my arms. That’s the only barrier I have left, and I know the moment I look into his eyes, I will forever be lost.
I consider every angle, avoiding the choice I want to make—the obvious choice—until I no longer can, and I look up at him to find his eyes waiting. His room is dark, and most of his body is cast in a shadow, but the moonlight traces his face, illuminating his eyes. I know my body is shivering, and I know he can feel it, but he’s looking at me like I’m strong, like I’m his equal. His long lashes fall slowly as he shuts his eyes, and his forehead moves to rest against mine.
“I’m battling here, Avery,” he says, his voice quiet but rough. “I want to kiss you so goddamned bad. But I told you I’d wait until you were ready. And tonight—”
I manage to free one of my hands from his grip, and I press my fingers to his lips, stopping him from making any more excuses. I linger there, feeling his lips open barely, his teeth grazing against my skin, and the sensation forces my eyes closed too. I will never be ready to kiss Mason Street. I won’t be ready, because I’ve spent a decade training myself to not want him. And then, when Adam left me, he crushed my spirit, and my taste for passion went away with it.
But I feel like this Mason might be my only chance—and I feel like if I don’t let down my guard, just a little, he may never try. I’ve done regret, and I don’t like it.
“Mason, what happened earlier…tonight? That had no effect on how I feel…” I swallow hard, willing myself to say the last few words, “about you.”
I didn’t think it was possible for Mason’s muscles to get any tenser, but they do the second I say that sentence. I force myself to live this moment, to accept it, and I open my eyes slowly to find Mason’s reflecting everything I’m feeling back at me.
“Avery…” he says, his breath barely able to complete my name. His hands slide up my shoulders and neck slowly, until they cup my face, urging my chin higher until our noses are touching. We’re so close…when he licks his lips, I feel the tip of his tongue barely touch my top lip, and my entire body is on fire, tingling with desire, and begging for his touch.
Every instinct within me is telling me to run, but I push that urge down deep—this time, I let my heart have what it wants. When I feel his warm breath against my lips, I close my eyes tightly in anticipation, but his kiss doesn’t come—not yet. I feel his fingers slide back into my hair, his right hand moving to the base of my neck while his forehead is still against mine.
A tiny breath escapes me, and I know he hears it, because the second it does, he moves his other hand to my shoulder and slides his fingers slowly under the strap of my dress, lifting it and dragging the knotted strings down the crest of my shoulder. His nose traces the line from my jaw down my neck until his lips find my bare skin, where he leaves his first kiss—soft, and sweet.
He does the same to the other shoulder, until the only thing holding up my dress is the tightness of the fabric around my breasts. I feel his hands begin to move around my body while his lips work their way along my collarbone, and my pulse is racing with nerves, and want, and fear. He can feel me shake, and just as his fingertips find the edge of my zipper, his lips hit my ear.
“I’m going to kiss you, Avery, and it’s going to be the best fucking kiss you’ve ever had,” he says, his teeth pulling on the edge of my ear while he breathes. “But I want to feel your body, too. And this dress…as adorable as it is…is just getting in my way.”
All I can do is nod yes. I know if I try to speak, the words will fail me. I feel a chill along my spine with every inch Mason lowers my zipper, until his hand glides over the bare skin of my back. Seconds later, the dress falls in a pool around my feet. I’m about to step from it and kick it aside, when Mason’s hands lift me to him, gripping my thighs, until my legs wrap around him on instinct.
I’m nothing in his strong arms while he turns me slowly, walking back to the mattress on the floor. Along the way, his hands slide around my hips, and up my ribs, my legs squeezing him tighter to hold myself up, and his thumbs rub softly over the thin fabric of my cotton bra until they find the peaks of my nipples. He rests them there for only a few seconds, and I feel his touch run right through the center of me.
Mason kneels down until my back rests on the mattress and his body is hovering over mine, his lips yet to fully take mine in. I know it’s coming, and for a second I have a flash of panic that he’s going to back away from me and leave me there alone, embarrassed and rejected. But he doesn’t. Instead, his forehead rests along mine again as he pulls my leg up high around him, his fingers teasing to go further, but always staying just along the line of my panties.
Just as I feel I may pass out from all of the near touches, Mason lowers his lips to mine, his kiss at first soft, but growing with need every second, until my top lip is trapped between his teeth. His tongue grazes along my bottom lip, and I reciprocate until Mason can no longer handle it, and he kisses me hard.
His tongue explores every bit of my mouth, tasting me and urging me to do the same. As his hands slide up my leg, his fingers wrap around the band of my panties, and in that moment, my mind is actually begging him to rip them away. Instead, he continues to trail his touch along my body, stopping to feel me just long enough and threaten to take our kiss a little further. He slides every finger up and over the hardness of my nipple until I let out a small cry of pleasure, and only then does he break away, lifting himself just enough to look down at me…breathless.
“I want you, Avery. I want every bit of you—you’re so goddamned sexy and beautiful and amazing,” he says, his tongue held between his teeth while his eyes follow the movement of his hands as they push my hair away from my face and behind my ear. “But I only wanted a kiss tonight. And I know you said you were ready…”
“Mason, I want this. I want you…” I start only to have him stop my lips now with his hand.
“God, I want you to want me. And I think a part of you does…and maybe a month ago…hell, a couple weeks ago? Yeah, that would have been fine. I would have taken that sign, and torn the rest of your clothes away to take you completely…not giving a damn about what it meant tomorrow. But here’s the thing. I kinda give a shit about what this means tomorrow, Avery. And I know…I know in here,” he says, gripping my hand, and holding it to his chest. “I know tonight isn’t the night for anything more than kissing. But holy fuck, was that some kiss.”
My entire body is pulsing with need, but my mind is washed with relief, because I know Mason is right. And the more it sets in, the more his words sink in. Tomorrow. Mason is worried about tomorrow—with me. All I can do is smile, softly and genuinely, as I lift my head to kiss his lips one last time, this time gently.
I don’t even ask if I can stay, and instead, reach my arms around his body until he’s on his back, letting my head rest in the crook of his arm. Mason strokes my hair slowly, tucking it constantly behind my ear—I think in many ways, keeping his hands occupied until he can calm down himself. And I let him, his lips kissing the top of my head every few minutes, reminding me where I am, until I drift to sleep.