“I NEVER SAID YOU LOVED it. I just said you enjoyed it,” I tease, pushing my heel against Mason’s.
We’re lying on opposite ends of his couch, stretched out watching a movie. Our legs and feet have been tangled together for hours.
After talking to Amelia and Averie, listening to their concerns as well as their hopes for what’s to come, I waited until they were off to school then called Mason.
He took the day off. I rushed over. We didn’t have sex as I thought we would. Instead Mason wanted to talk, to spend time getting to know each other again.
We did talk, for a while. We talked about his job, how it’s mostly safe. We talked about the girls, how they’re doing in school. We talked about Thomas, about how our divorce discussions are easier to decipher than our marriage ever was. We talked about giving my family time to heal, if that takes a day, a week, or year.
But soon talking lead to touching. Touching led to making out. Making out was heading toward the bedroom. I would’ve gone. Mason stopped us, deciding we wouldn’t.
This did not make me happy. You don’t give a cat a ball of yarn only to lose sight of it on the first unravel.
I suggested we sit on his large leather couch and watch a movie together.
I was skeptical at how easily the big brute agreed to watch Steel Magnolias.
I made him promise to stay quiet and keep an open mind. He made me promise him I wouldn’t cry.
He kept to his word.
I couldn’t.
I belted out a ridiculous sob when M’Lynn Eatenton, standing in funeral clothes and surrounded by close friends, railed on about life being unfair after losing her only daughter. I always cry at that scene because I understand her sorrow of frustration and loss.
“I never said I fuckin’ enjoyed it. I said I finished it,” Mason hisses back.
Lies.
Pushing this, he minds, “I’d watch a movie with you and a young Julia Roberts together, though. And I’d enjoy it a fuck of a lot more than watchin’ her die like she did.”
No, he did not just say that.
“A young Julia Roberts?” I snap, rolling up from the couch halfway to direct my question. “What’s wrong with her at the age she is now?”
“Don’t get pissy,” he remarks. “I’m sayin’ at that age…” He points to the now muted television screen which is running credits to finish with, “She was hot.”
“At that age?” I shriek. “Oh, my God!”
Rolling his eyes, Mason lies on his back and looks to the ceiling. “Here we go.”
“Oh, fuck that,” I slip, rolling the curse word out with no chance to cover it.
Terrifying silence ensues before a low reverberating growl breaks from Mason’s chest. I don’t have to be next to him to feel it. The air around him tenses, closing our distance on its own.
Oh no.
“What’d you just say?” he clips, his eyes narrowed and jaw ticking.
Shit.
Playing off, I reply, “I’m just saying what you said was rude. Women age, Mason. We grow old. We can’t do anything to stop it.”
Sitting up, Mason holds his weight to his hands behind him. He’s staring blankly in my direction as if he’s just seen a ghost. This goes on long enough I almost twist my neck to check beyond my left shoulder for Casper come to life.
“That’s not even close to what I’m talkin’ about and you know it. What else did you say?”
Shit. Damn.
“I said let it go.”
“Wrong again, Katie Mae,” he voices, this time with a playful smirk.
Shit. Damn. And seriously!
“Mason,” I call, lying back and raising my hands to block him from pouncing.
“Woman, you cursed,” he accuses with challenge, shaking his head. Changing position and crawling up the couch, he adds, “And you cursed the really bad one.”
Titan stands on all fours, readying himself to join Mason’s fun. Mason turns to him, giving him a curt nod. The puppy slowly reassumes his resting position on the floor at my side.
Once above me, Mason’s mouth goes straight for my neck. The warmth of his breath sends shivers down my back and between my legs. I spread my thighs, waiting and anticipating more.
“You’re ridiculous,” I smart.
“If you tell me what you said, I’ll fuck you the way you like me to,” he baits in return.
“How’s that?” I query.
There are many ways Mason has with me. All of which I’ve so far enjoyed. Picking just one would be wrong.
We’ve had sex rough with passion, as the first time on his floor.
In the shower after, quick and easy.
In bed, slow and sensual. He took his time there, reminding me of how we once were together.
Rough, tough, and dirty, though, I haven’t had enough of.
Biting the skin of my neck, he insists, “You like when I take your pussy hard.”
God. He’s right. So tempting, but still, “No.”
“You love when I play with your body until you moan my name.”
Damn it.
He’s going to have his way with or without my verbal consent. My body’s primitive reaction is going to give him my unspoken permission.
“Tell me you want my cock, Katie,” he demands.
“You’re being crass.”
His hand traverses slowly up my thigh, lifting his shirt I’m wearing with every inch it glides.
“Tell me you wanna fuck me then,” he insists.
“Mason,” I deny, holding his wrist but my attempts to fend him off are futile.
“You want me to stop?” he questions, slipping his hand between my legs. He finds my clit, rolling his finger over it with persistence.
“No,” I admit.
“Then tell me you want me to fuck you.”
“I want you inside,” I compromise.
“Stubborn,” he utters, unbuttoning his jeans.
His chest muscles move, giving tell to his stroking his already hard, sleek length. I’m trying to be patient as his eyes darken and he shifts in place, but I’ve lain near him for almost two hours. I’ve been a suffering mess the entire time.
Finally, once Mason readies himself between my legs, he states, “Gonna fuck you hard, baby. I’m gonna take what I want, when I want, so catch up with me or not, I’m going in.”
Oh God. Please do.
Yet, nothing happens. Mason remains still. He lifts his head from my neck and his dark blue eyes pierce mine with arrogance.
“But I won’t do anything until you admit you want me fuckin’ you dirty.”
Lifting my head, my mouth reaching his ear, I brace my hands on his shoulders and wrap my legs around his waist. I know as soon as I say the words, Mason won’t delay. He never does.
“Fuck me dirty, honey,” I whisper.
At this, he strikes. Fast and hard inside until he’s seated at the hilt, filling me with all of him.
I sigh.
He moans, followed by a string of abrupt, quiet curses.
I could live a happy life with this memory alone. My insides clench, my belly flips, and my fingernails score his back at the thought I won’t ever have to live in memory of Mason again.
Mason responds, ripping the neck of my shirt down. He takes my already pebbled nipple into his mouth, sucking the sensitive flesh as fast and furious as his hips are grinding into mine. Brutal. Unforgiving.
“Fuck, I love this pussy,” he utters, finding my lips and sucking the bottom.
Reaching under me, Mason uses both hands to grasp my ass. His entire body covers mine, the warmth of his skin and the smell of sex threatening to consume us both.
“Fuck me, Mason,” I encourage. “I’m close.”
So close.
“Not yet,” he degrees. “Turn around.”
When I start to do as ordered, Mason shifts my hips until my back is to his chest, my front against the back of the couch. I catch our vague reflection in the bay window across the room.
I’m not looking at myself. My focus is Mason’s hand as it roams my chest, cupping it gently before disappearing from view to settle between my legs. The muscles of his arm work as his finger rolls over my sensitive clit.
“Hands to either side of the couch,” he demands first before adding, “Ass up for me and brace.”
As soon as I do as he’s said, Mason lifts the shirt up and over my ass. He looks down toward the small of my back and emits a low growl. This isn’t the same cheap, half-assed design he saw so long ago.
The shape has been molded and the details have been embellished. The butterfly I had there before has been transformed—bigger in size, broader in wingspan, and more vibrant in color. The artist who did this swore he was an expert in his craft. He wasn’t lying.
Pushing on the small of my back, Mason’s focus trains to the words set within the wings. To the naked eye, they’re supposed to be hidden and difficult to find.
But there’s no mistake about it—he’s already made out each word clearly
Looking up at him in the reflection of the window, Mason’s gaze pierces my own.
Judging by the aggression while removing the rest of his clothes, I’m guessing he approves.
“Keep Happy?” he hisses with accusation, dropping his jeans to the floor. “You inked the skin on your back with Keep Happy?”
My face and neck warm, no doubt flushing. The tips of my fingers are white against the edge of the couch. I brace, jutting my hips toward him, anxiously waiting for what’s to come.
Leaning forward, Mason’s breath fans my ear. He grabs my hand, places it between my legs where he forces my finger to my clit. Using his finger, he shows me what he wants done.
Then he gruffly orders, “Work yourself.”
My stomach flutters.
“How many times, Katie?” he then demands, his voice low and raspy, his cock rubbing, pushing against my lower back.
Confused but working myself with vigor, I ask, “What?”
“How many times have you thought about me in your bed since I was in it the last time?”
“Mason,” I call, my voice low and soft at countless images I’ve had of him there.
“How many times have you thought about me pushing inside you?”
As Mason grasps my hips, my breathing becomes uneven. He enters in one long, smooth thrust.
When I stop my ministrations, Mason barks, “No one told you to stop touching yourself.”
Trying to focus, I sweep my finger across my clit. The other slides against Mason’s cock as it enters and retreats.
“Did you think about my hands on you when you were laying next to your husband at night?”
His eyes close, giving me open opportunity to admire his chest as the muscles work in tandem to each furious drive. Along with the image of my hand disappearing behind the couch to work us both.
“Fuck yes,” he grinds out. “You thought about me, Katie. Again and again.”
“Mason, I’m close,” I relay, shoving myself back for more.
My legs tremble and I’m forced to take my eyes from him. I rest my forehead to the couch and close my eyes.
I’m so close.
“Don’t look away,” he demands. “I’m marking this,” he says next, rubbing his hand over the tattoo, reveling on his words forever etched.
Mason’s hand travels up my back, resting at my neck.
Pressing down carefully, he urges, “Together?”
“Yes,” I manage, my body being jolted with another powerful thrust.
“Say when,” he urges.
He hits his mark with precision, and my toes start to curl. My chest burns from being pushed into the material of the couch. I position both hands to the back of couch and brace for what’s coming.
Mason’s drives continue.
He hits the spot.
My stomach stirs.
My insides clench.
A loud and carnal roar breaks from his throat and I’m lost. My body reacts, releasing around him in a violent hold.
Mason holds my hip in position; he does just as he proudly proclaimed what he intended to do. Mason pulls out. The warmth of his release spreading across my back as his hand covers the tattoo.
“Marked,” he utters, looking down.
In the reflection of the window, I smile at his satisfaction. He smiles back and finally lets me go.