by Ophelia Bell
“Mason,” she breathes.
“Good or bad?” I ask, almost breathless myself from desire.
“So good. I need you.”
“I’m not done yet.”
It’s an effort of will to move away, but I do. I retrieve the oil and pour a little into my hand, then kneel between her knees. Her sweet pussy glistens with arousal in the dim light, and her ass flexes and releases as if she seeks relief by squeezing the muscles.
“Relax, baby,” I murmur as I rub my oily hands together then slide them over her ass cheeks. I massage in slow circles, spreading her open a little more with each stroke, grazing my thumbs between, closer and closer to her core. She lifts her hips and spreads her legs wider, opening up to me.
I swallow hard, second-guessing my plan because my dick aches to the point of pain now, but I want to see how far I can go. I slide one hand a little lower, grazing my thumb against her opening. She’s soaked, her arousal slick and hot beneath the pad of my thumb as I keep stroking lower.
With my other thumb, I gather the oil at the peak of her ass crack and stroke down, stopping right at her puckered hole. I rub in a light circle until she flexes and releases again with a moan.
“Do you want more?” My voice grates out like gravel and she shivers a little under my touch.
“Please,” she whispers, pushing up into my touch again. I love how desperate she gets, both hands clutching the pillows so hard her knuckles turn white. So I give her more.
I slide the fingers of one hand through her slick folds and find her clit. At the same second I start to rub, I push my thumb past the tight ring of her asshole.
“Oh God. Yes!” She pushes up into me, rising off the bed onto her hands and knees.
I keep stroking her clit as I twist my thumb in her ass, plunging it in and out, just barely breaching her opening. She whimpers and twists her hips, another plea falling from her lips. “Please fuck me.”
“Okay, but you have to promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“No screaming like a wildcat. The baby’s sleeping.”
She groans, then nods. “I’ll do my best.”
The warm rush of elation that floods me is indescribable. I’ve never felt so in tune with a woman, so sure I want her in my life. When I line my dick up with her slick opening, the buzz of certainty gets stronger.
I widen my knees between hers and push in slowly, leaving my thumb pressed just beyond her tight opening. She shudders beneath me, her shoulders flexing as she clutches the pillow, letting out a low, muffled moan into its softness. Then I start to move. I go slowly at first so I can acclimate to how fucking amazing she feels, then speed up, twisting my thumb and fucking it in and out of her ass as I plunge harder and faster into her pussy.
She rocks back against me, keeping the same rhythm until our bodies smack together and her moans start to rise in volume despite her face being pressed into the pillow. Her back arches, her oiled skin glistening in the dim light, then she freezes and throws her head back, grabbing at the headboard. I’m too far gone to care whether she makes a sound, but she manages to bite her lip, then gasp as she grinds back against me.
Her channel spasms around my cock, and I lose it with a groan I’m sure is loud enough to wake the dead, but it’s too late to hold back. I grab both her hips and pull her back against me, holding tight while she milks me dry.
“What was that about keeping quiet?” she says in a low voice, looking over her shoulder at me.
I dart a look at the baby monitor, but there’s no change in the dull whoosh-whoosh coming from Zoe’s nursery. Then I drop my head again and look down between us as I pull out and enjoy the mess spilling out of her.
She just watches me with that gorgeous smile, remaining on her hands and knees until I’m done admiring my creation. She doesn’t lie down again until I collapse on my side next to her and haul her close.
“I fucking missed you this week,” I say.
“Same here.” She traces her fingertips over my stubble, studying my face as if it’s been months since we saw one another, not a few days. She leans in and kisses me slowly, lips and tongue teasing sweetly against my mouth before she pulls away with a sigh and turns onto her other side.
I curl my arm around her and pull the covers over us. I could easily drift off just like this with her in my arms, but there’s something pensive in her demeanor tonight, and I’m a little afraid to ask.
“Looks like you’ve settled in,” she says before I can find the courage to say anything about her mood. She glances around the room. It’s only the second time she’s been here, but when she stopped by earlier in the week, this space was still filled with remnants of my baby brother’s high-school days.
“It’s getting there. Would you believe Mad, Marco, and I all fit into this one room for seven years without killing each other?”
She laughs. “No way! I’m amazed you and your brothers are so close. You’d think the opposite would happen.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s funny what having a common enemy will do for people. We were too busy worrying about Dad to give a shit about the lack of privacy. It definitely smells a hundred times better than it did back then, though.”
“Smells like baby oil now. You’re never going to get rid of this scent, you know.”
“I don’t really care right now.”
I squeeze her a little tighter. She goes silent for several seconds, and the only way I can tell she hasn’t fallen asleep is her nervous plucking at one corner of the pillowcase.
“What’s on your mind, Doc?” I ask, gripping her hand to still it.
A heavy sigh escapes her, but her body tenses so much I lift up on one arm and look down at her. “Baby, what is it?”
Her brows dip down and wetness gathers at the edges of her eyelids, then she clenches her eyes shut and shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I think it’s just that this is the first moment I’ve had to stop since we got back. I haven’t really had time to process everything, and so much still isn’t settled. Except right now, tonight, it all felt like it could be perfect for once, even though I know it isn’t.”
I raise my eyebrows. “This feels pretty damn perfect to me.”
She rolls onto her back and looks up at me, her face softening into that sweet expression she always gets when she looks at me. “It is, but I don’t feel like I can enjoy it until I know what happened to Chris.”
I inhale slowly and nod. “Right. Well, your mom and the powers that be have the intel. There was a lot for them to dig through, so it might take time before they find anything definitive. I’m sure we’ll hear one way or the other before too long.”
I hold back the fact that I kept a copy of it all for myself, but haven’t yet decided what to do with it, or had time to work my way through more than a couple years’ worth of the files. I feel a pang of guilt for not telling her, but I plan to the second I find anything relevant.
“You’re right. I need to be patient.”
When her troubled expression doesn’t ease, I narrow my eyes. “Something tells me that isn’t all that’s bothering you.”
She gives a small shake of her head and swallows. “No. Mason, I love you . . .”
“I love you too,” I say in a wary tone, because I sense a “but.”
“But I’m afraid of screwing this up by trying to have too much too soon. My life is not exactly blessed with an abundance of free time. I mean, it’s been almost a week since we saw each other.”
“Baby, a week is nothing. I think the question is whether it’s enough for us until we can figure out how to have more.”
“Is it enough for you?”
“I walked into that, I guess,” I say with a chuckle. “Honestly, I’d prefer it if we could have this every night, but I need to be realistic. I have Zoe, and I need to make sure the house is set up for Mom when she’s ready to come home. And I can’t just live on nothing . . .”
“You need to get your life back,” she says, t
urning to look me in the eyes. “You don’t need me distracting you.”
For a moment my heart plummets into my stomach, but I grit my teeth and stare back at her. “Don’t go there, Callie. What I need is you in my life. I’m free for the first time in a long time, so I get to decide what kind of life I’m going to have. Obviously there are a few things that are beyond my control, but if I have any choice about the part you play, I’m not about to let you walk away.”
“Mason, I don’t think you understand. My career is demanding. I accepted when I chose it that I’d have to make sacrifices. I already lost one relationship because I wasn’t willing to compromise.”
I almost laugh out loud at that, but manage to just shake my head as I cup her cheek. “You lost that relationship because you were with an asshole who didn’t have a goddamn clue what he had. I’m not going to make that mistake. I want you, no matter how demanding your career is. I’m here for you, got it? And if you decide you want to move to fucking Timbuktu to keep practicing medicine, I’ll figure out a way to pack Zoe up so we can go with you. Do you get that’s how serious I am about holding onto you?”
The tears are back, but she only stares at me as if I’ve grown another head. Like I must be crazy to still want her. But I’d have to be crazy not to.
“I don’t want to lose you,” she whispers.
“Trust me, baby, I’m not that easy to get rid of. As long as you’re good with all my baggage, I’m good with yours.”
“Well, your baggage is way cuter than mine, but point taken.”
She leans in and kisses me, then rolls over and sits up at the edge of the bed. She reaches for the bag she dropped on the floor when we came in, pulling out a pair of jeans, followed by fresh underwear and a shirt. There’s something seriously wrong with this picture. I need to do everything in my power to keep her naked for the rest of the night.
I sit up and reach for her, grazing my fingers along her spine. “What needs to happen now is you agreeing to get back into this bed and stay the night. Just tonight, baby. I’ll drive you to work tomorrow if you want. I’m going anyway.”
She shoots a skeptical look over her shoulder. “I actually need to sleep. It’s been a long week.”
“Zoe sleeps through the night. She’s pretty quiet even when she wakes up, unless her diaper needs changing.”
“It isn’t her I’m worried about waking me up.”
I hold my hands up, prepared to offer any concession she needs just to get her to stay, when a knock sounds on the front door.
“Who the hell would be stopping by this late?” Callie asks.
I glance at my phone. It’s just past 10PM. I’m not expecting anyone, but I climb out of bed and throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt anyway.
The porch light is still on, illuminating the silhouettes of two figures beyond the frosted glass of the front door. When I peek through the sidelight and catch a glimpse of green khaki Marine Service Alpha uniforms, my blood goes ice-cold.
42
Mason
“Is Mrs. Marcella Santos home?” the Marine on my doorstep asks. I’m still too busy processing this visit after opening the door to register the question. The casualty assistance calls officer is accompanied by a chaplain, and he holds an envelope in one hand.
At first, I think something happened to Marco during a SEAL mission, but no, these are Marines, not Naval officers standing outside my door. That means they’re here about Dad.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” I blurt. The men just look at each other before the first one—whose name tag reads “Sark”—tries again.
“Sir, do you live here? We’re looking for Marcella Santos. Is this her house?”
“Mason, is everything okay?” Callie calls from behind me. Her hand brushes my back when she reaches me, but her touch does little to warm the ice running through my veins.
“Marcella’s not available. I’m her son. Whatever news you have, you can tell me.”
Sark frowns and slips a piece of paper out of one pocket, glancing down at the list of names on it. “My understanding is that all the secondary next of kin—three living sons and one daughter—are already being notified. We’re here to speak to Mrs. Santos. May we come inside?”
I nod and step aside, letting the pair of them in.
Callie, for her part, grasps the seriousness of the visit quickly and starts brewing coffee while I lead them into the small living room. There’s still some confusion about my identity, though, a hiccup I didn’t foresee: They think J.J. Santos is dead.
“If Mrs. Santos isn’t here, can you please tell us where to find her?” Sark asks, taking a seat when I motion to the sofa and claim one of the armchairs for myself.
“Listen, if you’ve got people visiting my brothers and my sister right now, you can check in with them. Every one of them except for Marco will confirm my identity. I’m Julian Santos, Jr. I’m not dead. Mom isn’t here because she’s in the hospital recovering from the stroke Julian Santos, Sr. gave her before the chickenshit disappeared on another assignment. Assuming he’s the one whose death you’re here to report.”
It occurs to me that I should act surprised. I should act the part of the grieving son, but I just can’t bring myself to dig that deep.
That elicits a pair of frowns and another exchanged glance, but it gets through to them. Sark takes a deep breath and nods, handing me the envelope. He begins his spiel.
“The commandant of the Marine Corps has entrusted me to express his deep regret that your father, Julian, was killed in action in Kandahar, Afghanistan, on January 14th . . . ”
He dives deeper into the cause of death—a simple slip and fall while doing routine aircraft maintenance, something Dad’s spent his entire military career doing and could likely do in his sleep. But it was an unusually cold morning, and there may have been a patch of ice he didn’t see. He hit his head on the way down, the injury causing a brain hemorrhage the doctors couldn’t control. The irony isn’t lost on me, but I manage to restrain a bitter laugh.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and reach up to place my hand over Callie’s. The show of comfort is appreciated, but an even more profound coldness seeps in. This is my fault. I may not have landed the killing blow, but I set the ball into motion. I’m the one who demanded that Flores make it happen, which I did in a fit of rage. But now that I have perspective on what it means to be a good father, I’m torn.
There’s no suggestion they think it was foul play, but I know better. It’s not going to get back to me at least; Flores is far too careful for that. But I have trouble looking Callie in the eyes when I show the men out after agreeing to meet them at the hospital so we can break the news to Mom.
Callie doesn’t say anything when I return to the bedroom to change, but when I move to exit the room, she’s standing in the doorway and presses a hand against my chest. “Mason, whatever’s going through your head right now, I want you to know you can open up to me. Please don’t shut me out, okay?”
I can’t untangle my thoughts enough to say anything. I just shake my head and push past her, slipping into Zoe’s nursery.
I pause beside her crib, hesitating to tear my baby girl out of a sound sleep. The little mobile over her crib casts starlight around the room, and I close my eyes trying to pretend the whooshing ocean sounds are the actual ocean, that I could dive in and hide beneath the dark, chilly water.
I wasn’t prepared for this. I wanted it, but I guess I didn’t expect it to happen so goddamn soon. Does the fact that I’m not grieving my own dad’s death make me a terrible father? What would my daughter think if she knew I had a hand in this?
Callie appears by my side again, silent as we both stand and stare down at the sleeping angel in the crib.
“I hated him so much.” It’s still hard to speak past the knot in my chest. I should feel relieved, shouldn’t I? But it’s only made me question my own morality.
She rests a hand on my arm and squeezes. “It’s okay.”
&nb
sp; “No, it really isn’t. You don’t know what I was willing to do—what I did—to protect my family from him. I . . .”
I wince, unable to finish the sentence, but I finally look at her, and I’m blown away by the depth of love and concern in her eyes. She’ll never look at me that way again if she knows the truth.
But she surprises me yet again.
“Mason, whatever you did, I know you had a good reason. You’re forgetting that I met the man. I have seen firsthand the damage he’s caused in the scans of your mother’s brain. And for what it’s worth, I am in this with you. Come hell or high water, I’m not above taking drastic measures to protect the people I love, and that includes you.”
She turns with a sigh, resting her butt against Zoe’s changing table. “I need to tell you something. Earlier this week, I had a long talk with Yao. I asked him why he was working for Flores . . . He’s risking his license, after all, and I needed to understand what his motivations were.”
I look up at her, curiosity piqued. I can’t deny I’ve wondered about the doctor’s ties to Flores, but he never struck me as working under duress. “What’s his story?”
“They go back a few decades, believe it or not. Yao and his family were smuggled into San Diego from China in the early 90s in a shipping container. He was a teenager, old enough to grasp the suffering that surrounded him. Things weren’t exactly good for them at the time. They were basically forced into slavery by some rich asshole who had no concept of human rights. It turned out that rich asshole was someone who had it out for Flores, and evidently didn’t survive the conflict. But rather than put Yao’s family out on the street, Flores took them under his wing. Helped them get legitimate identities, find jobs, and even funded Yao’s studies.
“He said that old rich asshole and Flores were like night and day when it came to how they treat people. He also said the other guy was someone who looked good on paper, whereas with Flores, all you need to do is squint a little to catch a glimpse of how sketchy his business dealings are—not that any law enforcement agency could make anything stick.
