by May Archer
It wasn’t a polite suggestion.
I crawled up beside him on all fours while he slid to one side. “Like this?”
Fenn crawled behind me and ran his hands over my ass in a proprietary way. It made me shiver. “Yeah, baby. Just like that. Fuck. I’m gonna take my time stretching you, okay? It’s gonna feel so good.”
“I know it will,” I whispered. How could it not, when I was with him?
Fenn took his time reacquainting himself with me, like my body had become something different in the twenty-four hours since we’d last been together. He kissed a damp trail up my spine and over the back of my neck, then back down again, just to make me crazy. He pumped my cock like he had some kind of direct connection between my dick and his hand that bypassed my brain. And then he got started on the… the rimming, alternating long, slow sweeps of his tongue with hard thrusts that made me bite the blanket and moan into the mattress because the pleasure of it was so sharp it was nearly pain.
Finally, when I was rocking my ass against him shamelessly, he sat back.
“Mason? Baby, turn over.”
It took me entire seconds to process his words and turn those words into action, and by the time I’d done it, he’d retrieved the lube and a condom and was staring down at me with 100 percent concentrated attention that lit me up almost as much as his tongue had a minute before.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Wanna see your face when I do this. You ready?” He poured the lube on his fingers, then poured more over the heat of my erection. I sucked in a breath at the sensation, my mouth open in a reverse scream, and then he spread the lube around my hole with one blunt finger.
“Yeah,” I whimpered. “Shit, Fenn.”
Earlier, when I’d talked to Toby, he’d been only too happy to share all his anal sex tips and tricks, the asshole, and he’d managed to sound like RuPaul narrating a D-Day invasion documentary. I needed to prepare myself for invaaaay-sion. I needed to let my walls down so my fortifications could be buh-reached.
If I’d been even one percent less committed to the endeavor than I had been, I’d have run for the fucking hills.
But the experience with Fenn was not a damn thing like Toby had described. Nothing felt strange, there was absolutely no pain or discomfort, or invasion. I was floating, and blissful, and…
“Oh! Okay, wait. Hold the phone!” I sucked in a breath, and my eyes, which had somehow fallen closed, popped wide as soon as his first finger passed inside me. That burned. It wasn’t terrible, exactly, just… unusual. It was hard to overcome my instincts to squirm away, even though I understood the mechanics.
“Shhhh,” Fenn said, his eyes hot on mine. “Relax. Stop thinking and feel it, Mason. Feel me.”
Looking in those eyes made everything better. From the first moment we’d met, Fenn Reardon had hypnotized me, made me feel things I didn’t want to feel, allowed me to want things I hadn’t known I could want, so it was no real shock that he made this good, too.
One finger became two and then three. My legs were spread wide, and I was rocking and keening and biting my lip, loving the way he felt sliding in and out of me. He twisted his fingers to touch my prostate and—hallelujah!—my entire body lit up from the inside.
“H-h-holy fuck, Fenn.”
He withdrew his fingers slowly, then pushed my legs back to my chest.
“You are—” He broke off with a sharp inhale. “The sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
The look in his eyes was so intense I felt drunk with it. Euphoric. I smiled, and he smiled back in perfect understanding. Then he pushed my legs back further and leaned in to bite down on my ass.
“Hey!” I said with as much outrage as I could muster, which was to say none at all. “Why’d you stop?”
“I didn’t.” Fenn grabbed a condom box at random from the side table and rolled one on. “I’m just getting started.”
He poured more lube on his cock, then pushed my right knee back even further with one hand while the other gripped the base of his dick, guiding it to my opening. He lifted his face, harsh with tension, and our eyes met.
“Oh, hell, yes,” I said, just in case he was waiting for permission, and my eyes fluttered shut as he began to push and I pushed back…
And, okay… motherfucker. I blew out a breath. That was unpleasant. “This isn’t gonna—fuck. Fenn, I don’t think—”
“Baby,” Fenn said, voice tight as he leaned forward, opening me further. “Stop thinking. Just for now. Look at me.”
Looking at him was always my favorite thing to do. His face was absolutely contorted with pleasure, which made me feel pleasure. His cheeks were pink beneath his stubble, his lips bright red from kissing, and every muscle in his arms strained as he held himself over me.
And those eyes… Blue as the sky. Blue as the ocean. Deep, drowning blue. Fenn’s eyes had captivated me from the first day we’d met in a way I knew would never change. Right then, those eyes were glued to me like I was the single most important thing in the universe, and I thought if I drowned in him right then, I wouldn’t mind at all.
I felt myself relaxing into the stretch, into Fenn, letting it happen, letting go, enjoying every second of the ride as he started to move inside me.
“Oh, God,” I moaned as he tagged my prostate again, making my cock jump against my torso. “There, there! Fuck me. Jesus. Harder, Fenn. Harder!”
“Shit,” Fenn moaned, snapping his hips with brutal force that felt so much better inside me than I’d ever imagined. “Now you start with the dirty talk? Christ, Mason. What happened to you know? What happened to that thing?”
I pushed my head back into the mattress and tried to lift my legs even higher. “I need you to do that thing, Fenn, exactly the way you’re doing it—” I broke off in a low whine as he tagged my prostate one-two-three times at just the right angle. “And then I’m gonna you know all over both of us.”
“God,” he said. “You are un-fucking-believable. Touch yourself, Mason. Come on! Let me see you come.”
I felt unbelievable. Completely myself, totally confident, and… fuck. It was so incredibly right that Fenn was the only person who’d ever been like this with me, I had to bite my lip against all the promises that wanted to come spewing out of my mouth with every jerk of my hand.
I loved Fenn Reardon. Loved him. And if this wasn’t the kind of love that poets rhymed about, then I didn’t wanna know what more there was than this. My heart would be unable to hold it.
I screamed his name as I came all over both of our stomachs in lava-hot splashes.
“So hot,” Fenn chanted. “So perfect.” He snarled and came down on his forearms over me, and I wrapped my legs around him as he moved faster and faster and then chased me over the edge.
“Is it weird to think,” I panted sometime later, my arms and legs spread-eagle on the bed, my eyes on the ceiling, and a pleasant throb in my ass, “that if your uncle wasn’t a manipulative asshole, this would never have happened?”
Fenn, who hadn’t had energy to do more than tie off the condom and drop it to the floor, groaned from his sprawl half beside and half on top of me. He turned his head to the side so he could murmur against my ear. “Please. We have nothing to do with him. He was a manipulative asshole and it still almost didn’t happen. Not sure if you’re aware, but you kinda gave me the impression you didn’t like me when we first met.”
I laughed freely, enjoying the way it made us rub up against one another. “Did I? Whereas you had nothing but positive thoughts about me from the very beginning?”
“Obviously. But don’t beat yourself up over it, Mase. You can’t be the best at everything.” He yawned and tucked his face into my neck.
I lifted my hand to his ribs threateningly, though I was too tired to even tickle him. “You lie like a rug on the floor.”
“Listen to those baseless accusations, all because I happen to be a better judge of character. Tsk, tsk.” Fenn kissed the underside of my jaw. “Stick with me, baby. I
’ll train you up right.”
I sucked in a tiny breath and held it.
I could hardly believe how much I’d changed since Micah had said that to Con a few weeks back.
I’d learned I was strong and adaptable, that I was brave enough to live my life openly, and lucky enough to have a lot of friends. I also learned it was definitely possible for me to be jealous of Micah and Con and their relationship which was steady and solid and real.
“You’re younger than I am, you realize? By a solid five years?” I croaked.
Fenn shrugged one shoulder. “So?”
So… I swallowed.
“I’ll stick with you,” I agreed. But as Fenn’s breathing evened out and the sweet weight of him grew heavier against my chest, I wondered how long we’d have.
Chapter Seventeen
Fenn
“No, what I’m saying is David Tennant brings a certain gravitas to the portrayal—”
“And I’m saying Matt Smith’s hotter,” I proclaimed, crossing my feet at the ankles and stacking my hands behind my head on the bed. “So bite me.”
Mason turned from the closet, where he was hanging his clean laundry, and glared. “‘So bite me’ is not a compelling argument as to why we should start binging Dr. Who on season five.”
Unfortunately for Mason, his glare wasn’t quite as impressive when he was wearing nothing but his boxers and he was still damp from our post-sex, post-nap shower. I had to crush my lip with my teeth to stop myself from smiling.
Outside the open curtains, the sky was still bright. The humidity haze had caught the glow of the sinking sun and turned everything liquid gold, and tiny water droplets from the passing thunderstorm still clung to everything, but I had no desire to be out there, and apparently neither did Mason.
We were doing our usual evening routine, where he bustled around the room tidying shit that was already tidy while I spread out on the bed and watched him, chatting about stupid stuff. It was comfortable. It should have been reassuring. Hell, after the mind-blowing sex we’d had just a couple of hours ago, there shouldn’t even have been a need for reassurance.
But there was a strange tension in the air I couldn’t identify or dispel. If Beale had been around, he would have said it was a portent or some shit… but he fucking wasn’t, so we were not calling it that.
Mason paused in his tidying and looked over at me. He opened his mouth and took a breath like he was about to speak. Then he hesitated, shut his lips, cleared his throat, gave me an anemic smile, and resumed his task. For the fourth time in fifteen minutes.
He clearly had something to say but didn’t want to say it.
I ran a hand through my hair, smiled back half-heartedly, and watched the shadows shift as the sun sank, deliberately not calling Mason out on whatever words were stuck in his throat. Also for the fourth time in fifteen minutes.
Because whatever he didn’t want to say, I sure as fuck didn’t want to hear, and so the tension in the room ratcheted up another notch.
Mason’s phone chimed from the table in front of the window, and he glanced in that direction but didn’t move.
“Want me to check it?” I asked, eager for distraction. “Might be about a patient.”
Mason shrugged. “If you want. But the answering service doesn’t text, they call. It’s probably Toby wanting to know, ah—” He cleared his throat. “—how I’m doing. You know, on second thought, don’t bother—”
But it was too late. I was already up and off the bed, grabbing his phone from the charger.
“It’s Toby,” I confirmed, checking the screen. “He says ‘I need a status update! Has Edgar been invaded? Have the barricades been breached? Were there casualties? Report, soldier!’ Followed by an eggplant emoji, a bomb emoji, a peach emoji, a volcano emoji, a fire emoji, and a Red Cross emoji.” I lifted an eyebrow toward the suspiciously frozen man in front of the closet. “Baby, who or what is Edgar?”
Mason closed his eyes, flattened his lips together, and shook his head very minutely. “That’s not… It doesn’t…” He inhaled sharply. “I refuse to answer on the grounds I may incriminate myself.”
“Incriminate yourself?”
“Yes. And then you will mock me relentlessly until the end of time. No. Nope. Suffice it to say, I hate Tobias and we are no longer friends. Therefore, it’s as though that text was never sent.”
“Hmm. Don’t think it works that way. Weren’t you the one who told me—”
I broke off as an Instagram notification appeared on his screen.
“Who told you what?” Mason demanded. He moved into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. “No doubt, whatever I said was absolutely accurate as it applied to you but should never be applied to me. Fenn? What’s up? Did Toby write more?”
“Huh?” I glanced up. “Oh, no. You, um. You got an Instagram notification. You received a direct message from Victorious626.”
Mason’s head went back an inch, and his forehead creased. “Really? What’s Victoria want?”
“I can’t read it. You have to unlock your phone.”
“Huh.” He shut the water off and strode toward me, all lean and firm and mouthwatering, grabbed the phone from my hand and unlocked it. “Vic wants to talk.” He rolled his eyes and handed the phone back to me. “I’ll get right on that.”
I looked down at the screen as he walked away.
Victorious626: Hey, Mase! Really excited to see you posting so much. Um, this is so awks but could we talk at some point? You probs already know I’m back in the States for now, so just call whenever, k? Love you!
Love you. I sucked in a breath. That was… totally normal. They’d dated for a long time, so of course she loved him. Or thought she did.
Bitch.
“Why does she think you probs already know she’s back in the States?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual.
“Oh, she probably posted about it and thought I’d seen it,” Mason said dismissively. He opened a bottle on the vanity and began to massage some goop into his face. “I haven’t been on much recently, and I haven’t done anything but post. It’s kinda freeing, not seeing anyone else’s pics or even reading the comments on mine.”
“Yeah? You don’t mind if I look, do you?”
Mason shot me a questioning look. “At the comments? What for?”
“No, I mean… last week you mentioned you’d posted pictures of us. I was… curious.” I shrugged.
“Ohhh! Yeah. Of course you can! Have at it. Mi Instagram es su Instagram.”
I gave him a half-smile and backed up a couple of paces so I was sitting on Mason’s side of the bed—which was to say, the side of the bed Mason usually lay on, not that we had official sides of the bed, because that would imply… Whatever.
“So, um. Taffy was talking about the Labor Day Extravaganza earlier,” Mason said.
“Yeah?”
“She said they might want me to judge a talent contest? Which would be… fun? I think? If I’m still here then, obviously. But by then, I’d be past my probationary period, so I’d be agreeing to stay here for three years. So, what do you think?”
“Uh-huh,” I said, distracted by the pretty pictures. “Sounds fun.”
Mason snorted. “I see now how social media destroys relationships.”
I glanced up. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said dismissively, a smile playing on his lips as he focused on his reflection. “Not a conversation for now, anyway.”
I frowned down at the phone in my hands.
The most recent picture on his feed was one of us from this past weekend at the Barrel Brewhouse, my buddy Luke’s place over on the mainland. We were sitting in the lobby in front of the plate-glass window at the front of the restaurant, waiting for my cousin to show up, and Mason had wanted to take a selfie, so I’d rolled my eyes, pretending to be annoyed, and leaned in. Mason looked gorgeous in the picture, all artfully tousled hair, crisply collared shirt, and bright eyes. I sported two days’ worth of beard
growth and hair that curled around my ears because it should’ve been trimmed months ago. But I could still remember how he’d smelled when his temple was resting against mine. Hashtag-Barrel-Brewhouse. Hashtag date.
I ran a hand over my jaw.
Next back was a picture from the week before that, when I’d taken him out for his private boat tour. Once again, Mason was tidy perfection—happy, positive—and I looked vaguely menacing and rumpled and totally besotted. Hashtag-My-Captain.
Damn.
The next one was a shot of me, from the rear, standing in flip-flops, baggy shorts, and an ancient T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, watching the sun set over the water. Hashtag-Never-Gets-Old.
And then before that, the shot of us on the beach and Mason planting one on my cheek.
Smiling to myself, I scrolled back further. A shot of a cute little kid wearing a dance costume and a unicorn horn. Hashtag-niece, hashtag-favorite-uncle.
A reminder that February was National Heart Month and people should get hashtag-screened.
A little kid drawing of Santa Claus on the beach. Hashtag-Christmas-Magic-in-January.
A casual picture taken in front of a Christmas tree. Identical twin women who looked remarkably like Mason squeezed his shoulders, and a guy who looked like a younger, lankier version of me stood behind Mason, photobombing him with devil horns. Hashtag-why-Constantine-why.
A family picture taken behind a Thanksgiving table packed with food. Mason sat to one side of the image, the two twins sat in the center, and an older, less-refined version of Mason sat at the far end, which I knew had to be his brother, Micah. The goofball—Constantine?—had his arms wrapped around Micah from behind. Each of the twins had a smiling guy behind them. And Mason…
I sucked in a breath.
The woman behind him looked like a blonde Jessica Rabbit, with huge doe eyes and a trim figure tucked into a fitted cream dress. She pouted dreamily into the camera, blonde hair perfectly curled and one red-taloned hand propped on Mason’s shoulder sporting…
Record scratch.
