by A. C. Bextor
Our room.
“Decision’s yours,” he tells me, drawing closer. “But I’ll be waiting.”
I close my eyes slowly, as the wind pushes the familiar scent of him to me. The touch of his lips to my temple sets fire to my skin.
I can’t go to him.
Another night in another man’s bed would threaten to undo all the resolve I’ve built since the last time we were together.
But this isn’t another night…at least not mentally, emotionally.
And this isn’t another man…this is Mason.
“I need you, Katie,” he gets out on a tortured whisper. “Come back to me.”
“Fuck, I’ve missed this,” Mason grinds out through clenched jaws as he tears through my body again and again.
Ravenous in touch.
Desperate with need.
Raw in circumstance.
Carnal with desire.
“Mason, honey, I’m close,” I tell him, fisting his hair with one hand, and holding him closely with the other. My legs are wrapped around his waist, caging his body to mine.
I’m fighting not to let go.
“Find it, baby,” he directs, sweeping his finger across my clit.
“Wait,” I beg.
Thrusting in and out with fevered drives, Mason growls, “Baby, you’re close.”
“I don’t want this to stop,” I counter, scoring my fingernails into Mason’s back.
I don’t want this to end. Once it does, I have to leave, go back to living empty. This is all we have.
“Find it, Katie,” he demands again.
My body tenses, writhing violently beneath his. He’s there, he’s taking me there.
I’m not ready for this to end.
“Swear to Christ, baby,” Mason hisses. “I’m close. Let the fuck go.”
Let go.
An exotic mix of ecstasy and denial pierces my ears as I cry out my release.
Let go.
Mason’s drives continue—again and again—harder and harder.
Let go.
My hips move in sync with his. My lips touch his jaw; my tongue tastes his neck. When I bite his skin, Mason succumbs, forcing himself into me as far as he can go.
Then, still inside, he roars through his release.
Our breathing is labored and a slick sheen of sweat covers our skin.
Mason had barely gotten the door opened before I stormed inside. I was pissed. Of course I wanted to come here. I wanted to see him, touch him, feel him. I was pissed because Mason invited me, knowing I couldn’t stay away. I never would.
With my anger bubbling, I shoved at his chest with enough force to send Mason one step back. My lips hit his with desperation and he took over.
I’d made the decision he’d hoped I would.
Aiming to keep this light, my voice is easy, my tone sarcastic, I ask, “Are you going to get off of me?”
I understood Mason’s avowal the last time we were here, in this room together. Because when he opened the door, and I caught sight of him standing there alone tonight, my heart fluttered.
I felt home. Not to a place or a time. Not a wish or a memory. A person encircled my life, shaping it to his.
Shaking his head with his mouth settled at my neck, he returns, “Not movin’.”
“Mason, I need to—”
“Stop talking,” he insists. “I’m still inside you. Just shut up and be here with me.”
Running my fingers through his hair, I listen to his breaths coming steady and even. Moments later, he pulls out carefully, flips to his side and positions my arm over his waist, tangling my legs with his.
“I can talk now?” I clip, pretending to be annoyed.
Mason doesn’t respond to my question, or anything at all. His gaze studies the black screen of the turned off television.
With our reflection glaring back at us, I bite my bottom lip before it threatens to quiver.
The view shows the covers drawn up over our naked bodies. My head rests on Mason’s shoulder. His arm is securely wrapped around my back. Our hands are held together, resting on top of his chest.
Beautiful liars. That’s what we are.
Beautiful because when we’re together it’s always that. Liars because we know the truth—the vision of us together isn’t real.
My eyes close and I start to move. I need to get dressed, get home, be alone to clear my head.
Mason protests, pulling me back, likely full well knowing what’s on my mind.
Once he’s satisfied I won’t move, he uses a matter-of-fact tone to start with, “When my old man beat on me, he was always drunk.”
Oh, God.
Mason’s never talked about his abusive relationship with his dad. At least not with any vivid detail, anyway. I always assumed, of course, as anyone might, his dad punished him for merely existing. And he indulged in this practice often.
“But no matter what I took from that son of a bitch, when he’d start, I knew eventually he’d wear out and have to stop. I also knew the wounds he inflicted would leave scars, but I’d use those to be stronger when he came at me the next time.”
As my heart patters against my chest, my face flushes, and my lips starts to tremble.
“He hurt me, Katie,” he croaks.
“I’m so sorry,” I utter.
Mason doesn’t acknowledge the sentiment. Rather he powers on. “But this? Me sending you to him again? This won’t wound me; leave a scar, this will fucking kill. There’s nothing I can do. This isn’t physical torture. The beating I’m about to take when you walk out of here and back to him will be an emotional war I can’t win.”
I slam my eyes shut, blocking the view, to utter, “Mason.”
“I have no defense other than how much I love you, and that’s being used against me.”
He’s right, but for us both. Mason will be as he always is, unreachable, but living in my thoughts.
“This is all I can do. What we’re doing right now. I can’t…” I stop to catch my lost breath, then plead, “An affair would—”
He hesitates, but agrees, “I know.”
“I never wanted to hurt you—”
“I’ll stay away,” he promises, before I’m able to give my pain and worry more voice.
The same pain becomes almost too much to bear. The same worry he won’t be able to do as he’s promised.
Tears fill my eyes.
“Katie,” he calls. I look up, resting my chin to his chest. With a heavy heart, he reiterates slowly, “I’ll stay away.”
“I can’t do this again,” I explain. “You’ll be here, Mason. Home. I can’t…”
“I’ll stay away,” he promises again. His words come as a cadence, said through an uncertain whisper. It’s not stated as an oath only to me, but to himself.
A sob escapes my chest.
Memories come forth.
Mason runs his hand over the back of my head, his fingers sifting through my hair. He waits as I surrender everything.
Sadness for my marriage.
For Adam.
Sorrow for Mason.
For the future we wanted, but never got to have.
For us.
“I’ll stay away,” he tells me again, kissing the top of my head.
“Thank you,” I tell him, breathing deeply. “Because I don’t think I can.”
“I can do it. For you,” he assures, his voice nearly breaking. “But fuck, baby, if it’s not gonna be the hardest thing I’ll ever do.”
TITAN STANDS TO ATTENTION, POSITIONING on all fours as the hair on his back stands on end. He barks as three heavy knocks come to the front door.
When Katie started with a string of urgent texts, insisting we were going to talk, I was uneasy. Her last message, sent twenty-minutes ago, read she was anxious with, “Be home when I get there.”
So I’ve been waiting.
When I swing the heavy wooden door open, Katie stands outside, dripping wet. Not only is her plain, black button-up shirt dr
enched, she’s also out of breath. Her eyes are filled with tears. The tops of her cheeks are red, angry, and swollen.
“I’m coming in,” she tells me, slapping my stomach to push me aside so she can barge through.
At her erratic entrance, I’m annoyed. Not because she’s here, but because she’s a fucking mess.
“Where the fuck have you been and you ever think to use an umbrella?”
“Not important,” she clips, dropping her bag to her side.
Wet with rain and heavy with whatever she has in there, her purse hits the wooden floor with a loud thud.
“Maybe you could’ve thought to wear a fuckin’ coat,” I continue to scold. “It’s not even forty degrees out.”
Standing straight, she balls her hands to fists at her side, leans toward me, and panics, “Why are you here?”
My brows furrow with my confusion. “Say again?”
She makes no move from her standing spot to clarify, “Here. In this town, Mason. Why?”
Still not clear on whatever the fuck is on her mind, I slam the front door shut and turn to her.
She crosses her arms over her chest. Her hair is plastered against her neck and face and her wet clothes are sticking to her body.
She looks ridiculous, which is more so like the Katie I used to know. To my enjoyment, she’s a lot more flustered.
“Calm down and tell me what happened,” I lead.
“Amelia won’t talk to me,” she explains first. “She found out about Thomas and Grace.”
“Yeah?”
“She hates us both.”
“You know that’s not true,” I placate. “She’s pissed, but she doesn’t hate you.”
“I don’t know how she found out or when, but she knows about us, too.”
“What’s there to know?” I scold. “We haven’t done anything.”
“Well, she thinks she knows something then,” Katie flips back with impatience.
“She’s not a kid anymore, Katie. You expected her to stay oblivious?”
Visibly more annoyed that I have little reaction, she continues. “She won’t talk to anyone—Thomas, my dad, or me. Now she’s refusing to come home, so she’s staying at Connie’s. Averie doesn’t understand any of this, so she’s with Connie, too.”
“Teenagers act out. You’re here to blame that shit on me?”
“Averie won’t stop rambling on about you,” she keeps going, as if I hadn’t spoken. “She talks about you like you’re some goddamn hero.”
“Of course she’d think that. Averie’s a kid. Kids look up to a lot of grown-ups as heroes. Especially those who wear a cop’s uniform.”
Gathering her composure, Katie leans down, grabs her purse, and cuts the distance between us. Once she’s close, she glances up, and the tears she’s been bravely holding start to fall.
One by one. So much sadness. Even more regret.
“You’re not here to bitch at me about the girls, Katie,” I stress, this coming out calmly and evenly. “This is about us.”
With my reply, her anger returns. “This is about my life, Mason. And what you’re still doing in it.”
Callously, I reply, “I haven’t done anything to you or your life since I’ve come back. At least nothing I’ve wanted.”
“You promised you’d stay away,” she marks. “And you haven’t.”
Reaching up, I run my finger along her cheek. I expect she’ll back away. But instead, her eyes close and more tears fall.
I catch each one while noting, “You’re standing in my house.”
“I know.”
“You got in your car and drove yourself to my cabin,” I add to reason.
“Yes. I know. I came to—”
“In the pouring down rain.”
“Yes, Mason,” she replies with agitation.
“You knocked on my door late at night.”
“Oh God,” she whispers.
“Already set to what would happen if you came here again.”
“Wait,” she panics, opening her eyes and staring at my bare chest.
Giving her the truth for all that matters, I explain, “I’m not sure how I can be expected to stay away, when you and your girls are all but running toward me.”
“Mason?” she looks up to question.
In the depths of her contemplation, there’s an erratic mix of pain and release. Being here with me brings back scattered pieces of the girl I used to know. A girl I’ve fucking missed.
Katherine Dyer isn’t standing in front of me. The mother, the wife, the friend.
This is my Katie.
On a chance, I hook my hand around her neck and pull her as close as she’ll allow.
With her hands braced against my chest, but our foreheads resting to each other, I press, “Why did you come here?”
Painfully, as though confessing, she admits, “I lied to you.”
“You lied to me about what?”
“I told you I was still trying to wish you away,” she says, her voice a sad whisper.
“You’re not still trying to do that?”
“No,” she admits. “I stopped trying a long time ago.”
“And you wanted to tell me this?”
“Yes.” Her voice hoarse but certain, she admits, “I don’t have anything that’s mine.”
I don’t understand. I cup her cheek, leaving my forehead to hers and prompt, “I don’t know what that means.”
Shaking her head, as if to clear her thoughts, she explains, “I mean, all these years, I have only what others gave me. My marriage, my girls.”
“That’s a whole life you’re talking about, baby,” I tell her.
“You were mine,” she swears as a pledge. “All mine.”
“I’ve always been.”
Nodding, Katie states through a broken whisper, “Mason, my heart hurts.”
Her words spear my chest, threatening to break my soul. She came here for me. For us. And she’s doing that knowing both the risk and consequence. Her marriage may not be balanced, the love for her husband not completely true, but she’s here.
Finally, with me.
“Fuckin’ kiss me, baby.”
Katie doesn’t hesitate.
At the invitation, her closed mouth crashes to mine, and she wraps her arms around my shoulders. Then her lips part, granting me access to get in.
Her hands roam my chest, down my stomach, to the button of my jeans where she makes quick work of releasing them.
When I tear at the center of her shirt, the buttons fly across the room, landing in scattered pieces. Her chest labors beneath what I feel is her black lace bra.
She works my jeans until she’s found me hard beneath. My cock pulses in her hand. She looks down to watch our connection as I toss the remains of her wet shirt across the room.
Then we’re down on the floor.
“Ten seconds, baby,” I state, climbing above her, forcing her to realize what’s about to happen must be her decision. She can stop this. I won’t.
Her legs part and her tight skirt rides up her thighs at the same time her gaze meets mine.
Nodding, she orders, “Mason, please.”
She whimpers as I move her panties to the side, positioning myself outside her entrance.
She wraps her legs around my waist, her ankles locking firmly behind my back. And I slide in deep.
Fucking perfect.
“Fucking Christ,” I hiss through clenched jaws, holding myself still, exulting in being inside her again.
Katie’s small body rocks with added aggression. Her insides throb, and she lifts her hips from the floor, seeking the brink of what she knows is coming.
“You come here for this?” I question harshly. “Or for us?”
A feral moan breaks from her mouth; her fingernails scratch the skin at the back of my neck. In punishment, I bend to take her lace covered nipple into my mouth, giving it a vicious pull.
She gasps. I suck harder.
Her body jars, back and forth,
up and down, grinding with the passion and want of a woman who knows what she needs. A woman who doesn’t give a fuck about the consequences.
“Fuck yeah,” I urge.
“You know me,” she claims on a tumultuous whisper. “You remember who I am,” she adds. “No one does.”
Concerned at her accusation and the tone she expresses it in, I wait for her to keep going. But she doesn’t. Her face finds my neck until her cheek is resting against my shoulder. Every inch of her is pressed against every inch of me.
“I know you,” I tell her to agree. Not to pacify her, but because I do know her. I always have.
Katie tilts her hips gently, as though holding me close and savoring every move. My hands grasp her ass. The smell of sex—the scent of us—penetrates.
Pushing against my chest, she locks her gaze with mine. She holds our eyes until hers slam closed with the power of her release.
Her pussy tightens.
My cock throbs.
Her breathing stops.
Mine becomes labored.
“Fuck yes,” I hiss. “Take what you came here for.”
With a piercing scream, followed by a gut-wrenching moan, she certainly fucking does.
LAST NIGHT AFTER MASON AND I showered, he handed me one of his tee shirts to put on. Then he guided us to the deck just outside his bedroom, where we sat side by side, staring out at the lake. The night air was chilly, but I felt nothing but warmth from his presence.
Neither of us had much to say, but we never lost physical contact. My hand held in his and the memory of how we’d spent the hours before were enough to keep our minds distracted.
Later, I woke in Mason’s arms. The bedroom was dark.
He’d been sleeping when I crawled from his bed, reached to the floor to grab the shirt he gave me earlier and slid it on. I made my way to the bathroom, and as I’d hoped, he had an extra, unopened toothbrush in the cabinet under his sink.
I didn’t take time to reason why a gorgeous, single man, living alone, would have to have extra toothbrushes laying around. I chose to believe he was taking hygienic precaution. My heart sank for knowing better. I wasn’t the first woman to sleep in his bed. I took solace in knowing I was the first he loved there, though.
Once I finished cleaning up, I leaned into the bathroom basin. I was startled but surprised at my reflection.
