by Kendall Ryan
My throat tightened, and I cleared it as I watched him move around the kitchen. Mason went right back to preparing dinner and didn’t seem to notice all the words that remained unsaid.
He tossed two cloves of garlic and a bundle of thyme into the heating pan, and a savory, mouthwatering aroma filled the air.
“Anyway,” he said. “I feel like I talk all the time about myself and I don’t know enough about you.”
I blinked. “Well, what do you want to know?”
“Anything, anything at all. Like, why do you go by your middle name?”
“My middle name is Brennan, but I prefer Bren,” I said.
“That’s cool.” He nodded. “Why did your parents name you Ashley?”
I rolled my eyes. “The stupidest reason you can imagine.”
“You have to remember I’ve seen a lot of people name babies stupid things for stupid reasons. Ashley hardly seems far out there.”
“Right,” I said. “Well, my mom and dad met at an old-timey sort of movie theater and it was playing Gone With the Wind that night. So, you know, my mom named me Ashley because she fell in love with that character.”
“That’s not stupid. That’s actually very sweet.” The steak sizzled in the pan behind him and he turned around to tend the meat. “Ashley was a middle name, too. It could have been worse, because they could have used his first name and called you George.”
I snorted and leaned back in my chair. “I like Bren a lot better. It’s a family name. My grandma was Bren, too.”
He nodded. “Family connections are important. But it’s nice to have a love story in your name. Like a little reminder.”
All the more reason to go by Bren, I thought. Every sorrowful lilt of my mother’s voice was reminder enough of my parent’s tragedy of a love story—I didn’t need to add my name to the list.
“Are your parents still together?” he asked.
A knife dug between my ribs, and I chewed on the inside of my cheek, wondering how best to answer him. I wasn’t about to lie to him—but I didn’t need to say all of it either. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
“No,” I said simply.
He nodded, and silence fell between us for a long moment before he slid a plate—steamy and hot—in front of me. On it was a massive serving of porterhouse and green beans amandine.
“Wow, this looks incredible,” I said, then waited as he slid a knife and fork toward me and then joined me at the island to eat.
“Your steak is smaller than mine,” I said. “Let’s swap.”
“You said you like your steak with more steak, and you might be eating for two.”
“And if I’m not?” I said.
“Then you still get more steak. Seems like a win-win to me.” He cut into his steak, then said, “Shit, I forgot to ask—are you okay with medium?”
“Perfect,” I said, then started in on my food. With every bite, I was more amazed with his prowess in the kitchen, and I was on the point of telling him as much when he started to speak again.
“Your job is amazing,” he said. “Watching what you do.” He shook his head. “I’m impressed.”
“Well, I don’t save lives or anything.”
“I’ll bet you do,” he countered. “Animals need to be cared for just as much as humans.”
My heart melted a little, and I swallowed hard, trying not to get sucked in to the whirling, twirling human vortex of perfection that was Mason Bentley.
“Anyway, what else do you want to know about me?” I asked.
“What was your favorite toy when you were a kid?”
“What?” I laughed.
“I’m serious. You can tell a lot about a person based on their favorite childhood toy.”
“Even if it was just a doll?” I raised my eyebrows, then took another bite of my green beans.
“What kind of doll?”
“A veterinarian doll set I got for my seventh birthday.” It had been a special gift from my father. He’d run all through all the surrounding cities trying to find one just for me. That was just the kind of guy he’d been.
“What was her name?”
I blushed. “Oh God.”
“Come on,” he coaxed.
“Valerie Veterinarian.”
“You still have her?” he asked.
“No.” I shook my head. “Lost her in a move. But what about you? Favorite childhood toy?”
“Too many to name.”
“Ah, so you were spoiled,” I teased.
“I was well-loved,” he amended with a wide grin.
“I see.” I nodded. “Well, gun to your head, what was your favorite?”
“I don’t know. I guess…I had a stuffed giraffe when I was little. I mean, really little. There are a bunch of pictures of me with it.”
“What was his name?” I asked.
He shrugged. “We had no need for names. Our connection was more spiritual than that.”
I laughed out loud. “Right. Well, good to know.”
We finished our meal and before I got the chance to clean up, Mason grabbed my dish and handled everything for me. Which left me to sit there, wondering what came next. Our conversation was a little awkward, but that was to be expected. We were still in the getting-to-know-you stage. But he was trying—cooking for me, asking questions about me, and attempting to make me feel comfortable. He was one of the good guys—and that’s what scared me.
I couldn’t very well eat and run.
Worse, I didn’t want to.
I wanted to run, all right. Run straight into his bedroom and thank him for dinner in the most intimate way I could. But then, of course, that was only because I knew this time could never be as good as the last.
If I slept with him tonight—which I definitely wasn’t going to—but if I did? Maybe I’d finally have a lukewarm memory to wash away the searing hotness of our first night together. There was no way it could be as good as I remembered. No way.
Or at least, that’s what I kept telling myself as I tried to justify still wanting to sleep with him.
Which I totally wasn’t going to do.
“Want to watch a little TV?” Mason asked as he stepped away from the sink, rolling his thick shoulders to stretch and leaving me with my tongue hanging out.
“TV sounds good,” I said, wondering if I should plant the seed for my early departure now so it would be an easy, hassle-free extraction.
“Cool. Pick your poison.” He turned on the flat-screen TV hanging on the wall opposite his bedroom, his Netflix cue already loaded.
“Lots of car shows.” I nodded toward the screen.
“Yeah.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, then settled back onto his cream-colored sofa. “I’ve got one I’m working on. Probably not worth the price I pay to store it, but it’s a hobby.”
“What kind of car is it?”
“A Mustang,” he said. “My dad taught me how to work on old muscle cars when I was growing up. It helps to have something to do with your hands or to unwind after a bad day.”
I could think of something he could do to occupy his hands. Shaking the mental image away of his weight pinning me to the bed while I moaned, I moved toward the sofa.
“I can understand that,” I said.
In fact, the similarities in our lives growing up were almost eerily similar. Before my father had gotten sick, I spent almost every Saturday in our garage, watching him as he toiled over a Cadillac he’d inherited from my grandfather. He used to tell me that oil ran in our blood and that—once I figured out my true calling—there’d finally be a mechanic in the family.
Every time I’d laugh and he’d explain that he was kidding, but that if I ever wanted to work on the car I could join him. Instead, I’d always sat on my stool and handed him tools as he fiddled with this or that and tried to explain to me what he was doing. I never understood, of course. I was too young then.
But selling that Cadillac once he was gone to help my mom get on her feet financially? That
had been one of the hardest days of my life. Handing over the keys had been like handing over a part of my dad to some random stranger.
“Maybe not car stuff,” I said. “You ever watch Jane the Virgin? That’s a pretty funny show.”
“No, what’s it about?”
“It’s about a girl who accidentally gets pregnant and—” I heard myself, then stopped. “You know what? That one is probably a bad idea too.”
He laughed. “Maybe we should just talk.” He patted the seat beside him on the sofa, and I could feel his gaze raking over me, surveying me. He knew, of course, what was underneath my clothes. He’d already seen me—all of me.
So why did I still feel so exposed? Because baring my body was far easier than stripping away the curtain to my soul.
Joining him on the couch, I crossed my legs if only to dull the ache that rose inside me at the smell of his spicy-sweet cologne. “What do you want to talk about now?” I asked.
“You. Always you,” he said.
I grabbed a nearby throw pillow and hugged it close. “Well, not much to say there. You know where I work and my favorite childhood toy. That’s about all of it.”
He laughed, then moved a little closer, so close that his arm brushed against mine. “Do you date much? Any serious relationships you want to rehash? Bad blind dates, maybe? Tinder horror stories?”
“Well…” I thought hard about my answer. What I did technically couldn’t be called dating. Unless, of course, he counted my long-term, committed relationship with my friendly bedside vibrator. If that were the case, I’d bet at this point I could petition for common law marriage.
“Not quite,” I said.
“So before me, the last guy was?”
“Years ago,” I confessed, averting my gaze.
“I wondered,” he murmured.
“Something about me just screams cat lady?” I joked.
“No.” He shook his head. “You were…I could tell.”
“How could you tell?” I narrowed my eyes, wondering what in the hell he meant. That I was so inexperienced and rusty it gave me away? White hot annoyance crept up my spine and landed on the back of my neck. Maybe I’d just discovered a minor flaw marring his perfect resume.
“Honestly? You were just so tight,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “I’ve been wondering ever since then if it was because you hadn’t been with anyone for a while, or if maybe you always feel that way. So wet and warm and—”
There was no denying the surge of need building between my thighs now, and my breath caught as I met his gaze. “I-I don’t know.”
His eyes went dark and his jaw tensed.
“Only one way to find out,” he said.
Chapter Fourteen
Bren
I should have said no.
I will be the first person to admit that, when propositioned by my potential baby daddy, the answer should have been unequivocal and sure.
No.
No thank you.
Not again.
But that answer, of course, didn’t factor in the way he looked at me—the way his blue eyes raked over my skin like he was touching it already, laving it with his tongue and readying me for his thick, hard cock.
I licked my bottom lip, trying to work up the discipline to stop this freight train of lust before it left the station. Still, if I slept with him again, maybe it really would put all my worries to rest. That night could have been amazing simply because it had been so long for me. What could it hurt to put my assumptions to rest? Yeah, right. It could hurt me.
Now, after I’d already been sated by him once, there was no way his body could have the same effect. No, this time would be a tepid bath compared to the hot, steamy whirlpool that the last time had been.
Which meant giving it a try could only be a good thing.
I struggled to breathe in the heavy silence, and then Mason finally spoke.
“Let’s take things slow. We won’t do anything you’re not ready for.”
I nodded. Slow. That was a good idea. And one I could get behind.
He inched closer on the couch, lowering his mouth toward my neck.
“Just want to touch you,” he murmured. His full lips brushed my collarbone, making me shiver.
Trailing soft kisses up my neck, my jawline, Mason finally brought his mouth to mine.
Our lips met in a hungry kiss, our bodies remembering every touch, every breath with perfect clarity.
“No pressure, okay?” Mason whispered, encouragingly against my lips.
I nodded, gripping the back of his neck to draw him in for another kiss.
Soon his hand slid up my thigh, only stopping when he brushed the front of my panties. My knees parted for him on instinct.
He stroked the front of my dampened panties, finding the spot that made me squirm.
“More,” I groaned.
“I knew I liked you,” he chuckled against my mouth.
Slipping his fingers beneath the fabric, Mason penetrated me, slowly.
“You’re not tender, are you?” he whispered.
“Damn it, Mason. Don’t treat me like I’m…”
“Pregnant?” he supplied.
My answering frown implored him in a wordless request not to destroy the mood.
“Duly noted.”
Adding a second finger, he pressed deeper, making me cry out. Damn, the man was skilled, but something gnawed at the back of my brain. I wanted this, I did, it was just that…if we weren’t careful, I could easily see myself losing my head. And what if I wasn’t pregnant? This is exactly what had gotten me into this pickle in the first place.
“Wait, wait, wait,” I mumbled, pulling back to put several inches of space between us. “This isn’t slow.”
“Fuck.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “No, I guess it’s not.”
Mason looked down at my swollen lips, touching me there with his fingertips. “How’s this? No sex. But we both get to come.”
I was nodding before my brain even processed my agreement. “I like how you compromise.” I liked a lot of things about him, I was finding out. But in my heart, I already knew. Because if I didn’t really like him, I wouldn’t want to run away from him every time a new wave of unwelcome emotion flowed over me.
He lifted my calf, planting my foot beside me on the couch so that my legs were open for him. “Don’t move. I want you just like this.” Slipping his fingers past the edge of my panties, he stroked just where I needed him. My entire body clenched and squeezed, wanting so much more, but already dangerously close to falling over the edge.
Mason brought his mouth to mine once again, kissing me deeply while his fingers did very naughty things.
I struggled to get his pants open, fumbling with the button. When he knocked my hands away, I couldn’t help the soft, happy noise that escaped me.
He freed himself, stroking once. The bead of moisture at his tip distracted me in the most wonderful way.
“You going to look at it all night, or are you going to touch me?” he groaned.
Taking my hand in his, he guided it to his cock.
I took him into my hand and stroked gently at first, then harder. He dropped his head back against the couch and allowed me to have my way with him, every now and then letting out a little grunt of approval.
I’d thought that first night he seemed so big only because it had been so long since I’d been with someone—and even longer since I’d wanted someone so much. Now, though? Looking at him again? I knew I’d been wrong. He was thick and long and throbbing for me.
“Need you to touch me,” I moaned.
“Fuck yes.”
His fingers were back at work, and within moments I was writhing beneath his touch.
“Going to come,” I murmured.
“Not yet you’re not.” He slowed his pace, teasing my swollen flesh as I rocked my hips into his touch, vying for more attention. “Together,” he whispered, kissing my lips again. “Grip me a little tighter.”
<
br /> I obeyed.
“That’s it,” he grunted. “Fuck.”
He was so sexy like this, so masculine. I loved how bossy he was during sex. How vocal.
Still kissing me, Mason returned his attention to my lady bits, making white light spark behind my eyelids.
“I’m so close,” I whispered against the onslaught of his kisses.
“Take your time. I’m in no rush.”
I’d forgotten that about him—his stamina…and a delicious flashback of our night together ripped through my brain.
“Mace…”
“That’s it. Come for me. I’m right behind you.”
I pumped my hand firmly up and down, my climax crashing through me just as I felt his hot, sticky release. Together.
Remembering our night together, I realized again how uncanny it was how in sync we were. This wasn’t normal, was it?
Pulling his T-shirt off over his head, Mason balled it up and used it to wipe the semen off my hand, and then his rock-hard abs.
What kind of man cooked a perfect steak, delivered prenatal vitamins to you at work, and then brought you to orgasm in five minutes flat?
Chapter Fifteen
Bren
What had just happened… What was everything I had just felt? It was too much, too fast. Overwhelming and scary and real and if I didn’t get away soon, it would only get worse. White-hot panic enveloped me, creeping into every single cell in my body. It screamed for attention.
I had to get out of here.
With every breath, every beat of my heart, I knew it.
My heart was still hammering wildly as I pulled away, trying not to make eye contact with Mason as he wiped me clean. He ran a possessive hand over my belly as I sat up, his eyes lingering there as he studied me.
As I stood, Mason fastened his pants again and then paused, shooting me a questioning glance.
“I’m going to get changed and we can decide what to do for the rest of the night,” he called over his shoulder, his gaze raking over my body and sending a shiver through me.
Slowly I trailed behind him, trying to come up with some excuse for why I couldn’t stay. I didn’t have a dog or cat to feed and no roommate was waiting for me at home. I didn’t have to work the next day. Still, I didn’t think “I’m a big fat chicken” felt like a valid excuse, and it certainly wasn’t one I wanted to utter out loud. This whole damn situation defied logic so I couldn’t justify my behavior. I wanted to run. Period.
