by Ginger Scott
“Okay. Well, it’s pretty clear he likes science,” I start. I turn my head to face him, twisting my body ever-so-slightly to the side when I do, and I feel his fingers curl around my shoulder blade, almost cradling me—like he’s hovering. His barely-there touch sends the tiniest chill down my spine, and I find myself wanting him to hold me harder, and I mentally wish for it.
“We went to the planetarium over the summer, and there’s a guy there who runs the show. He’s like Max,” I pause, waiting for him to understand, and when he nods slowly, I continue. “Max really liked the guy. I think he just liked the way he spoke. There wasn’t a lot of fluff, just facts—lots and lots of facts. And when the show was done, Max asked to look at the store. He’s usually not interested in things like that, so when he picked out a book, I jumped at it and bought it—all fifty-nine dollars of it.”
“Damn, that’s a rip-off,” Mason says. I laugh in response, and I feel his hand get firmer along my back when I do, and the same chill travels down my body.
“Right. Well, joke’s on them, because we’ve read that thing through, cover-to-cover, forty times. Max has it memorized. We’re almost to a buck a read,” I smile at my joke, and when I look up, Mason’s smiling back, his dimples deep. I want to touch them, so I take my right index finger and reach up to his cheek and softly run the tip of my finger over the divot.
“Uh, that’s…different,” Mason says, his eyes almost crossed while he peers down at my finger on his face. He’s unshaven, and I want desperately to cup his chin with the rest of my hand, to feel how rough it is, but I’m embarrassed enough already, so I pull my hand away and turn my face into him so he can’t see me.
“You’re dimples are cool. Kinda always wanted to touch them,” I say. What the hell, I already violated his face—might as well own up to that one. I can feel Mason chuckle deep in his chest, and then his thumb gently slides back and forth on the bare skin of my shoulder. I. Never. Want. It. To. Stop.
“Your turn. Ask me something. Ask me anything,” he says, almost eager for me to want to know one of his secrets. I think about it, and then I spare a glance at his face for inspiration. He’s looking straight up at the ceiling, his other arm tucked under the back of his neck, completely at ease.
“The tattoo,” I start, and I watch as his eyes close tightly, and he slides his hand forward over his face, almost wincing. He tilts his fingers up just to glance at me, and then he shuts them back over his eyes when he sees I’m watching. “What’s the story?”
I’ve hit a nerve, and Mason Street is actually embarrassed, which only causes me to prop my head up with my fist to look him in the eyes. He laughs lightly when I do, and he turns to face me more, but he leaves his arm under my neck. His fingers are playing with my hair now. I wonder if he knows I can feel it? I don’t react, though, for fear he’ll stop.
“All right, so I’m on the road with the guys…for like…six months. We started out playing some pretty decent venues, but then it turned into some pretty shitty dives,” he looks at me when he says this, probably more embarrassed admitting that his tour wasn’t a great success than about the tattoo. I just shake my head, urging him to keep going.
“So, we end up in this nasty old casino in the old part of Vegas. I mean, rooms are being rented by the hour, and there’s a guy they call the King of Heroine on one of the floors—that kind of a shithole. Anyhow, me and the guys decide to party with some chicks we meet at the casino; they were in town for a bachelorette party. We start drinking at this rundown club, and this one girl, Teresa, is really putting herself out there for me. So we drink more, and then we bring it back to the hotel, and we drink more. And—” he pauses, his lips suddenly getting tight; I prod him with my elbow. “I don’t know…are you sure you want to hear this story?”
I nod yes, my smile bigger with every piece he tells, probably because it embarrasses him. For some reason though, my wanting to hear makes him get quieter, and he’s staring at me hard. “Okay, I’ll tell you. But you have to promise me something…”
His words make me a little nervous, but I say, “Okay,” anyhow.
“Promise me you’ll still see me the way you do right now?”
I nod yes slowly, but without hesitation. I’m in—I’m deep into this…this…whatever this is that I am feeling for Mason. And who am I to talk—the girl whose ex just told her he basically wants to hide her existence away, like an offshore money account. Mason has a past—I’ve seen it. And I don’t think this is the story that’s going to make my heart do a complete U-turn.
“Okay, well…me and Teresa ended up ditching the room party after some pretty crazy, uhm…stuff,” he coughs, and I know he means they had sex. And I know it was a roomful of people. And I’m not surprised Mason was in the middle of it. I don’t really like imagining it, but I’m not shocked or angry. “We sort of ended up at the chapel. And next thing I know, it’s the morning, and we’re married.”
“Ohhhhh,” I start laughing now, uncontrollably, because you hear about rash wedding chapel runs in the movies—I never thought they were real.
“Right? But wait, it gets worse,” he says, rubbing his hand over his face at the memory. “Turns out Teresa…was the fiancé!”
“Oh shit!” I’m laughing even harder now, covering my mouth with my hand to stifle the noise.
“We got it annulled, of course. But I’m pretty sure she ended up calling off the wedding. Or the dude did. Never saw him, but she told me he found out,” Mason says, nodding at the memory.
“So…how does that fit with the tattoo?” I ask, and Mason takes a deep breath, finally pulling his arm out from under me and sitting himself up a little to pull off his shirt. And I now suddenly could not care less about the tattoo—because he’s lying back down, his bare skin right there, touching me, and it’s bronze, and it’s perfect, and there are abs happening and…oh my. I force myself to listen to him even though all I want to do is run my fingers up and down his chest.
“If you look carefully, you can still sort of see it,” he traces his finger over a few stripes within the delicate tiger wrapped around his bicep. I don’t know what he’s pointing at, exactly, but I take the opportunity to study his arm. “Look there…it’s her name. I tattooed that chick’s full fuckin’ name…on my arm! I covered it up with the tiger a few weeks later, but the guys kept calling me Mr. Teresa Westerhouse for months.”
It might have been a mistake that put the ink on him in the first place, but damn did it turn into something special. I can sort of see a few of the letters, but even knowing the story now as I do, I don’t see her name. I’m probably just a little drunk on the high of being in so much contact with Mason’s body—but right now, I’m ready to tattoo anything he wants on mine, just to get closer and to touch him more.
“I think it’s beautiful,” I let the words slip, and my eyes flair when they do, but I just hold my breath, thankful that from this angle, Mason can’t see my face.
“Yeah, well I think you’re beautiful,” he says in an instant, and now my heart is officially in my throat. His hand is back to stroking my hair, and he’s no longer trying to hide it, instead, his fingertips start at the very edge of my hairline, lacing deep into the strands, softly brushing them out across my bare shoulder.
When I feel his hand run lower down my neck and pull my head in close, I stop breathing, afraid that I’ll do something…say something…that will make him stop. In seconds, his lips are on my head, and I can feel him inhale. My body is telling me to look up, to make a move—to take a leap of faith. But then a familiar light floods his entire bedroom, and time actually freezes.
My dad has driven the same damned pickup truck for fourteen years. The lights cast a very distinctive hue, and when I first started dating Adam in high school, I had it down to a science. The second I saw those lights pour in through the front living room windows, Adam was quickly pushed out the back kitchen door.
“Shit, that’s my dad!” I say, practically jumping to my feet
and cracking open Mason’s door. I step one foot into the hallway, just enough to flip the bank of lights off, and then my dad’s keys are at the door. I push Mason back into the room and shut his door again behind us, holding my finger up to my mouth. “Shhhhhhhhhh!” I say, giggling uncontrollably.
I lay my ear flat against the wood so I can hear my dad move through the kitchen, get a drink from the fridge, and kick his shoes off by the stairs. The fourth one creaks as he passes it, and I widen my eyes at Mason, warning him that he’s coming. Mason leans forward against me, pressing his own ear next to mine, and we both wait. It’s hard to tell, but it seems like my dad is standing at the top of the stairs in the middle of the hall for an unusually long time before he makes his way to his own bedroom. I finally hear his door close, and let out the breath I’ve been holding, sliding my back against the door so I’m facing Mason.
“Avery, you know we’re like…in our twenties, right?” Mason says, his dimples back again. I want to touch them. And now we’re inches apart, and his bare chest is right here, up against me, pinning me to the door.
“I know, I just…” I start to explain my craziness, but he stops me.
“I get it. It’s your dad. He scares the crap outta me, too. He’d kill me, you know?” he says, raising one eyebrow. His body is still right here—with me…against me. And now, it is all I can think about.
“He wouldn’t kill you, Mason,” I whisper, half trying to be quiet, and half petrified by the feeling in my chest. Almost as if I’ve lost control over my own body, my fingers slide up Mason’s side. I graze the firmness of his stomach with my thumbs, taking my time to trace along the hard lines of his abs and chest until I’m at his collarbone. I hesitate, the reason-side of my brain questioning everything I’m doing, but then Mason’s hands find my wrists, and he holds them in place against him, his feet closing the inches now between us until I can feel every breath tickle my ear.
“You sure about that?” he asks, dragging those words out slowly across his lips. The sound of his voice is different now. It’s not flirtatious like before. This sound is deeper, hungrier—it’s suggestive and luring, and it’s breaking down every defense I have left. My eyes are trained on his fingers, his grip strong around my arms. That’s the only barrier I have left, and I know the moment I look into his eyes, I will forever be lost.
I consider every angle, avoiding the choice I want to make—the obvious choice—until I no longer can, and I look up at him to find his eyes waiting. His room is dark, and most of his body is cast in a shadow, but the moonlight traces his face, illuminating his eyes. I know my body is shivering, and I know he can feel it, but he’s looking at me like I’m strong, like I’m his equal. His long lashes fall slowly as he shuts his eyes, and his forehead moves to rest against mine.
“I’m battling here, Avery,” he says, his voice quiet but rough. “I want to kiss you so goddamned bad. But I told you I’d wait until you were ready. And tonight—”
I manage to free one of my hands from his grip, and I press my fingers to his lips, stopping him from making any more excuses. I linger there, feeling his lips open barely, his teeth grazing against my skin, and the sensation forces my eyes closed too. I will never be ready to kiss Mason Street. I won’t be ready, because I’ve spent a decade training myself to not want him. And then, when Adam left me, he crushed my spirit, and my taste for passion went away with it.
But I feel like this Mason might be my only chance—and I feel like if I don’t let down my guard, just a little, he may never try. I’ve done regret, and I don’t like it.
“Mason, what happened earlier…tonight? That had no effect on how I feel…” I swallow hard, willing myself to say the last few words, “about you.”
I didn’t think it was possible for Mason’s muscles to get any tenser, but they do the second I say that sentence. I force myself to live this moment, to accept it, and I open my eyes slowly to find Mason’s reflecting everything I’m feeling back at me.
“Avery…” he says, his breath barely able to complete my name. His hands slide up my shoulders and neck slowly, until they cup my face, urging my chin higher until our noses are touching. We’re so close…when he licks his lips, I feel the tip of his tongue barely touch my top lip, and my entire body is on fire, tingling with desire, and begging for his touch.
Every instinct within me is telling me to run, but I push that urge down deep—this time, I let my heart have what it wants. When I feel his warm breath against my lips, I close my eyes tightly in anticipation, but his kiss doesn’t come—not yet. I feel his fingers slide back into my hair, his right hand moving to the base of my neck while his forehead is still against mine.
A tiny breath escapes me, and I know he hears it, because the second it does, he moves his other hand to my shoulder and slides his fingers slowly under the strap of my dress, lifting it and dragging the knotted strings down the crest of my shoulder. His nose traces the line from my jaw down my neck until his lips find my bare skin, where he leaves his first kiss—soft, and sweet.
He does the same to the other shoulder, until the only thing holding up my dress is the tightness of the fabric around my breasts. I feel his hands begin to move around my body while his lips work their way along my collarbone, and my pulse is racing with nerves, and want, and fear. He can feel me shake, and just as his fingertips find the edge of my zipper, his lips hit my ear.
“I’m going to kiss you, Avery, and it’s going to be the best fucking kiss you’ve ever had,” he says, his teeth pulling on the edge of my ear while he breathes. “But I want to feel your body, too. And this dress…as adorable as it is…is just getting in my way.”
All I can do is nod yes. I know if I try to speak, the words will fail me. I feel a chill along my spine with every inch Mason lowers my zipper, until his hand glides over the bare skin of my back. Seconds later, the dress falls in a pool around my feet. I’m about to step from it and kick it aside, when Mason’s hands lift me to him, gripping my thighs, until my legs wrap around him on instinct.
I’m nothing in his strong arms while he turns me slowly, walking back to the mattress on the floor. Along the way, his hands slide around my hips, and up my ribs, my legs squeezing him tighter to hold myself up, and his thumbs rub softly over the thin fabric of my cotton bra until they find the peaks of my nipples. He rests them there for only a few seconds, and I feel his touch run right through the center of me.
Mason kneels down until my back rests on the mattress and his body is hovering over mine, his lips yet to fully take mine in. I know it’s coming, and for a second I have a flash of panic that he’s going to back away from me and leave me there alone, embarrassed and rejected. But he doesn’t. Instead, his forehead rests along mine again as he pulls my leg up high around him, his fingers teasing to go further, but always staying just along the line of my panties.
Just as I feel I may pass out from all of the near touches, Mason lowers his lips to mine, his kiss at first soft, but growing with need every second, until my top lip is trapped between his teeth. His tongue grazes along my bottom lip, and I reciprocate until Mason can no longer handle it, and he kisses me hard.
His tongue explores every bit of my mouth, tasting me and urging me to do the same. As his hands slide up my leg, his fingers wrap around the band of my panties, and in that moment, my mind is actually begging him to rip them away. Instead, he continues to trail his touch along my body, stopping to feel me just long enough and threaten to take our kiss a little further. He slides every finger up and over the hardness of my nipple until I let out a small cry of pleasure, and only then does he break away, lifting himself just enough to look down at me…breathless.
“I want you, Avery. I want every bit of you—you’re so goddamned sexy and beautiful and amazing,” he says, his tongue held between his teeth while his eyes follow the movement of his hands as they push my hair away from my face and behind my ear. “But I only wanted a kiss tonight. And I know you said you were ready…”
“God, I want you to want me. And I think a part of you does…and maybe a month ago…hell, a couple weeks ago? Yeah, that would have been fine. I would have taken that sign, and torn the rest of your clothes away to take you completely…not giving a damn about what it meant tomorrow. But here’s the thing. I kinda give a shit about what this means tomorrow, Avery. And I know…I know in here,” he says, gripping my hand, and holding it to his chest. “I know tonight isn’t the night for anything more than kissing. But holy fuck, was that some kiss.”
My entire body is pulsing with need, but my mind is washed with relief, because I know Mason is right. And the more it sets in, the more his words sink in. Tomorrow. Mason is worried about tomorrow—with me. All I can do is smile, softly and genuinely, as I lift my head to kiss his lips one last time, this time gently.
I don’t even ask if I can stay, and instead, reach my arms around his body until he’s on his back, letting my head rest in the crook of his arm. Mason strokes my hair slowly, tucking it constantly behind my ear—I think in many ways, keeping his hands occupied until he can calm down himself. And I let him, his lips kissing the top of my head every few minutes, reminding me where I am, until I drift to sleep.
Chapter 11: Tomorrow
Mason
His Tahoe was easy to spot. There’s only one decent hotel this far north, so I took a guess this is where he’d be. I was right. I already walked the perimeter of his SUV—no car seats or girly shit lying on the seat. Not that it means he’s alone for sure, but I have a pretty good idea he made this trip by himself if he’s so concerned about keeping Avery and Max a secret.
I got here at about five in the morning, just as the sun was starting to show over the peaks. Cave Creek is eerily quiet this time of day—most of the drunks from the bars have long passed out and are off the road; the rich assholes up the hill are not yet out for their jogs. I used to like to sit out on Ray’s porch at this time. Things were always…still.
