by Molloy, Ruby
Yep, the overriding sensation right now is one of nausea. I knew he was intelligent, but he’s exceeded my expectations by a genius or two.
And I knew he had money. How else could he afford his penthouse apartment and the expensive cars residing in the basement car park? But what he’s just told me is so far removed from my debt-ridden, student lifestyle, I don’t know how to place it into context.
I think about Myrtle. I think of Ivy scavenging for coupons and searching bargain shelves at the supermarket. I laugh. Only it sounds as if it’s been sucked dry of humour. Mason’s hand shifts back to my thigh and he’s grinning, though it contains more mischief than humour. “Can I fuck you now?”
I shake my head, more to clear it than as an outright denial. “I’m trying to get my head round everything. I mean, you’re not exactly the person I knew ten minutes ago. You own a frigging nightclub and you’re a genius, for Christ’s sake. You’re wealthier than anyone I know. Shit, I thought Cooper and Carred were rolling in it, but you’re a regular Bill Gates.”
Mason pushes me to my back and follows, his forearms stretched out to support his weight. “I’m shit-poor compared to Bill Gates and a high IQ does not a genius make. I haven’t invented a new form of antibiotics and I know fuck-all about the universe or how it started. I am, however, a regular genius at inducing multiple orgasms.” He rubs his hips against mine, his mouth tipping up into a lascivious grin. I giggle and try to escape, but I have his weight and the blanket is tangled around my legs.
This playful mood of his is new. I like it. I like it so much I hook my hand round his nape and pull him down. He resists, staring at me with warm brown eyes and I know I could submerse myself in their glorious, velvet depths and still not discover all there is to know about him.
“Oh, now she wants the Zannuto cock,” he says, his mouth coasting along my jaw, sliding up to my ear, hot air bombarding its sensitive whirls. This, combined with the bristle of his beard, has me moaning. My heels sink deep into the cushions, my hips push into him and I tremble. It’s not an orgasm, it’s a precursor that has me panting and seeking his mouth.
“Fuck!” Mason stares down at me, all playfulness gone. “Give me some of that,” he says, dipping down for a taste. His tongue slakes across mine and I’m a total walkover. I’m breathing hard, twisting beneath the blanket, trying to free a leg so I can drape it over the back of his. I curse in frustration and Mason immediately rears back.
“My leg,” I say, gesturing to where a purple, bandana-wearing ninja turtle is splayed across my thigh. Scooting up onto his knees, he pulls the blanket free, tossing it to the floor. While he’s there he snags his fingers in the edge of my panties and draws them down my legs. They too hit the floor, seconds before Mason returns his weight to me.
I love this. I love the heat, weight and taste of him. And he seems to like me beneath him. His hands are under my dress, his mouth on mine and I’m scraping my fingers over his back, demanding more. But the sofa is too soft, the space limited, and I can’t get the friction I need.
Mason seems to know this is not entirely working, at least not the way we need. He sits up, his buttocks leaving the sofa as he unzips his jeans and pushes them down until his dick springs free, tight against his belly. Scooping me up, he places me astride his lap and pulls my dress over my head.
“Climb on,” he says, his hands already lifting my weight.
“Condom,” I hiss, biting my lip when his fingers tighten on my waist.
“Shit-fuck!” he groans.
“Stay there. I’ll get it.”
I race towards the bedroom, digging a condom out of the bedside cabinet and returning to Mason. His head is dipped back against the sofa, his eyes semi-closed as he watches me approach.
“Let me,” I say, holding up the condom.
He nods and I drop to my knees. I know Mason isn’t expecting my mouth when his hips kick-up and copious swear words spew from his mouth. “Christ, Frankie, a little warning would be good.”
I suck and lick, taking more of him into my mouth, enjoying his taste and girth. His fingers slip into my hair and he’s still cursing, though now it’s a litany of slurred words. They halt when my hand finds his balls and I give them a gentle squeeze.
“Christ!” he wheezes. “Time out!” He pulls at my hair. It doesn’t hurt, it’s just enough that I know he wants me off. I lift up, taking in his flushed face and half-open mouth. Climbing over him once more, he pulls my mouth down as his hand travels over my breast, tugging at my nipple, trailing over my stomach, slipping a finger between my folds. I gasp when it slips deeper, rough against my g-spot.
“Fuck, yeah, you like that,” he says, his free hand sliding up to my breast, snagging my nipple between his fingers, trapping it and pulling. This sensation, combined with the friction of between my legs, has me coming. I release a low wail, shuddering as the orgasm tears through me. Mason catches my mouth, unfurling my fingers to capture the condom, rolling it on while I bite and lick the base of his neck, enjoying his salty skin.
“Now,” he says, giving a light slap to my buttock.
I climb on, arching up so that he’s hot against me, demanding entrance. Once he’s perfectly lined up, the tip of him just inside me, I sink down, hard. Mason yells out, holding me to him while he adjusts. Seconds later, he’s thrusting up into me. He’s doing all the work, which is just as well because all I can do is rest my head against his shoulder, my fingers gripping his hair.
The air turns musky and the sound of our bodies slapping against each other is raw. I lean back, watching him enter and withdraw, his cock glistening. Reaching down, I press my fingers between my folds, adding friction.
“Fuck!” Mason whispers, watching. There’s a sheen to his face and chest and I can feel his fingers slick against my hips. Leaning back, I cup his balls. They’re tight. He’s almost there, and when I give them a light squeeze he yells, slamming me down. His orgasm triggers mine and we’re both gasping and moaning, his fingers clamping down on my hips, holding me in place as he thrusts upwards.
I don’t know if it’s ever been like this. Not this violent, greedy need that burns through me, searing my insides. Mason’s eyes are closed and he drops his forehead to mine, groaning. Cradling the back of his neck, I hold on tight, as if I’ll never let him go. He’s holding onto me too, clutching me tight against his chest. Something has shifted, been realigned. There’s an ache in my chest, as if I’ve breathed in fire and it’s scorched delicate tissue.
When finally we draw apart I can see he feels it too. The difference is I willingly accept the change, while Mason is battling against it. He’s no longer making eye contact and his fingers are painful at my hip. I lever them away from my skin, holding onto them, linking my fingers with his. Nipping gently at his lips, my mouth brushes his beard on the way to his ear. “Don’t,” I say. “Don’t fight it. Please.”
His chest hitches, expanding until it’s pushing against mine. He holds steady for several seconds and I wonder if he’s going to throw me to the sofa. He doesn’t. He releases his breath slowly, his head dipping back.
He watches me through hooded eyes as he says, “Done fighting.”
I believe him.
I trust him.
*****
Mason is fixing dinner. I watch on from a stool at the counter because he won’t let me help. He’s nifty with a knife, slicing and dicing the ingredients for a stir-fry, prepping everything to within an inch of its life. I nibble on carrot sticks still wet from the tap, admiring his body when I should probably be focusing on his culinary skills.
It’s gone six, the sun has set, and I’m still here. It’s a first. We’ve never spent a whole day in each other’s company. Until today.
We even did cheesy couple things, like walking in the park and sipping outlandishly expensive coffees in the local coffee house. I’m waiting for the bubble to burst. I expect him to check his watch at some point and say something like, “Wow, is that the time?”
&n
bsp; “What’s it like to be so intelligent?” I ask.
He gives thought to my question while scraping spring onions into a heavy blue bowl. I count seven of these bowls so far, each filled with chopped or sliced vegetables, including carrots, spring onions, red chillies and ginger. I’m salivating at the sight and smell before me.
“I don’t know what it’s like to have a normal IQ so I can’t compare, but for me, personally, it’s this insatiable need for knowledge. But only in areas that interest me. And, typically, I’ll discover everything there is to know about one subject until I get bored and move onto another. The app thing for instance. By the time I sold the company I’d had enough. I needed something new.”
“But property? And nightclubs?”
He smiles. “That was about having fun. Now I’m working on something else.”
“You are?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
He frowns, not understanding my question.
“Where do you work?”
“One of the bedrooms is set up as a work space.”
“And what are you working on now?”
“It’s software again. A programme for those with severe autism. It’s an interactive lighting and music programme that responds to touch. It’s pretty basic programming. The design and implementation are the more problematic areas.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak about his work, never mind that I didn’t actually know what he did before yesterday. This is a little overwhelming. And yet I want to know more. I want to know the real Mason.
“Where did the idea come from?”
“I was talking to this guy at the club one night. A doctor. He was telling me about the existing software, how it doesn’t allow for progressive responses or user pattern recognition. I said I’d come up with a solution.”
“I’m guessing there are no profits in this,” I say.
He glances up from where he’s measuring spices, relaxing when he sees I’m merely curious, not greedy for money. “No. No profit,” he says.
And that’s when it happens.
Don’t believe the bullshit stories. There’s nothing magical about falling in love. There are no stars, no fireworks. It’s earthy, grounded in reality, in what’s standing before me, a handsome, sexy guy who’s as beautiful on the inside as he is on the outside. I know there’s still a lot to learn about Mason. I know he’s not giving me the whole story. But I’ve seen enough to know.
Shit, the first time I saw him it was there, nameless and utterly unreasonable, but it was there, living and breathing inside of me, waiting for me to recognise its existence.
I, Frankie Finnegan, am in love with Mason Zannuto.
♣ THIRTEEN ♣
Sid
Mason
“Can I have ketchup?”
That’s Josh all over. He won’t eat anything without a side dollop of ketchup. I make sure it’s the low-salt variety and we’re good to go. He dips his carrot stick in the goo and I swear that more ends up on his lips than inside his belly, but he seems satisfied.
“What do you want to do this afternoon?” I ask.
“Can we go to the park?”
“Sure. You want to take the bikes?”
He nods, distracted by the food on his plate. He lines up his beans and carrots. I know he’s counting them, figuring out how many there are to go before he can get to the good stuff. Josh always eats his least favourite foods first, leaving the good stuff for last; though it depends what mood he’s in as to which is the good stuff. Today it’s chicken. Tomorrow, the carrots could be his favourite. I think he does this to keep everyone on their toes.
With lunch out of the way we head down to the car park and retrieve our bikes from the lock-up. His has a red frame, with black handle bars and steel spokes. I secure his cycle helmet and tighten my own. I’d prefer to go without, but I’m not going to set a bad example to Josh.
Out in the park we cycle for miles. Josh has an unending supply of energy and he needs to burn that off or he won’t sleep at night. I keep him in sight, letting him lead. I like to give him the feeling he’s in control. Not all the time, just when it feels right. A child needs that once in a while.
When we travel to the outer reaches of the park, Josh does a one-eighty and we head back the way we came. There’s not much talking, but that’ll come later, when we’re back at the apartment.
Up ahead, there’s a petite blonde out walking her dog. Josh manoeuvres round her and my thoughts inevitably turn to Frankie. I haven’t seen her in a week. Her exams are approaching and she’s studying. I’m hoping she’ll come over tomorrow night, after I’ve taken Josh home. I’m hoping to relieve her stress a little, maybe work it off between the sheets. Actually, there’s no maybe about it.
The blonde’s dog yaps at my wheels, unaware he’s a miniature something or other and I outweigh him by at least one hundred and fifty pounds.
Later, when we’re home and Josh’s belly is tight and rounded with dinner, we settle down for a game of Top Trumps’ Plants vs. Zombies. Josh wins three games to one. He’s inherited my competitive gene so it’s no surprise. And since we learned some time ago he’s inherited my IQ, his ability to memorise and recall Zombie facts is way advanced for his age. That’s not to put a downer on Tam’s intelligence, because she’s far from stupid, but Josh definitely takes after me in that department.
He’s inherited Tam’s mouth, both physically and speech-wise. She has the natural born ability to charm people and Josh has that too. Plus he has Tam’s imperfect curve in the smallest finger on his right hand. It doesn’t cause him any problems, but it’s a definite link to his parentage.
In every way that counts, my sister, Carolyn, and her husband, Dean, are Josh’s parents. But it was me and Tam that created him. And we love him. It’s just ... life didn’t turn out the way we planned. For any of us. And now Carolyn and Mark have Josh and I get to have him every once in a while.
I don’t regret ... Fuck, yes I do! Every fucking day of my life, I regret not being with him. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t the right thing to do or that I’d change anything. But I fucking regret he’s not mine the way he should be. So these weekends, where he comes and stays with me or where I go visit him in Morton, those weekends mean the world to me. Josh means the world to me.
He knows I’m his dad. We planned that right from the beginning, decided we weren’t going to fuck him up at the age of eighteen by dropping that bombshell. So he kind of understands I’m his father, that Tam’s his mother, and that Carolyn and Dean are his mum and dad. It makes sense to him, but he’s yet to understand it’s full significance.
None of this has been easy on Tam. I won’t ever forget that she chose to have Josh while I was locked up, knowing she didn’t want a child, never planned on having one, and yet she did that for me. And I fucking love her for that. Tam gave me Josh, even though he’s not mine to keep.
And now there’s Frankie.
I haven’t figured that one out yet. How I’m going to tell her.
I’m stalling. Waiting for the right opportunity.
“Uncle Josh?”
I realise he’s staring at me, waiting for an answer.
“Sorry, Josh. What?”
“Can we have one more game?”
“Sorry, buddy, you know it’s time for bed.”
It’s eight-thirty, thirty minutes later than his normal bed-time. As it’s a Saturday it’s no real problem, but any later and he’ll be a problem for Carolyn tomorrow.
I lead him down the hall and turn on his bedside lamp. Everything’s kitted out in ninja-turtles. If I was six years old, that lamp with the turtle face would scare the shit out of me, but Josh doesn’t seem to mind.
He climbs beneath his quilt and I ruffle his hair.
“Night Josh. Sleep well little fella.”
“Night Mason,” he says. His eyes are closed already.
He sleeps on his back. Like me.
I leave the d
oor ajar, so I can hear if he wakes, though he always sleeps through ‘til morning.
Jack buzzes up just before nine and I let him in, opening the front door so he doesn’t knock and wake Josh. I fetch us a beer and we settle down to play FIFA.
“You told her about Josh yet?” Jack asks, mid-way through the first game. I’m winning two-one and he’s pissed because he never can beat me.
“Not yet,” I say. I swear he’s a fucking mind-reader.
“You plan on telling her?”
“Yeah, I plan on telling her. What, you’re my fucking conscience now?”
He gives me a look that says ‘fuck-off’ and says, “Someone needs to be.”
“Don’t worry about me, Jack. You should worry about your sorry-ass love life. What the fuck are you doing here on a Saturday night when you could be pulling some hottie?”
“Hottie? Where the hell have you been for the last six years, Mace? Hottie!” He laughs, but I notice he’s not answering my question.
“Come on, Jack, why aren’t you out tonight?”
“Seriously?” he says, not taking his eyes from the screen. “Because I’m not in the mood. I get laid every weekend, go to work, and come the following weekend I go out and get laid again. I can’t remember their faces, don’t fucking know their names and I don’t want to do it anymore, Mace. Fucking one-night-stands. I’ve had enough of them.”
I should’ve taken the opportunity to score while he was in the confessional, but I’m too gob-smacked to take advantage. This is Jack, King of the one-nighters, the guy who can pull any girl he wants.
“You’ve met someone,” I say.
“What?” he frowns my way, taking down my player in a sliding tackle without looking at the screen once. Fucking weirdo. How does he do that?
“You’ve met someone,” I repeat.
He considers what I’ve said, thinks about just how much he’s willing to reveal. “I have and I haven’t,” he says.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
He stares at the screen, concentrating on the game. “Nothing,” he says, though we both know he’s lying. I leave it there, knowing not to push. If I do, he’ll land a punch on me or, worse, he’ll bust the pad.
