Loving Mason (Imperfect Love Book 2)

by Molloy, Ruby

  She openly stares at the man who’s preaching to anyone who’ll listen, and stands and watches the silver haired woman shuffling along with a cat on her shoulder.

  “Ivy, it’s rude to stare!”

  “I wasn’t staring, I was looking.”

  She’s got me there so I keep on walking, stopping whenever something grips her in its thrall, which is often. By the time we arrive in Trafalgar Square it’s heaving and hotter than hell, though Ivy isn’t feeling the heat as she’s wearing a pale blue coat that’s a size too small.

  Her fingers snap around my wrist. “Where are the pigeons?” she cries.

  “What?”

  “There used to be pigeons here.” She gesticulates wildly. “When I was a girl we’d buy feed and throw it to the pigeons. Where have they gone?”

  “I don’t know, Ivy. Maybe they stopped feeding them because they crap everywhere?”

  “Hmm, that’s true. There was an awful lot of pigeon poop. I remember my sister, Cathy, got poop on her coat and mother had to wipe it off with a tissue.”

  “Yeah?” I answer, distracted. I’m thinking about him. There’s a bearded guy sitting on the fountain wall eating lunch with his girlfriend. He’s not as young as him, but his looks and style are similar and when he laughs at something she says I can’t seem to tear my eyes away.

  “Francesca! Frankie!”

  I blink and turn to Ivy who’s gazing at me with narrowed eyes and a pursed mouth. “For goodness sake, Frankie, call him. I can’t stand any more of this daydreaming nonsense.”

  “Ivy―”

  “Don’t ‘Ivy’ me! You think I don’t know where your mind’s at? And look at you! Still skinny as a rake. If those eyes of yours get any bigger people are going to start confusing you with a Tarsier!”

  “A what?”

  “Tarsier! Don’t look at me like that, you know full well what a Tarsier is, Frankie. It was in that documentary last night!”

  “I didn’t watch TV last night.”

  “Well if you had, you’d know what a Tarsier is!”

  “I’m not sure your logic―”

  “What’s not to understand? Call him!”

  She trundles up the stairs towards the National Gallery while I watch, open-mouthed, trying to figure out why I love her so damn much!

  I follow in her wake as she leads us round the gallery, talking way too loud, and garnering a few stares of her own. Van Gogh is her mission, followed by others such as Jan van Eyck and Akseli Gallen-Kallela. I know this because Ivy buys their prints from the gift shop. She surprises me by handing them to me as we leave. “For you, though I doubt you’ll appreciate them,” she grumbles.

  “Ivy, I can’t―”

  “Oh, pish posh. They’re prints, Frankie, not originals.”

  Back on the street, she finally submits to the heat and removes her coat. I kind of wish she hadn’t when I see that her dress is hemmed with mousy faux-fur that appears to be moulting. We take the Tube to Victoria Station for Ivy to catch her coach back home. I look at its sleek white lines and back to Ivy’s creased face. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

  She flips her hand in the air. “It’s just a coach journey, Frankie. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  With Ivy I can think of a hundred different reasons but I remain silent. When passengers begin embarking she scuttles off to join them. “Well, goodbye,” she waves, bouncing up and down on her toes.

  I watch as she struggles to pack her coat in the overhead luggage rack until, finally, someone offers to help. She takes her seat, pops a sweet into her mouth, and gives me a brief wave as the coach leaves the station.

  I can’t face the sweltering Tube again so I cross over the Thames and cut through the park, walking round its outskirts because it’s a beautiful day and I’m not ready to head home. It’s a third floor apartment in a small block. The kitchen, living room and dining area share the same space, which is large enough to accommodate a small dining table, a two-seater sofa and a single chair. Oh, and a TV unit with an orange veneer that’s peeling at one of the corners. The lifts and stairwell smell of bleach, which only partially hides the stench of urine, but that’s as bad as it gets.

  My room has a double bed, a wardrobe that tilts to the left, and a chest of drawers that holds next to nothing. The rent is manageable, there’s a night bus, and it’s only forty minutes’ journey to Playdon Prison, which is where I work. I’m a Researcher for a national charity. They advertised for someone with experience, but the pay was stupidly low and I made the interviews. I guess the fact that I achieved a First helped sway their decision to employ me. I’m contracted for a year, but that suits me because I’m enrolling for my Masters next year. Having seen the job market first hand, I need it to get the jobs I want.

  Kayla’s moving in next weekend. She drew the short straw when it came to bedrooms. Hers has a narrow single bed and an uninspiring view of the car park. Mine has a balcony with a tree outside that’s almost, but not quite close enough to touch. It’s great, though whichever time of the day I step into my room it’s either dusk or dark, never daylight.

  The block’s small lobby is empty when I push open the heavy glass door. There’s no security here, no concierge seated centre stage, just a worn out brown carpet that you don’t want to look at too closely. Since moving in I climb the stairs rather than take the lift. At least with the stairs I’m not enclosed in a steel shell with the smell of bleach stinging my nostrils. Plus it reminds me of him―the stairs, not the smell of bleach.

  Three flights is nothing to me now and I’m not even a little bit breathless when I reach my floor. A mother in an African print dress, her daughter balanced on her hip, is heading my way and I wait, holding the door for them. I guess she doesn’t like the smell of bleach either.

  Searching for my keys I don’t see him until I’m almost upon him. He’s leaning against the door to my apartment, hands set deep in his pockets, head tipped low. At first glance he looks like the cocky Mason Zannuto I remember, but now that I’m closer I see purple smudges beneath eyes that are dark and watchful. He’s dressed in black; black t-shirt, black jeans and black converses. With his dark beard and hair he looks both sexy and menacing. The logo on his t-shirt reads ‘life’s too short to wait’.

  These weeks we’ve been apart have been wretched and now, to see him so unexpectedly, standing here outside my flat, it’s a bittersweet torment. I want to slide my arms around his body and cling on, soaking up his heat, absorbing his strength, feeling it flow into me ...

  Keys cutting into my palm, I halt, cautious in the way one might be with a wild animal. “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey.”

  I fold an arm around my waist, waiting for him to speak.

  “You look good,” he says. “A little skinny, but good.”

  “How did you find me?” Almost as soon as the question leaves my mouth, I know the answer. There’s only one person who would interfere. “Ivy!”

  “Yeah, Ivy,” he confirms.

  “Goddammit, that interfering little blabbermouth, wait ‘til I see her! What did she say? Actually, I don’t want to know. Whatever she said, wipe it from your memory. That’s her talking, not me!”

  Mason grins and pushes away from the door. “She didn’t say anything.”

  “She didn’t? Then how come you’re here?”

  “She called Nora and asked her to text me your address.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Our gazes meet. “I didn’t ask her to do that.” It’s important he knows this.

  “I know,” he says quietly.

  My fingers relax around my keys, transferring them to my other hand. Red marks stain my palm and I wipe my hand down my dress, as if they can be erased. “You want to come in?”

  I gesture towards the door, the door he’s blocking, and he moves to the side. “Yeah, that would be good.”

  Once inside, he closes the door and follows as I make my way towards the kitchen. �
�Water?”

  “Yeah. Please.”

  I fetch two bottles from the fridge and he takes his and stands opposite me, leaning against the counter. I take a long sip and he watches, his eyes travelling over my legs, breasts and throat. A trickle escapes my mouth and I wipe it away with the back of my hand. That’s when I see the hunger. It has him clenching his jaw and tensing as if his need is unwanted.

  “Mason ...”

  “Yeah?” It’s a low, hypnotic sound, one that conjures up illicit images best left for after dark. My blush has him breaking into a rueful grin, his teeth white against his beard. I guess we’re both fighting this enduring attraction.

  Twisting the bottle in my hands, I return his stare, storing every detail so that when he’s gone, when I lie down with my eyes closed, I’ll remember. His beard is thicker and longer, his quiff mussed as if he’s just rolled out of bed. He sees where my gaze is fixed and combs back the loose strands. It’s an strangely self-conscious gesture for Mason and a wasted one too because the strands simply fall down again. I’d like to say that his unruly hair and obvious fatigue detracts from his looks, but that’s not true. It’s hot and sexy, and wickedly tempting.

  Since Mason’s the one who turned up on my doorstep, I wait for him to lead the conversation. This takes some time. He sips from his bottle, and screws the cap back on slowly. Finally, as though he’s been silently debating and only just made up his mind, he places the bottle on the worktop and scowls. “I missed you. I know I fucked up big time, but I want you back. You and me, for as long as it lasts.”

  Seems like I’ve always been five steps ahead of Mason, hoping that one day he’ll catch up. Him saying ‘for as long as it lasts’ tells me he’s so far behind he’ll never draw near. My plastic water bottle crackles in my hands, water spilling over my fingers. “I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time. I appreciate you coming here, really I do, but you saying ‘as long as it lasts’ shows me you’ll never be able to give me what I need, not when I’m your postscript!”

  His frown deepens. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about you, Mason! I’m talking about where I fit into your life, or more precisely, where I don’t. Not telling me the truth about Josh and Tam and then telling me it was none of my business! And just now, you saying ‘as long as it lasts’! Well, here’s news for you, Mason. I’m worth more than that. I deserve someone who loves me, not someone who’s got nothing to offer because they’ve already given everything to their ex. I’m sick of coming second, you hear me?!”

  “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “Wrong! I know exactly what I’m talking about and if you weren’t such a dick you’d know it!”

  “A dick? I’m a dick?!”

  Suddenly he’s in my space and I’m cornered against the fridge, his hands either side of my head, his eyes overflowing with anger. “You’re fucking right I’m a dick, letting you slip through my fingers like that. You think I haven’t called myself that, and worse? I’m the biggest dick of them all for letting you go, but I swear if you take me back I’ll be the guy you need.”

  “You have no idea how much I wish that were true. But you and Tam―”

  “Jesus Christ! We’re back to Tam again? What do you want me to say? That she means nothing to me? That I regret being with her? Well, fuck that Frankie. I did love her and no way I’ll ever regret that because out of that came Josh. Jesus, if I didn’t love you so much, swear to God, I’d be out of here right now. You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?”

  A tear slides down my cheek, followed by another, and I’m hiccupping like a baby kitten.

  “Shit, what now?” He cups my face, wiping away my tears with the pads of his thumbs. “Baby, tell me what’s wrong.”

  His thumb has moved down to my mouth now, rolling back and forth against my bottom lip, his gaze drifting over my face, falling to my mouth, lingering. His mouth presses against mine, his tongue warm and insistent in my mouth and when he lifts his head ... God, the things I see in his eyes. I’m no femme fatale, but that look is enough to transform me into some kind of temptress. I slip from under his arms and move towards my room, lifting the hem of my dress and pulling it over my head as I walk. I don’t have a chance to check if he’s following. His arms slip round my belly, one drawing me back against him, the other rising to my breast.

  The contact of his fingers is too much. I turn my head against his neck and his mouth finds mine, his tongue sliding inside. Moaning, I shift against him, arching, drawing the hand that’s round my stomach lower until its inside my briefs and his finger is there, touching me, filling me. I come on the fourth glide just as he pinches my nipple. I don’t have time to descend before he’s pushing me onto the bed, drawing down my panties, his mouth sliding down my belly, his tongue hot against my skin. There’s no warning, no build-up. His mouth fastens on me, his tongue stroking, hard and slow, one finger slipping inside. A second orgasm rolls through me, or maybe I’m still on the first. My feet dig into the duvet and my hips rise, demanding more.

  He draws back, cheeks flushed. His hands drop to his jeans, dragging down the zip, shucking them down to his thighs until his cock springs free. I reach out to stroke it and this time it’s Mason who hisses, rearing back as if he’s been burned. His hands grab mine, raising them above my head as he licks one nipple before sliding into me.

  I’m full and his weight is pressing down on me. He’s not moving and I think I might shatter when he does.

  “Condom,” he says, groaning, his arms shaking with the effort of holding still.

  I shake my head and he curses, pulling out, but I hold him to me. “If you trust me, I’m on the pill.” He stills and searches my face.

  “You trust me?”

  I nod and he waits a beat, slowly pulling out, kissing me and thrusting back inside, groaning into my mouth and grinding his hips against mine.

  “Fuck!” His mouth lifts, brushes against my temple and now he’s pounding into me, again and again, chasing away the demons. I can feel it approaching, the build up too much, too strong. He’s still thrusting, and my fingers grip his buttocks as I scream through the orgasm. His mouth covers mine, open-mouthed, as he groans and pumps into me before he rears up on his arms and I feel him coming inside of me.

  He falls on top of me, his breathing harsh. Rolling to his back, he brings me with him until I’m lying on top. His hand lies in the small of my back, unmoving, hot against my own heated skin, his chest pushing against mine with every breath he takes.

  The come down is slow. I ache between my thighs, but I need more. He’s still inside me, still hard. He curses when I sit up, his buttocks lifting from the bed, his hands gripping my hips. I lean over him, kissing him as my fingers inch into his hair, and my tongue slips inside his mouth. He reaches up to cup my head and I can’t help sliding against him, enjoying the fullness and its accompanying burn.

  Reaching back, I cup his balls and squeeze lightly, loving the way his hips tilt and his knees bend.

  “Fucking missed this.” His hands falls to my breasts, thumbs dragging against my nipples, the exquisite sensation shooting straight between my thighs. I cry out and Mason rolls me to my back again, thrusting into me, a hand beneath one knee, holding my leg high as he rolls into me. This time when I come it’s long and sweet and he powers through it, groaning against my temple when he comes. Pulling me with him, he falls to his back, and I lie along his body. His fingertips trail against my lower back and buttocks.

  “I need to clean up”, I mumble.

  “In a minute.”

  Drowsy and satiated, I’m almost asleep when he says, “You blocked my phone.”

  “Hmm, sorry.”

  “Went to your house. Ella was there, said you’d gone. Wouldn’t give me your address.” He pauses, as if he’s struggling to get the words out. “Thought I’d lost you.”

  Fully awake now, I look down on his face, witnessing just how much that thought affe
cts him.

  “We argue in future, do not block my phone.”

  “Okay.”

  “Or run away. Sick of you running away. We argue, you stay. Not having you disappearing any time we happen to have a row. I need to know you’re going to stick around.”

  I can’t let that go unnoticed. “Says the guy who doesn’t want a long term relationship.”

  “That was then, this is now.”

  My muscles tighten, fear blooming in my chest, fear that I may have misunderstood him. “That was then?”

  He lifts his head and frees his arm so that both hands are resting on my buttocks. “Yeah.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Sure you do. You’re just too stubborn to see it.”

  “I’m stubborn?!”

  “Told you I loved you. I know you heard me.” His fingers glide up my spine and back down to my buttocks. “So now you know.”

  “You haven’t seen me in weeks and now you love me?”

  “Loved you before, I was just too dumb to see it!”

  “Really? You expect me to believe―”

  “Never got in a lift with Tam.”

  I guess it doesn’t always take a grand gesture to show someone you love them. Sometimes nothing can surpass a simple truth. I recall Ivy talking about Dottie and how she never let that come between her and gramps. I feel unworthy; small and mean for allowing Mason’s past with Tamsin to come between us.

  “I need to clean up.”

  Mason lifts his head. On seeing my expression he removes his hands and lets me climb free. Alone in the bathroom I turn on the shower and rest my shoulders against the wall.

  Mason. Loves. Me.

  I taste the words, mumbling them beneath my breath before the shower steals them away. Mason loves me. I breathe deeply, filling my lungs as if it’s my first breath, sweet, pure and cleansing.