Loving Mason (Imperfect Love Book 2)

by Molloy, Ruby

  It does. It feels like to coming home. But I’m conscious of my bones, my lack of breasts and ... God this feels good!

  “One day at a time, Frankie. You heard what the Doctors said about depression and feeling as if things will never be the same. Those are normal reactions and maybe I’m being selfish, forcing this on you, but whatever you’re going through I want to help and I can’t do that if you won’t let me hold you.”

  “Okay.” He’s wearing a washed out t-shirt and a grey pair of sweats that don’t look that good on anyone but him. I nuzzle the top of my head into his neck, enjoying his scent and the strength of his embrace, but when he dips down to place a kiss on my mouth I draw away. Holding I can tolerate, but kissing? Not yet. Mason doesn’t push it. He walks us through to the living room and lowers me to the sofa. “Stay there while I go make you a drink.”

  He returns with a tall glass filled with a chocolate flavoured, high energy drink. It’s to help build up my strength while my appetite is low. I don’t mind the taste, but it takes forever to consume. Mason switches on the TV and scoots behind me. Nestled between his thighs, I lean back, giving him my full weight, and his hands link over my stomach. “That’s what I’m talking about,” he says against my ear.

  ♣ TWENTY-TWO ♣

  Without

  Mason

  When you give everything and receive nothing in return, it canes.

  She shares my bed each night, sleeping at my side until her nightmares have her crying out, struggling to get away from me because she thinks I’m him. Battling that, night after night, her lashing out at me, trembling, scared to death ... it seems like Sid took her from me, after all.

  Used to be that I’d hold her when we slept. Now she hugs the side of the bed and there’s space between our bodies where once there was none. I’m scared to touch her for fear it will trigger a nightmare. And though the nights are still hot and muggy, sometimes a shiver will track its way down my spine and I’ll remember how life was before Sid stole her from me.

  It’s 3am. I left the club early, unable to focus, worried about Frankie. She’s fallen asleep in front of the TV again, her curls wild around her face, her mouth slightly open. She’s wearing cotton pyjama shorts and a vest top that reveals the shadows of her nipples. My dick twitches painfully and I back away as if separation will rid me of my hard-on. Walking through to the bedroom, I peel back the duvet and return to where she’s still sleeping. She still weighs next to nothing, though she’s back to where she was. Her limbs are now rounded and her face is no longer gaunt. Nestling her head in the curve between my neck and shoulder, as if it was designed for her, she sighs. I lay her on the mattress and she stretches in her sleep, one hand cupping her breast, her legs twisting as if she’s caught up in an erotic dream. I stand over her, watching like a pervert, my dick hardening until the calling for release is unbearable.

  Weeks, months, without sex and now seeing her body on display ... it’s too much. I have to fight the urge to crawl in beside her and wake her with my mouth and fingers. Fighting off the temptation, I cover her with the duvet and head towards the bathroom, discarding my clothes in a pile on the floor. The hot shower teases my dick. I empty a handful of gel into my open palm and curl my fingers round my cock, stroking, picturing Frankie as she was just now, her limbs stretching and curling, her tits almost poking out from beneath her vest top.

  I’m not sure what alerts me to her presence. Maybe she made a sound or maybe there was a drop in temperature when she opened the door. I twist my head to the side. She’s standing three feet away, her hair mussed from sleep, her eyes fixed on where my hand is clasping my dick. I’m pretty sure my eyes are begging her to join me. I hold my breath, praying she’ll make that move. Her eyes rise to meet mine, wintry grey and full of reproach. She leaves, closing the door behind her. Air bursts free from my lungs and the hand that seconds ago was clutching my dick now curls into a fist and slams against the tiles.

  I linger in the shower, waiting for my temper and arousal to cool. When I climb into bed, she’s on her side with her back to me, the duvet hiding everything but her head. The mattress gives beneath my weight, but Frankie remains motionless. Leaning over her, close enough that I can see her face, I say, “You want to talk?”

  “About what?”

  I tamp down the anger that’s fighting to be released. “About just now?”

  “You mean my catching you masturbating in the shower? No thanks.”

  My temper builds. “You weren’t meant to see that.”

  “No? Really?!”

  “Fuck it! I’m done with this!” I roll her to her back, straddling her body so she’s not taking my weight. I just need her to listen. I need to break through. “I was masturbating, Frankie, so quit acting like I was cheating on you!”

  My words are the fuel to her fire. She kicks and screams, her limbs frenzied, too fast to control. It’s only by giving her my full weight that I can keep her still and that only serves to infuriate her further.

  “Bastard! You fucking bastard!”

  “Frankie, baby―”

  “Don’t ‘baby’ me! I’m here aren’t I? In your bed? Weeks, Mason, weeks without you touching me. Nothing, not so much as a touch or a kiss and you’re fucking masturbating in the shower while I’m ... I’m ...” The fight leaves her, and she’s crying, twisting her head to the side, tears sliding down her nose, dampening the sheets.

  “What did you say?”

  “Get off!” She pushes against my chest. “God, why won’t you move?!”

  “You want me?”

  “Duh!”

  My mouth slams down on hers, my tongue sliding in, tangling with hers, her sweet, sexy taste going straight to my dick. Pulling at her top, I slide it up and off, exposing her small, perfect breasts, the nipples pale and puckered. I fingers trail over one tight peak, gently pinching and stroking, my mouth still on hers. She’s groaning, twisting beneath me and I try to hold back, but I need to touch her. She arches beneath me, her hips pushing up, her soft groans ruffling my hair. I slip my fingers beneath the elastic of her shorts, teasing, coasting along the edges of her thigh, close enough to feel her heat. She grabs at my hand and guides it between her legs, and I insert a finger into her wet folds. She goes wild and I want my dick inside her so bad, it hurts. I suck on her nipple, thrust my hand back and forth, adding more fingers, until she’s screaming and her hands are bunched in the sheets as she comes.

  I don’t wait for her spasms to pass. I tear her shorts from her legs, tossing them to the floor, gazing down at her and the way she’s spread out beneath me. Her hand finds my dick and squeezes, gently. I can’t breathe. If I breathe, I’ll come. I’m counting, curling my toes and gripping the bed sheets, doing anything and everything I can to hold back the tide.

  “Now!” she says, and I thrust inside her, my balls pressed up tight against her before I’m easing out and thrusting back again and again. Her fingers rake my back, reaching down to my buttocks, gripping and squeezing and, fuck, I’m coming!

  My head sinks to her shoulder and Frankie’s cry tells me she’s on her second orgasm and I can’t stop thrusting because the spasms keep on coming.

  Afterwards, sticky and breathless, Frankie’s legs are still bracketing my thighs.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She lifts her chin for a kiss and I hold back, deliberately keeping my mouth out of reach. “Asked you a question.” Her eyes are glowing, her cheeks pink, and I know I have her back.

  “You have no idea,” she says, cupping my cheek, sliding her hand down to my jaw. She’s mostly touching beard, but I can feel her touch just the same as if her fingers were in contact with my skin. I twist my head and kiss her palm, bringing her with me when I roll to my back.

  “I have to go clean up,” she murmurs.

  “In a sec.” I want to feel her weight with my dick still inside her. Sex, fucking ... whatever you want to call it, it was never as good as it is with Frankie.

  I have her
weight for a few more minutes before she climbs over me and heads to the bathroom. And when she returns, she’s clumsy as ever, her knee catching my thigh, winding me when it brushes my balls. She lays her head on my chest and curls into my side and I don’t give a shit about the pain in my testicles. I pull her in tighter, because she’s close, but not close enough.

  ♥ TWENTY-THREE ♥

  Brand New

  Frankie

  I’d forgotten how good life could be.

  Mason, work, friends ... everything is wonderful and I’m happy; the happiest I’ve ever been.

  I’m waiting for the axe to fall.

  I’m waiting for someone to leap out from behind a tree and shout ‘surprise’ as they present me with a bucket-load of crap decorated with a shiny, pink ribbon. So far this hasn’t happened.

  I’m back at work, enjoying the routine and the dry camaraderie of my colleagues at Playdon. I stay at Mason’s most nights, though I try to sleep in my own bed twice a week. I feel bad abandoning Kayla. Inviting her to live with me, and then disappearing for five nights out of seven. Tonight I’m meeting Ivy in the city. I think she must have won the lottery because she’s booked a table at Carmichael’s. I mentioned bringing Mason and, if I didn’t know better, if I didn’t know just how much she likes him, I might have been worried when she said she wanted it to be just the two of us. Though to be truthful, I’m still worried about her reason for inviting me. I know how badly she was affected by everything that happened to me.

  When I get to our table, she’s already seated, her coat still on, her orange-painted lips tilted in a satisfied smile. There’s an excited gleam in her eyes and she asks the waiter to pour me a glass of wine from the bottle that’s already uncorked in an ice bucket. “Wow, this is nice. What’s the special occasion?”

  “I have a little surprise for you.” Her head is bobbing a little and her smile waivers as her hand covers mine. “I hope you don’t mind, Frankie. I hope you don’t hate me for what I’m about to do. Just know I had the best of intentions.” She removes her hand from mine and rises to her feet. Her eyes are wet and she already has her bag clutched in her hands. I’m aware of the waiter at my side, but Ivy holds my attention as she moves to stand beside the table. “Frankie, this is Matthew Bateman, your father. Matthew, this is Francesca.”

  It’s difficult to pull my gaze from Ivy’s and move it along to the man standing at my side, but I manage it just the same. Not a waiter after all, but my father. The first thing that strikes me is his height. He’s six feet, maybe taller. And his hair curls, like mine. I have his eyes, though his brows are thicker and darker, more masculine. He’s nervous. I can see beads of perspiration on his forehead and has a tiny tremor when he smiles.

  “Francesca,” he says.

  “Frankie.” It’s an automatic correction.

  He winces, as if he’s put his foot in it, and tries again. “Frankie.”

  He takes the seat Ivy vacated and I realise she’s gone. “You’re my father?”

  He nods. “I’m Matthew.”

  “Oh my God.” I wipe my damp hands against my dress and pick up my wine glass, taking a long sip. “You’re really my father?”

  “I think I might be.” His mouth parts in a smile that’s warm but understated. He’s wearing a suit, but no tie, as if he wanted to make an effort, but not too much, not enough to scare me off.

  “Wow!”

  He smiles again, wider this time, and when the waiter approaches he requests a few more minutes . Already I like him and I have to caution myself to slow down. He’s young, a decade or so older than Mason. My smile slips as I remember why he’s so young. “My mother ...”

  “I thought maybe we could leave her out of the conversation. Another time, maybe ...”

  I nod, grateful for his suggestion. “Okay.”

  “You look like me,” he says. “Though my hairs light brown, yours is blonde. And you’re a foot shorter than me.” He smiles sadly, repositioning his knife just a little to the left. “I, uh, I have a daughter. Another daughter,” he corrects. “She looks like you.”

  I think he thinks he’s offended me by mentioning her. I want to set him straight. “Do you have a photo?”

  He removes his wallet from his jacket pocket and pulls a photo free. It’s a family photo of him, his wife, and daughter. She’s clinging onto his neck, her curls not quite so wild as mine, her gappy teeth on show for the camera. She’s clearly a daddy’s girl. His wife is auburn, slender and only a few inches shorter than Matthew. She’s beautiful. I hand the photo back, saying, “You’re a lucky man.” It seems trite, but I don’t know what else to say. “Is that your wife?”

  “Yes. We’ve been together ten years, married for the past five.”

  “Does she know about me?” My tone is too harsh. I’m on the defensive, ready for him to say ‘no, I thinks it’s best if she doesn’t know about you’.

  He surprises me. “Her name is Tamara, and yes, she knows about you. Ivy broke the news with Tamara at my side.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  His eyes narrow a fraction and he shakes his head. “You have no need to be sorry, Frankie. Neither of us do.”

  “It must have come as a dreadful shock.” I laugh, gathering my thoughts. “I can’t believe Ivy tracked you down.”

  “She’s an interesting lady. She raised you, is that right?”

  I nod. “Her and gramps, until he passed away.”

  “Were they good to you?”

  He’s tense, his eyes observing my expression, and I know he wants the answer to be positive.

  “Yes.” His expression relaxes and I can see his mind working, the questions queuing up to be asked.

  The evening passes in a blur. There are questions, too many questions. In the end, we settle for simple talking about our lives. Everything else can wait.

  *****

  Mason is standing in the kitchen when I return. I’m smiling, giddy from too much wine and meeting my father for the first time. It takes me a moment to register his tension. His back is to the fridge, his legs crossed at the ankle, a bottle of bear in his left hand, a small, rectangular shaped box in his right. He tosses the box onto the island that stands between us. It skids to a stop before it crosses the edge.

  “I was going to give you this,” he says.

  I glance from the box to his face, puzzled by his barely contained fury. “Was?”

  “Open it.”

  “Mason―”

  “Open it!” he roars. His eyes are wild, glaring at me from beneath brows that are pulled together.

  Glancing between him and the navy box, I draw it closer, my fingers prying off the lid. A gold coloured key sits on navy brushed velvet. It’s a copy of my door key, the one he gave me a few weeks ago. I frown. “I don’t understand. I have a key.”

  I glance back and forth, from Mason to the key, as if this will help me figure out the source of his anger.

  “Are you fucking him?”

  It takes several seconds for his question to penetrate, possibly because his softly spoken voice doesn’t tie up with his brutal words. I lay the box carefully on the counter top. “What?”

  “That guy you were with. Are you fucking him?”

  “You saw us?”

  It’s the wrong question. I know this from the way he lifts the bottle to his mouth, the way he’s giving himself time to regain control of his temper. He tosses the bottle in the recycling bin and fetches another, uncapping it with the bottle opener that’s stuck to the fridge. It’s a piglet, cheap and ugly, and doesn’t fit with his decor, but I thought it was fun.

  “Pack your things. I want you gone.”

  “Why? Because you think I’m cheating on you?”

  “I know you’re fucking cheating on me. I saw you.”

  “I can explain.”

  “You already explained. You said you were having dinner with Ivy. That sure as fuck was not Ivy, Frankie!”

  “I can explain.”

  He t
hrows the bottle across the kitchen and it smashes against the far wall. It’s nowhere near me, and even though glass is everywhere, again it’s nowhere near me. But still. I straighten my spine until my posture is fully upright. I know I probably look ridiculous, given how short I am, but a girl has to try. “You want to clear up that mess while I explain?”

  “Do I look like I’m in the mood for a fucking story? Get your things and get out of my life.”

  “Fine, I’ll clear it up!” I’m pretty sure I’ve seen a dustpan and brush under his sink somewhere. Opening the cupboard, I reach in to grab the handle, squealing when Mason tugs it from my hand and throws it to the floor on top of the broken glass. Okay, enough is enough!

  I open my mouth to give him the truth, as well as a piece of my mind, but he’s spinning me round so now it’s my back against the fridge and his mouth is on mine, rough and deliberately careless, as if I’m some cheap lay he doesn’t have to impress. His mouth lifts from mine and my eyes are already open so I catch his hurt before it’s submerged by anger.

  “His name is Matthew,” I say.

  Mason’s shaking his head, his eyes disbelieving. “Don’t,” he says.

  “He’s married, with a daughter. Her name is Freya and she looks just like me.”

  He frowns.

  “She’s my half-sister. Matthew is my father. I didn’t know I was going to meet him. Ivy arranged it.”

  He’s shaking his head again, stumbling back before turning away so I can’t see his face. I see his hand go up, see it drag through his hair, before it’s joined by his other one. I move behind him, circling my arms around his waist, my fingers spreading wide against his flat stomach. His chest expands and he emits a sound that’s midway between a laugh and a groan. Or a cry. “I thought ...”

  “You thought I was cheating on you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I couldn’t do that. Not loving you the way I do.”

  His hand comes down to cover mine. “I fucked up,” he says.