by Zara Cox
Still clutched in his arms, he walks us backward toward dry land.
Tears prickle my eyes, fill them and begin to spill down my cheeks. I keep my head bent. I don’t want him to see my despair and shame. He doesn’t. He’s too busy cursing and striding to the outdoor shower near the steps leading up to Zach and Beth’s house.
I’m not exactly lightweight, but he carries me as if I weigh nothing, his steps sure and confident in the sand. He reaches the shower and places me on my feet, one hand clamped around my waist to keep me there while he switches on the jets and waits for the water to warm up.
I can feel him looking at me, but I keep my head down, for the first time in my life almost afraid to look another human being in the eye.
God, what’s wrong with me? That’s what he’d asked me, and what I’ve asked myself most of my life.
Foolish question, really. I know exactly what’s wrong with me.
I did the unforgivable six years ago. And unlike the fairy tales expound, time doesn’t heal all wounds. It makes it worse. Time bloats the pain, feeds it until you’re one huge walking piece of agony.
“You react like this every time a guy tells you he’s interested in you?” Rusty queries. Gone is the amused tone. Instead his voice is hard, almost sinister. I feel the bite in it slash over my skin, as if his voice is a living abrasive brush.
“I told you to leave me alone.”
“So what, you could drown yourself? A little selfish on your part, don’t you think?” he snarls.
My head snaps up, tears forgotten. “Excuse me?”
“You pick today of all days, at your supposed best friend’s engagement party, to drown yourself?”
I breathe in slowly, not sure whether the emotion moving through me is anger or humiliation or a combination of both. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are but—”
“It doesn’t really matter who I am. What matters is that you understand that if you want to a pull a shitty stunt like this, you can fucking wait until tomorrow to do it. There are two people up there who’ve been through hell and back—one of whom is supposed to be your goddamn friend—who deserve not to have their night fucked up because you’re drunk and a little sad that your poor, sex life is in the toilet.”
Anger. Definitely anger. “Who the fuck do you think—?”
“Get in,” he cuts across me, dropping his right hand after testing the water temperature.
“No,” I return coldly, reminded all over again why I detest dominating men.
He doesn’t say a word. In the next second, I’m lifted off my feet and placed beneath the hot spray. Welcoming warmth cascades over me and I realize how cold I’d been. But I’m too angry to appreciate the heat.
Hell, I’m incandescent.
Before I can say a word, he steps in with me, crowds me against the marble tiles. I gasp and raise my head to find his eyes—a deep hazel that appears almost dark gold in the soft lights placed around the shower—narrowed, his gaze daring me to do anything other than what he wanted.
I push his chest. Hard.
He doesn’t budge. Just stares at me like I’m a puny fly and he’s a fucking mountain. Which, I guess he is. It dawns on me right then how big he is. Well over six foot three to my five six. Normally, my heels lend me a good four inches of confidence. But I came out here barefoot. And I have a giant in front of me.
A giant with a chest built to stop tornados in their tracks. Or stupid women intent on ruining his friend’s engagement party. That’s what his gaze tells me.
I push harder.
His hands capture mine, holding them prisoner against his chest. I blink at him through the water cascading down my face and glare harder.
“Get the fuck out of my way.”
“Anyone tell you that you have a very dirty mouth?”
“Do I look like I care what anyone has to say about my mouth?”
His gaze drops to my lips. The water running over them intensifies the sudden tingle of awareness at this stare. I have to fight the impulse to lick them. Just as I fight the urge to stare at his mouth.
“No, you don’t. It’s still no excuse to talk like a goddamn sailor,” he says.
“I believe in getting to the point as quickly as possible. Equivocating isn’t really my thing.”
“I hear you fine without the extra filth.”
“I don’t think you do. Because here you are, still in my fucking way.”
Something dark and dangerous gleams in his eyes and a residual shiver crawls up my spine. His chest expands beneath my palms and he slowly exhales.
“If you were mine, I’d spank that dirty mouth right out of you,” he murmurs, his tone once again that deep and mesmerizing quality, which makes me want to stand on tiptoe and strain closer so I can hear more of his voice.
“Well, I’m not yours, Rusty. And FYI, I hate being spanked.”
“Probably because it hasn’t been done in the right way. But I could teach you to love it,” he replies, those eyes raking my face with an intense intimacy that fires up a spark in my belly. “I can teach you to love a whole lot of things, Keely.”
That spark turns into a flame. For a moment, I can’t define what the feeling is. Then I realize it’s arousal. I’m at once sad and elated. Sad because it’s been so long that I’ve forgotten what arousal feels like. Elated because...well, I’m not dead below the waist after all.
But this arousal isn’t the kind I normally feel for a guy I want to sleep with. This feeling is different. It’s sharper, more intense, as if it could actually cause damage if ignored.
Which is ridiculous. I pull my hands away and he lets me go. But he doesn’t move from his guardian position. I turn around, let the water cascade down my back. My silk Donna Karan dress is ruined, but what the hell, it feels good to be warm. Despite the guilt and pain clawing through me, it feels good to be alive.
“You can go now. I promise I won’t try to drown myself,” I mutter loud enough for him to hear.
He doesn’t move.
I sigh. “I wasn’t really going to drown myself. I was just trying to clear my head a little.”
“With a bottle of champagne inside you? You have to do better than that.”
“Look, Rusty—”
“My name is Mason. Mason Sinclair. You can call me Mason or Sinclair. Rusty doesn’t work for me.” There’s a hard command in his voice that impresses the seriousness of his dislike for the nickname.
“Okay, Mason. If you knew me better, you’d know I’d never do that to Beth, and especially not by drowning myself. She...she has a history with water...” I stop, knowing I was verging on being indiscreet about my best friend’s past.
“I know,” Mason says.
I turn my head, meet his eyes. “You know?”
He nods. “Zach asked for my help last year in how to assist Bethany to tackle her fear of water.”
My eyes widen. “Are you some sort of doctor?”
His eyes gleam again, and he sluices the water from his face and beard. “I’m a lot of things. Are you warm enough?” he asks.
I nod absently, and he reaches out to shut off the water. There are stacks of towels on a shelf next to the shower. He grabs two and hands me one. I quickly mop up the water in my hair and slide the towel over my wet clothes. But it’s no use. I’m still dripping and getting chillier by the second.
He grabs two more and tugs one around my shoulders. “Let’s get you changed before you catch pneumonia.”
He steps back and indicates the house.
Still reeling from the fact that he knows about Bethany’s near drowning and the fear she’s had of water since then, I start walking before I realize that he’s still commanding and I’m obeying.
We reach the steps leading to the house, and I stop.
“What?”
“My room is upstairs.” There are only two ways to get to my room—the kitchen and the front entrance. Both will be filled with guests, and I don’t want anyone to see me like
this. Like Mason, I don’t want anything to ruin Bethany and Zach’s night.
“Come on, I’m staying in the pool house. You can use my bathroom,” Mason says.
I hesitate. Because, hello, I’m from Brooklyn. Only stupid-ass women in B movies accept invitations like these. “No, thanks.”
He inhales. “If I wanted to harm you, I’d have done it on the beach, where I was less likely to be discovered.”
“Maybe you like toying with your victims first,” I challenge.
“You see yourself as a victim?” he asks with a touch of amusement.
“Only one way to find out. Try something,” I dare him.
He tunnels his fingers through his hair in exasperation. “This is why I hate these things,” he mutters beneath his breath. There’s a genuine bitterness in his tone that fans my interest higher.
“What things?” I ask, in spite of myself.
He shakes his head and starts to walk up the steps. “I’m sure you know where the pool house is. If you’re interested in getting out of those wet clothes, feel free to come inside. If not, it’s been...interesting meeting you.” He walks off and leaves me standing in the sand.
I swear I’m not going to follow him. That I’ll find a way to sneak inside the house and go up to my room without alerting anyone to my wet, disheveled state, or the frightening turmoil in my soul.
But then I look up and see Bethany and Zach standing at the kitchen window, their eyes devouring each other, the sheer depth of their love a living thing I can almost reach out and touch. And I know I can’t wreck their night with even a hint of my own personal drama.
For one thing, I suspect Bethany already knows there’s something up with me. She just hasn’t had the time to tackle me about it because she’s been busy getting things ready for the party. If I show even the smallest hint of distress, she’ll be on me in a flash. I can’t let that happen. My emotions are too close to the surface for me to hide them adequately enough to fool her.
So, I retrieve my shoes from the steps and trudge after Mason Sinclair.
I reach the pool house door and knock. He doesn’t answer for several minutes. I curse under my breath and start to turn away.
The door opens, and he fills the space. Larger than life and wearing only a pair of boxer briefs. In the brighter light I see that his hair is a dark chocolate brown, and his eyes are indeed a golden hazel. His mouth is both sensual and cruel, as if he’s seen things in life he’s loved and hated at the same time.
And his body. God, I don’t even bother to hide my interest in his body.
Lean but muscular in a way only a seasoned athlete can achieve, there’s a tensile strength in him, a latent energy pulsing through him that reeks of danger and the not so civilized.
My scrutiny reaches his very masculine feet, and I try not to smirk at the size of them. But my gaze travels back up and lingers at his groin. The thickness outlined against the black cotton is impressive, but I wish I have x-ray vision right then. I want to see the real thing. I want—
“If you’re looking for the bathroom, it’s this way,” he interrupts my porny thoughts, and a flush crawls up my face as I lift my gaze from his crotch.
“I...thanks.” I avoid his probing stare as I slide past him and enter the large living room. As with the main house, the pool house has been designed with luxurious comfort in mind. Heated floors warm my feet as I walk through the cream and black decorated room. Expensive landscapes adorn the walls, and a couple of sculptures on pedestals complement the thick sofas and entertainment center arranged in front of a large, already lit stone fireplace.
I go past the two master bedrooms to the bathroom at the end of the hallway. I shut the door on the eyes I feel boring into my back and breathe a sigh of relief.
I avoid my reflection in the mirror, quickly disrobe and shrug on the smaller of the two guest bathrobes hanging at the back of the door. Opening a drawer in the vanity, I find a new hairbrush, and run it through my shoulder length hair, all without meeting my eyes in the mirror. I know what I’ll see. Weariness. Bitterness. Guilt. But I’m too exhausted to deal with it tonight.
So I put away the hairbrush, tighten the robe belt and open the door.
Mason is leaning against the wall right outside the bathroom. He’s dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, but he’s barefoot.
And his gaze is locked on mine.
The dark and dangerous hunger lurking in his eyes is unmistakable.
My breath catches.
“So...what now?” I ask.
“You come and have a drink with me. You can tell me what’s wrong with you or we discuss how quickly we dance around each other before you let me fuck you.”
Chapter 3
mason
I watch the battle on her face with a removed fascination. She’s debating whether to come at me all guns blazing, or pretend I don’t exist.
I don’t really mind which option she chooses. She can walk out of here, and all I’ll feel is a modicum of disappointment. Maybe more than a modicum. There’s something...compelling about her. Something I should probably walk away from. Maybe I’m drawn to her turmoil because I have the same storm raging inside me. The need to smash, destroy, roar is a never-ending buzz beneath my skin.
I’ve learned the mechanics of letting it out. The Amazon jungle has heard it a few times in the last six months. It was in the rage-soaked sweat from my skin that mixed with the straw and mud as I built the school and shelters in Roraima. I let it bleed out through the asphalt of the Pacific Coast Highway at two a.m. when the demons got too loud and I slid behind the wheel of my Koenigsegg. Or in the converted basement of my LA house.
When all else fails...I fuck.
Normally, it takes about a year for the guilt and rage to come to a head. This time, I’ve barely lasted six months. I can feel the tempest gathering ever closer. Hani, my facilitator at the exclusive service I use has been put on standby earlier this evening. All it’ll take is a single phone call, and I can calm the storm. But I choose not to. Not just yet.
I watch the woman in front of me in silence. She has a brash strength about her that almost camouflages the gaping vortex of pain flowing from her. Her goddess-like beauty perfects that disguise, until you choose to look beneath the surface. I’m certainly finding it a little challenging to not gape at the wet tumble of caramel blonde hair that hangs in ropes about her face and shoulders, or the wide, sensual mouth that vacillates between a pout and a typical New Yorker’s sneer.
She’s stunning enough to stop any clear-thinking man in his tracks. For murkier-minded men like me, the allure and intrigue that shroud her is a siren call that howls its rapturous destruction.
And yet, I cannot look away. Not yet.
“I’ll take a drink minus the talking,” Keely finally responds, her chin raised in pointed defiance that I almost find amusing.
I nod and head to the kitchen. Her soft footsteps follow. “Hot or cold?” I ask when I walk past the center island.
She pauses. “Excuse me?”
“Coffee, water or club soda?” I look over my shoulder and that glare is back.
“I don’t want coffee,” she growls and I’m once again fascinated. By the rich, dominatrix quality of her voice, the no-nonsense way she ends every sentence, like she’s impatient with the words coming out of her mouth. “Or water.”
I open the fully stocked double fridge and take out two cans of soda. “Soda it is, then.”
She watches the can I slide across the island like it’s an IED. I suppress laughter as she snaps, “Is this a joke?”
“What’s wrong? Did you think I was going to top up your already high alcohol intake with more booze?”
“What are you, the fucking booze monitor?” she throws back at me.
As I lift my own can to take a long swig, my hands itch with the need to teach her a lesson about her foul mouth. I don’t plan to stick around after my meeting with Zach tomorrow. But between now and then, if she continues t
o pique my interest, I might just grant her the spanking she richly deserves.
“I don’t keep any booze here.”
One sleekly outlined brow lifts. “Afraid you’ll fall off the wagon?” she taunts.
“Yes,” I answer truthfully.
Again, surprise and intrigue slide across her face. “Oh...okay.” Slowly, she reaches out and picks up the soda. One perfectly manicured finger toys with the rim and something awakens inside me as I watch that finger.
“How long have you been sober?” she asks after a few minutes of silence.
“Ten years, two months, three weeks and five days.”
Her forehead creases for all of three seconds. “You stopped drinking on Christmas Day?” she says, confirming my initial impression of her quick wit. Why she chooses to hide her intelligence behind foul language and an abrasive manner isn’t a subject that particularly interests me. But I find the whole package intriguing nonetheless.
“Yes.”
Her lips twitch and I can tell she’s dying to ask me more.
The phone I’d left on the island earlier buzzes and I step closer as her gaze drops. We both see the message clearly displayed on the screen.
Welcome back, Mr. S. Your usual selection is available when you are.
“Let me guess, that’s your dealer?” she jibes, without excusing herself for reading my message.
I shrug. “Of sorts.”
Her sea-green eyes widen and I’m thrilled to have surprised her again. She doesn’t seem the sort to be easily shocked. “You don’t drink, but you do drugs?” she asks, condemnation brimming her tone. “Isn’t that swapping one addiction for another?”
“It is if you consider sex an addiction.”
Her mouth drops open, and she flicks a glance at the now dark screen. “So that was your...your...”
“It’s a service I use, yes.” I drain the last of the soda, my eyes tracing the color washing up her neck. “You’re blushing. Does that embarrass you?”
She cracks the top of the soda and pulls back the lid. “That you get your sex through an escort service? Hell no. Maybe I’m a little embarrassed for you.” She gulps in the soda a little too fast, and several drops trickle down the side of her mouth. She wipes it with the back of her hand and her color rises higher.
