A knowing, happy, intrigued smile, because I felt that pressing against me, and the horny part of me really wants to get a closer look at what he’s packing.
The more cautious part of me thinks I should wait, though. Especially given Mason’s history.
He’s not known for his longevity in relationships, with nothing having lasted longer than an hour or two at the most since I’ve been with the tour.
Sure, yes, we’ve spent several evenings in each other’s company now. But what if this is all just some kind of holdover from that first day months ago when he wanted in my pants and I rejected him? A way to get back at me?
I mean, he did go out of his way to make my life extra difficult on purpose for weeks.
What if all of this is an elaborate scheme to get what he thinks he’s owed, and he’ll go back to being a jerk as soon as I give it up?
With those cheerful thoughts swirling in my head, I settle on the couch as the waiter brings in the cart and sets the food on the coffee table in front of me.
Mason gives me a questioning look over the waiter’s head, and I hitch up the corners of my mouth in what’s meant to be a reassuring smile, but Mason doesn’t seem to buy it.
But with the waiter still present, he doesn’t say anything to me. After walking the waiter to the door and giving him a tip, he walks slowly back to me, his brow furrowed once again.
He sits next to me on the couch, ignoring the food in favor of tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingertips trailing along my jaw as he places a soft kiss on my lips. “What’s wrong?” he asks quietly.
Pulling my chin away from his fingers, I look down, twisting my hands together in my lap. “Nothing, really.”
He snorts, his disbelief clear. “Bullshit,” he says succinctly, in case I didn’t catch the meaning of his snort.
Nudging a plate of flash-fried veggies in my direction, he pops one in his mouth and sits back against the couch, clearly waiting for me to give him a real answer.
With a sigh, I busy myself with picking out a carrot—and oh my god this is delicious—as I try to condense everything in my head into words. Clearly my face is broadcasting my misgivings. Shrugging, I keep my attention on the food in front of me, because I’m a coward. “It’s just … like I said. I don’t know what to expect here. You keep kissing me. Which is great”—I dart a glance in his direction and give him a shy smile—“I really enjoy the kissing.” Another shrug. “But I’ve seen how you operate. So I’m not sure how to calibrate my expectations appropriately given your history and how it meshes—or really doesn’t, actually—with mine.”
Meeting his eyes directly at last, I gather up my courage and lay bare the heart of the issue. “I’ve never had a one-night stand. And I’m not really interested in my first one being tonight.”
His solemn dark eyes study me for several long moments, and I force myself to meet his gaze without flinching. Without hiding. I don’t have frank discussions about sex like, ever. Or I haven’t in a really long time, anyway. So this is rather far outside of my comfort zone.
But we both deserve to be on the same page here. If all he wants is one night, I’m not sure I’m willing to give that to him, no matter how delicious his kisses are.
He takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, but stops himself. Leaning forward, his elbows propped on his knees, he studies me again, this time at close range. “Look, I know you think I’m the world’s biggest fuckboy, and honestly, I can’t blame you. But that’s not really me. I want …” He hesitates, drawing out the suspense, and then finally, with a smirk tugging at his lips, completes his sentence. “You. I want you. And not just for tonight.”
Sucking in a breath, I straighten, unconsciously pulling away from him, resisting the magnetic force that seems to draw me in every time he’s around. That keeps my eyes locked on him any time he’s in the room. “So …”
He reaches for my hand, tugging me closer. “I want to see where this goes,” he whispers, his breath fanning over my face. “I want to see exactly how explosive we can be.”
Heat shimmers over my entire body at his words, goosebumps rising in its wake, all the energy gathering low in my center. I clench involuntarily, my heart rate picking up and my breath coming faster. “You do?”
His only answer is to kiss me again, his arm catching me and pulling me against him, on top of him as he reclines back against the arm of the couch. Both hands slide down to my ass, gripping it, using his hold to move me higher, grinding me against the hard ridge of his dick.
Soon I’m taking over the movement, and he groans into my mouth. With his hands cupping my face, he ends the kiss, and I still. “If this is all you want to do tonight, I can live with that, but Jesus fuck, don’t stop moving.”
Without waiting for a response, he brings my face back to his, one hand slipping to the nape of my neck, holding me in place for his hungry kiss, the other gripping my ass again, encouraging me to move.
Holy hell. I already feel like I might combust just from this, and we’re fully clothed, making out like teenagers.
How am I going to handle it when I get to his skin? When he gets to mine? When he uses
