Chapter 11 – Leslie
Mason took me to the fifth floor of the library. The second we stepped out of the elevator, I knew I’d made a mistake. It was empty–just stacks upon stacks of books, with a seductive stillness only broken up by the soft hum of the air conditioner. In between the stacks, a large oak table stood, also empty, like it was waiting for us.
For me.
I shivered. It was a mistake to be alone with my mercurial stepbrother. Whether he wanted me, which was so wrong, or hated me, which no longer felt true, this was a bad idea.
“Shouldn’t we go where there are more people?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Too loud. I can’t concentrate with that much noise.” He glanced away, running a hand through his hair. “I have a hard time concentrating as it is. Something my dad always gave me shit about.”
It didn’t sound like bullshit. It sounded true—and actually, shockingly, vulnerable. Who was the real Mason? The brutally cold douchebag from this summer and this morning? The confident, dominant man with magical hands and lust in his eyes? Or this soft, vulnerable, wounded boy? Was it possible he was all of them?
Softening toward him, I said, “Yeah, I can’t study when people are talking. But I usually put my headphones in.”
Curiousity filled his face. “What do you listen to?”
Blushing, I looked down. “Disney soundtracks,” I murmured.
He grinned, and I prepared for him to mock me, but he just said, “That’s cute, butterfly. What’s your favorite?”
“Mulan. And Moana.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Not Frozen? No ‘Let It Go?’”
I laughed despite myself. “I’ll admit, I listened to it a lot after you humiliated me this summer.”
I’d even choreographed a dance to it with Bea. It hadn’t completely canceled out my pain and embarrassment, but it had helped.
“Fucking Tiffanie,” he muttered.
I blinked. It wasn’t exactly remorse, but I hadn’t expected him to be annoyed with his girlfriend. Or ex-girlfriend. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You know, I broke up with that bitch after you left that day,” he said.
Ex-girlfriend, then.
“Why?”
“Why?” He took a step toward me. His closeness changed the climate, the setting: the large room became almost claustrophobic, the chill turning to an almost sweltering heat. “Why would I keep eating McDonald’s, when there’s a five-star, gourmet meal, right within reach?”
My words caught in my throat, and I melted a little more.
God, I really did hate myself. I was a doormat, wasn’t I?
“That’s a dick thing to say,” I pointed out, even if my petty little heart loved it.
He shrugged. “It’s true.”
Well, I wasn’t going to let this conversation go any further. Tiffanie had been a real bitch to me, she didn’t deserve a defense. I wasn’t sure how I felt about being called a gourmet meal, but I wasn’t going to pursue that, either.
Instead, I changed the subject. “We should get to work.”
I pulled out my laptop and sat down in the chair furthest away from him. I expected him to sit across from me, and it was discomfiting when he took the chair next to mine and slid it over so our knees were practically touching.
“Do you need to sit this close to me?” I asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me to sit on the other side and shout across to you? It’s practically in Siberia.”
He was wrong, but it wasn’t worth the fight.
I opened my laptop. “Okay, what ‘canonical work’ do we want to write about?”
He shrugged. “That can wait. How are you, Leslie?”
“What, we’re exchanging pleasantries now? Let’s concentrate on the project. It’s the only reason we’re spending time together.”
He shook his head, his eyes dark. “I want to know how you’re doing. First day of class, new school, haven’t even gone to ballet yet. You must be stressed. Talk to me.”
Why the hell would I talk to you? When you could just use it against me? I wanted to say. But that felt too vulnerable. I wasn’t about to show the asshole my hand, even if it had felt good holding hands with him.
“How do you think I am?” I asked.
Strong Leslie 1, Doormat Leslie 0.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ve seemed…upset this morning.”
“How would you even know? You barely spoke a word to me until class.”
“I saw you. You seemed especially upset in the cafeteria. Why?”
I glared at him. He really thought I was that easy. No more Doormat Leslie. “You know why.”
“Do I? Oh, was it because Emily was sitting in my lap? I didn’t realize you cared.”
Damn it.I’d confessed a weakness to him I hadn’t even admitted to myself. Well, too late now. But I wasn’t going to pretend I hadn’t noticed his mood swings with me. He deserved to be confronted, and I deserved answers.
“I. Don’t. Care. But yesterday you acted like a caveman in my dorm room and kissed me and touched me, and then this morning you were an asshole and embarrassed me, and now you’re acting like I matter to you, that we’re friends or something. I can’t deal with the emotional whiplash, Mason.”
“We’re not friends,” he said easily. My heart sank at his easy dismissal of me, even though it shouldn’t feel anything toward him. “We’re more than that,” he added, and my heart was buoyed despite myself.
Damn it. Strong Leslie 1, Doormat Leslie 1.
“Right, we’re stepsiblings.”
“Hmmm.”
“Hmm? What’s hmm.”
“I’m sorry, butterfly,” he said. “You’re right, my behavior’s been erratic. I’ll make sure my intentions are clearer in the future. Will that help?”
I blinked.
Had Mason Calloway just apologized? A second time?
“It depends. What are your intentions?”
“I think this is a show, not tell,” he said. As he spoke, he placed his big hand on my thigh below my denim skirt. I gulped, suddenly feeling hot all over. He played with the hem, and then his fingers wandered underneath the skirt and…up.
“Mason!” I tried to push his hand away with mine, but he grabbed my wrist with his other hand to stop me.
“Such a bad girl,” he tsked. “I can’t decide if I should punish you for showing so much skin to so many people, or reward you for making it so easy for me to touch you.” He stroked his hand up my thighs, until they rested directly on my underwear, which had grown embarrassingly wet.
“Or are you a good girl? Look how turned on you are by my touch,” he crooned, as he started drawing light, teasing circles, around and around.
“Mason. No.”
“Leslie. Yes.” He traced a smaller, tighter, more forceful circle around my clit. I gasped and fell back against the chair, the pleasure sucking all the fight out of me.
“Maybe you’re both. A bad girl who wore this skirt for my attention, for letting your stepbrother touch you this way. And a good girl for doing what I tell you to do. For spreading your legs and letting me play with what’s mine.”
Mine. The word sang through me, making those butterflies in my stomach riot.
But I couldn’t accept his claim, especially when I couldn’t trust him. Besides, I belonged to no one but me.
“I’m not yours.”
He pinched my clit in reprimand, and I cried out.
“Shhh, you don’t want to get caught, do you, butterfly? Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s exactly what you want—for someone to see exactly who you belong to.” Before I could protest, he slipped his fingers under my panties and thrust one, then two, inside me.
Something no one had ever done before—not even me.
“Fuck, you’re tight. No one’s touched this virgin pussy before but me. That’s what makes you a good girl—my good girl. You waited for me,” he growled.
As I tried to pull away, to stop him, he pulled me closer, turning his chair and trapping me between his thighs and the table. I had no escape, nowhere to go.
Completely trapped.
And, good fucking god, the realization made me even wetter.
“This cunt is dripping for me,” he said, growling again.
He teased my walls with his fingers, stroking in an upward, curved motion that sent pleasure pinging through me like a pin ball machine, lighting up my whole body along the way. He began circling my clit with his thumb at the same time, making my thighs stiffen and my pussy clench around his fingers.
“Ah, fuck yes,” he said. “Good girl, do that again.”
“Mason,” I moaned, despite myself.
“I know, baby, I know. It feels too good doesn’t it? Scary good? I can tell because of how tight your pussy is getting around my fingers, and how sloppy wet you are.” He hummed as he continued thrusting and circling, thrusting and circling.
Somewhere behind us, I heard the elevator door ding, then footsteps.
I froze, reality intruding. What the hell was I doing?
“We need to stop.”
He tsked. “I’m not stopping until you come on my fingers, butterfly. So you better come, if you don’t want anyone to see me fingering your filthy, sloppy pussy.”
He picked up the pace with his fingers and thumb. Between his touch and the awareness that we could get caught, I was almost a goner. So much pleasure filled me, overwhelmed me, and I couldn’t stop it from happening, even if I wanted to. The edge was approaching.
He pressed down on my clit, hard, and I tripped over the edge into free fall.
“That’s right. You come for Daddy,” he murmured, and I couldn’t protest, I was too busy following his orders as my sex spasmed around his fingers and more pleasure than I’d ever felt spilled out of me. At the last moment, he leaned over and captured my cry of pleasure with his mouth and swallowed my desire.
The footsteps faded away, and I practically slithered onto the floor, especially when he withdrew his fingers from my pussy, showed me how wet they were, and then sucked them into his mouth.
“Fuck,” he growled. “I can’t wait to get my mouth on you.”
He placed a soft, wet kiss on my forehead. “Okay, enough fun. Let’s work on this project.”
As he spoke, outlining our plan, I tried to participate, but I couldn’t focus.
“Mason, that can’t happen again,” I said.
“Sure thing, butterfly,” he agreed, easily. Too easily.
And part of me was glad, especially if it meant he could make me feel that way again. As if he could tell what I was thinking, he winked.
“I’ll make it good for you, I promise,” he said.
I believed him. And I was terrified—not only about how good I’d felt, how I’d let him do something so wrong, but that I’d gotten off on it. I’d gotten off on the choice being taken away from me; and from my stepbrother, of all people. I was messed up in the head.
Because I wanted more. More from this man with so many faces and facets. And god help me, I wanted to know all of them, almost more than I wanted his hands on me again.