Chapter Twenty-Two
Mason
Chloe doesn’t belong here, not in the flashing neon light, not in the cacophony of clinking glasses and slot machines spitting out coins. She stands on the casino floor, lost in a sea of strangers, her eyes scanning the room like she isn’t sure if she should stay or run. She should run.
She should flee from me, even though I won’t allow it to happen. She doesn’t flee when I move up to her. There’s nowhere she can go that’s far enough anyway. I’m the hunter, and I’m not giving up, not for an instant. I want her, and I don’t let go of what I want.
I prowl toward her, cutting through the crowd with purpose. She hasn’t seen me yet, her fingers grazing over the stem of a half-finished cocktail. She’s breathtaking — dark waves spilling over her bare shoulders, her little black dress hugging every curve I ache to claim. When she finally looks up, her breath catches, the rising of her chest making my ache grow.
“Mason,” she whispers, my name barely audible over the noise of the casino.
“Come with me,” I demand, my voice husky and urgent. She looks as if she wants to argue.
I don’t give her a chance. My hand wraps around her wrist, and she lets me lead her through the casino, through the chaos, past rows of dealers flipping cards and desperate gamblers chasing dreams they’ll never possibly reach.
Chloe is nothing like these people. She’s one-of-a-kind. Her fate was already sealed the moment our eyes locked.
We move into the heart of the luxury shops without another word spoken between us. I can feel her pulse quicken beneath my grip, but she doesn’t pull away from me. I should be satisfied with this. I’m not. I want so much more. I wonder if anything will ever be enough when it comes to her.
We move along, and soon see an art gallery nestled between two designer boutiques, its entrance sleek and quiet, like a world apart from the frenzy of the outside world. Chloe slows, her gaze captured by the art in the windows, her eyes seeking a favorite piece.
I release her hand, watching as she steps inside the quaint shop. She moves like she’s afraid to disturb the space, her fingers clasped together as she admires the work lining the walls. Then she stops. She’s standing in front of one of my pieces.
She steps closer as her breath hitches, and her body goes still. She’s mesmerized. She gives me a glance from the corner of her eye.
“Beautiful, it’s absolutely beautiful,” she sighs. It makes my body sing to hear her say this as she gazes on something I put my heart and soul into, even if she doesn’t know it’s my work.
She exhales slowly, a reverent sigh that I feel in the pit of my stomach. I clench my fists at my sides, trying to stay in control, but this woman makes that nearly impossible. Her eyes drop to the small plaque on the wall. She lets out a disappointed sigh and frowns. The price is far too high. All of my work sells for premium prices.
I don’t want her to buy my work. I want her to be my work. I want her beneath me, covered in paint, her body my canvas — mine to mark, mine to own. I’ve spent too many nights picturing it, my hands dragging colors over her curves, my lips tracing the patterns I’ve created.
I’ve tried being noble when it comes to her. I’ve tried waiting until she’s ready. But I can’t wait much longer. I step up behind her, so close that I can feel the warmth of her body against my chest. She stiffens but doesn’t move away.
“It’s not bad,” I tell her. I loved this piece when I made it, but it pales in comparison to what she’ll look like beneath the paint of my brush. I lean down, my lips brushing against her ear. “You’d make a much more enticing canvas.”
She laughs, though the sound’s obviously forced. She’s scared of this attraction between us. I’m not. “I can buy the piece for you,” I offer.
She immediately shakes her head. “As much as I want to own this, I won’t accept it,” she says, her voice firm. I’ve never met a woman unwilling to take gifts from me. It’s one more mystery where this woman’s concerned.
“I’ll give you anything you want, Chloe.”
She steps away from me, then turns. “I’m not for sale, Mason.”
I move closer to her. “I don’t want to buy you, Chloe... I want to own you,” I tell her, leaving no doubt in my voice that I mean these words. Her breath hitches again as her eyes widen. She doesn’t say another word, only turns and flees.
She’s scared, and that’s okay. She should be frightened. What’s happening between us only comes along once-in-a-lifetime. We should both be scared. We just might enter hell together if we continue this, which we certainly will. It doesn’t matter, though. I’m not running. I’ll let her flee for now, but I won’t let her get too far. I have plans for us that we’ll both enjoy far more than anything we’ve ever taken pleasure in before.