Chapter 14
MASON
I wait for her in the shadows, parked across from her hotel in a spot where the glitzy lights don’t reach. I grimly count the seconds till she walks through the double doors.
The past twenty-four hours have been hell, knowing that she has a hold on me I can’t shake very easily.
Knowing the more I let that connection remain, the more inclined I’ll be to punish her for it.
Not that she isn’t getting punished anyway.
It’s why I deliberately stayed away from the yacht today.
I don’t think I can stand to be in the same space as her without throwing her over my shoulder, or preferably onto the floor, and fucking the shit out of her.
That’s how bad she’s got me.
My hands shake and my cock throbs as I watch the door. I’ve arrived early because I can’t abide my own company for another second. I’ve never done well with inactivity. Idle hands bring too many temptations, too many chances to be pulled back into the razor-sharp jaws of the past.
Of what I lost.
Of the spiral of hell that became my life in the months after losing Toby.
His name shudders down my spine, and I grit my teeth as pain rattles long and hard through my rigid bones. I don’t fight the pain. I welcome it. It’s a part of my life I never intend to let go. Letting go means forgetting. And I’ll never forget what I did.
Never forget.
Never forgive.
I sit through another half a dozen shudders and try to pull myself together. Being this close to the edge isn’t a great idea.
Keely Benson is a sexy contradiction that intrigues and infuriates me. But she also needs handling with care, and it won’t do to scare her away before I get the chance to have my way with her. I can’t afford to let her see me like this. Not yet, anyway.
Despite her agreeing to give herself to me, part of her remains wary. And while a side of me thinks her prudent for that wariness, I’m unwilling to let it stand in the way of what I want.
I switch gears and wonder if she’ll turn up dressed the way I asked. I mull over the various ways I’ll punish her if she doesn’t. My dick jerks and my fist unclenches to cup the bulge in my pants. I breathe deep and allow anticipation to wash over me.
She emerges from the hotel at that moment and pauses on the sidewalk.
Pleasure flickers into a flame when I see she’s obeyed my instructions.
Her head swings back and forth over the row of sports cars arriving at the hotel. It’s a busy Friday evening in Monaco, particularly around the streets near Casino Square.
I watch her for another minute before I gun the powerful engine of the Ducati and exit the side street. The throaty engine draws her attention, and her gaze stays on me as I roll up to a stop beside her.
She takes in the black, powerful bike. “Okay, I get the request for pants and the hair now,” she says.
My gaze travels over the hair she’s tied back into a long silky rope as per my instructions, the cream top and jacket, black pants and knee-high boots that make her legs look fucking amazing.
“You think it was a request?”
“I sure as hell hope so. I don’t respond well to commands,” she snaps.
She’s obviously still testy so I decide not to respond.
Instead, I cup her nape and pull her close.
She stumbles into me, and I steady her with one hand over her stomach as I tug her down and take her mouth in a kiss that’s all about easing the flaying hunger I’ve suffered since I first set eyes on her.
She tenses for a moment before her mouth softens beneath mine.
I go in hard and ruthless, my tongue breaching and surging past her lips to tangle with hers.
A gasp, which doesn’t quite make it past our meshed lips, lifts her slender torso, and my fingers curl into her waist, imprisoning her so I can satisfy even a little of that pounding need.
Her hands slide over my shoulders and push into my hair. I tense at the strange feeling. I haven’t allowed a woman to touch me like this without my permission in a long time. Years, in fact.
Not since Cassie and I were together. Not since Toby was alive.
By the time I get round to fucking a woman, she’s more often than not bound, or ready to submit to my commands on how she can touch me.
Keely Benson has already taken far too many liberties. The thought freezes me from the inside, and I tense harder.
Keely lifts her head. “What’s wrong?”
“What makes you think something’s wrong?” I reply roughly, and struggle to get a hold of myself.
“I’m not an idiot, Mason. Something spooked you just now.” Her forehead creases and a tinge of self-awareness creeps into her eyes. “Was it me?”
“You?”
“If you don’t like the way I kiss, just say so.”
My gaze drops to her wet, slightly swollen mouth, and my cock swells and thickens, desperate for the action I’ve denied it for several long months. “I like the way you kiss. I very much want you to do it again. Right now.”
Her pupils dilate, and I increase the pressure at her nape with the request, not really giving her a choice in the matter. A second before our lips meet, a Ferrari roars past, and she jerks back.
“Shit, I don’t mind PDAs, but do we have somewhere to be? Like a reservation or something?”
“No,” I growl, my focus on the mouth she’s keeping from me.
“Oh, so you’re not planning on feeding me tonight?”
“Oh, you’ll be fed, kitten. Just probably not in the way you expect.”
Her fingers, still tangled in my hair, tighten and another cold wash of reality bathes me. I grasp her hands and pull them down to her sides. Reaching into the compartment in front of me, I pull out a helmet. “Put this on and get on the bike.”
She hesitates, like she wants to argue, but then she slides the helmet on. Her small, long-stringed purse goes cross-bodied over her shoulder and she swings her leg over the seat. I wait till she’s fully in place and gun the engine.
“You ready?” I ask, my head turned so I can see her face.
“Yes.”
“Hold on.”
She nods and shifts closer. Her crotch nudges my ass. I suppress a growl and barely wait for her arms to slide around my waist before I kick the stand and dart into the slow-moving traffic.
Her hold tightens, and she leans closer against my back. My muscles flex in reaction to the touch of her firm breasts, and I breathe through my mouth while debating the wisdom of picking her up by bike instead of using the car, despite the Ducati getting us to my place quicker.
We bypass the posh restaurants and bars around Casino Square and head east. Every now and then I tilt the bike to take a fast corner, and I feel her breath on my neck before the wind whips it away.
I take a particularly sharp corner and her nails claw into my skin as she grips a handful of my shirt.
My jaw clenches and I fight the urge to stop the bike, spread her naked on top of it and fuck her raw for making me hurt this bad.
But I don’t stop. Because then she might bolt.
Five minutes later, I pull up in front of tall wrought-iron gates and input the security code. I sense her surprise but don’t give her a chance to question where I’ve brought her before gunning the bike through the barely adequate gap.
I skid to a stop at the end of the sweeping driveway and dismount. A glance shows her mouth gaping as she stares at the house. “Who lives here?”
“I do.”
Her astonished gaze swings to me, and she stares at me for a second before her attention switches back to the house. “Okay, for my own piece of mind, I need to ask. Are you married?”
My wince is barely controlled, and I only just manage to stop my fist from balling. “Why do you need to know?” I ask calmly, keeping the punishing, volatile sickness in my soul from showing.
Her eyes widen. “You needing to ask me that seriously disturbs me. Do I come across like some bitch homewrecker to you? Or do I seem like the kind of woman who just loves being the piece you screw on the side to piss off your wife, or whatever reason you rich people use to get your rocks off?”
Despite the feelings roiling through my belly, my mouth twitches. “No, your request for exclusivity suggests you’re not either of those things.”
That seems to appease her. “Then answer the question.”
“I’m not married. Not anymore.”
I curse silently for the unnecessary additional info, but it’s too late. Her eyes glow with interest. Interest that I ignore by turning and stalking to the door. I hear the exact moment she dismounts and follows, and relief pours through me.
Not that I have any intention of letting her do anything but follow me. The gates are locked. Only I have the code. Once the front door closes behind her, she’s only getting out when I’m good and ready.
I enter the cavernous hallway and kick off my boots and socks. The sensation of the cool tiles beneath my feet grounds me and allows me a moment or two of rational thought before I hear her enter.
My slip needn’t be a problem. My marriage and divorce aren’t exactly state secrets—Cassie and I were a prominent New York couple before I put her out of her misery and ended our marriage—but an intelligent and curious person can discover things I don’t want discovered.
“So… you live in this mansion on your own?”
“When I’m here, yes.”
“And how often are you here?”
I whirl to face her, and she takes a single step back. “We have an agreement, remember? No personal questions?” I all but snarl.
Her eyes flash warily, but she props her hands on her hips. “Hey, you opened that door. I just peeked through it.”
“Well, consider it firmly shut.”
In almost perfect synchronicity, the door behind her, programmed to shut and lock after twenty seconds of no movement, clicks home.
She jumps at the small but ominous sound.