Chapter Twenty-One #3
I don’t need him burrowing further under my skin, cementing the hold he has over me.
Because of Mason, I’ve had to hurt someone I love.
I won’t forget or forgive him for that.
You mean you can’t forgive yourself. Mason didn’t make you do anything, and you know it. You’re just mad because he’s right.
Mason pushes me into my room and kicks the door shut behind us, his eyes burning with some emotion I can’t identify. “You are mine, London, and I won’t let you or anybody else ruin that. You still have months to go before you pay off your debt.”
“I don’t need you to remind me of that.”
Each morning when I wake up in an unfamiliar bed and stare at the gray ceilings, I’m reminded all over again.
Mason’s eyes sweep over me and stop at my lips. Then his eyes flick up, and he holds my gaze. “Strip.”
“Now? You can’t be serious.”
“Get out of your clothes, London,” Mason repeats, “or I’ll remove them for you. Your choice.”
I swallow and hesitate.
Slowly, my fingers move to my blouse, and I unfasten one button after the other, a kernel of desire building within me.
When my blouse falls to the floor, my fingers move to the button on my jeans.
Mason’s expression doesn’t change as he watches me, his breathing low and even.
Once I’m in my bra and underwear, I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest.
He’s looking at me like he’s going to devour me whole.
“Touch yourself,” Mason says thickly. “Don’t stop until I tell you to.”
It feels weird to stand in my childhood room in my underwear with a man like Mason.
I’ve been in here with Noah, but it always felt different. Familiar.
Having Mason here shines a spotlight on how different we are, and I don’t like it.
But this is what I need, whether I want to admit it or not.
It’s been on my mind since our night at the mansion.
I need him to touch me.
I have no idea why Mason is acting like this, but I don’t care, because it’s affecting me too.
I want to forget about Noah and everything else that led me here.
With trembling hands, I unhook my bra and let my breasts spill forward. Then, I hook a thumb into my underwear and pull them down. Mason pulls out my dresser chair and without breaking eye contact, sits down and crosses his legs. I look directly at him as I push my breasts together and exhale.
What is it about this wild and rough man that makes me go weak in the knees?
Why does being around him make me forget everything about who I am and what I thought I wanted?
I run a finger down my sides and move to my navel.
When I roll my nipples between my fingers, Mason’s expression shifts. “Keep going.”
I stop when my nipples are as hard as pebbles and my heart is thundering in my throat.
Breathlessly, I push one finger between my wet folds and stare at him through lowered lashes.
Then I push another finger in, and my breath hitches.
Wordlessly, Mason removes his clothes and sits back down, every bit of his powerful, taut body on display.
Why do I want to lick every inch of him?
Why do I want to lay at his feet and beg for the release only he can give me?
I’m like an addict itching for her next fix.
My tongue darts out to lick my lips as my fingers move back and forth, and my other hand glides over my skin. The pressure builds within me, low and urgent, and I lean toward Mason, craving his touch.
I want what only he can give me.
I want ecstasy and pleasure without restrictions or rational thought.
I want to be consumed by him.
I swallow, and my mouth parts as I near the edge, and my fingers move faster.
Before I can throw my head back and ride out my high, I stop.
Without warning, Mason stands up, and we stumble and fall onto my bed.
He pins my arms over my head. His mouth is hot and searing when he touches his lips to mine.
Mason kicks apart my legs and settles between them, rubbing himself against me.
Fuck.
We’ve barely started, and I’m already ready to combust.
This is more than I could’ve imagined.
Mason is everything, everywhere, all at once, and it still isn’t enough.
I need more.
He uses one hand to keep my arms over my head, and the other to trace a path down to my center, pausing to glance down. “You’re already wet for me. Good.”
I stare at him and hope he can’t hear how loudly my heart is beating. “Why is that good?”
“Because now you know that Noah can never make you feel the way I can,” Mason whispers into my ear, causing my skin to erupt into goosebumps. “Now that you’ve seen him again, you know.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Mason presses a finger to my lips.
He’s right.
Without warning, he thrusts into me, and I wrap my legs around him. He growls and thrusts deeper, so that I’m pressed between him and the headboard. I listen to his heavy breathing and the sound of our bodies moving together, and I’ve never heard anything sexier in my life.
Mason’s movements are precise but controlled.
Each thrust is designed to punish, to make a point, and I’m all too eager to learn.
I meet each flex with one of my own until he releases my hands.
I begin clawing at his back, and he sinks his teeth into my neck.
Suddenly, his movements become frenzied. My hands fall on either side of me, and I grip the sheets, sure that my chest is going to burst at any minute.
When I throw my head back and hiss, he makes a noise between a growl and a roar, and I explode. My body is still shaking, and I still see stars in the field of my vision when Mason flips me onto my stomach and pins my arms behind me.
He slaps my ass, hard, and it sends waves of shock and pleasure coursing through me.
I twist my head to look at him, but he pushes my head forward. “You’re mine, London.”
“Say it,” Mason urges in a strange voice. “I want to hear you fucking admit it.”
“I am,” I reply breathlessly.
“You’re what?” Mason eases out and slams back into me hard enough to elicit a gasp. “Say the fucking words, London.”
I lift my head and look at him over my shoulder, and something about the look of primal need and hunger on his face stirs something within me. “I’m yours.”
Mason grips the back of my neck and pumps harder. “No one can make you feel this good.”
Tears prick my eyes, and I nod. “Yes.”
Mason pushes my head forward again, and I let him.
I know he needs to take charge, and I don’t mind.
Knowing how much he wants me only fuels the fire between us.
Another wave of pleasure washes over me, and I cry out Mason’s name. I shake and writhe as Mason gives a few more thrusts and collapses against me. Slowly, he eases out of me and lowers himself onto the bed. I bury my face into the pillow and try to ease my breathing.
My heart is in my throat as I lift my head and glance over at him. He’s looking right at me.
A storm is brewing in his eyes, and it makes me reach out and touch his face.
Mason freezes, and his expression is blank as I trace his face. Before I can finish, he leans away and stands up. He turns his back on me, and his demeanor is like ice as he pulls his clothes on. His fingers—the same ones that just brought me to the edge of ecstasy— move quickly and deftly.
How can be so infuriatingly calm after what just happened?
I want to bang my hands against his chest just to see something other than cool composure.
I know he felt it.
He had to have felt it.
“Get dressed. I have things to do.” He tosses my clothes at me. “I’ll send someone up to take your bag.”
I scoot to the edge of the bed, the blanket drawn to my chest. “I don’t need help.”
I don’t need another reminder of what happened here. Of what I let happen. Despite my best efforts to steer clear, Mason has his hooks in me.
I can’t imagine what everyone must think.
How long before Noah tells my father what he saw?
How long until they both hate me even more?
Mason is now the same cool, composed man I met in the office the day they took me to meet him. “Don’t argue with me, and don’t shower. I like smelling myself on you.”
I press my lips together and don’t say anything.
Willingly walking into this arrangement is one thing. Letting Mason control me is another. He won’t take this away from me, too.
I won’t let him.
I’ll do what he wants to keep the peace, but I won’t do it willingly.
When Mason leaves, keeping my bedroom door ajar, I sit on the edge of the bed and bury my face in my hands.
I don’t realize I’m crying until I get up and stumble into the adjoining bathroom.
I’m still heaving and catching my breath when I hear someone knock on the door, and my heart sinks.
With trembling hands, I pull on my clothes and throw open the door, finding one of Mason’s goons waiting for me.
He takes my two large bags in silence, and I wait until he leaves the room before I look around.
The sheets on the bed are rumpled, and I can still smell Mason in the air, but other than that, the room remains untouched.
One of the last vestiges of my old life, and he couldn’t even let me have that.
What was the point of proving he can have me in my childhood home?
What sick mind game is he playing now?
You didn’t say no, so Mason isn’t entirely to blame.
I keep telling myself I can be strong enough to look at him and refuse, but then I look into his stormy eyes and hear his smooth voice, and something in me snaps.
Every time.
I don’t know why he has the kind of impact he does, and I wish I knew how to stop it.
With a frown, I get up to leave, pausing only to pull the door shut behind me.
Mason’s goon is waiting at the bottom of the stairs, his dark eyes giving nothing away.
I don’t look at him as I stop to brush lint off my clothes.
In the doorway of my childhood home, I stop and look at the framed picture on the wall on top of the shoe rack.
I don’t recognize the young woman in the picture, standing between her parents, in a green field, with a bright smile on her face.
Maybe you’ll find her again someday. For now, you have to do what needs to be done.
My heart is heavy, and there’s an ache in my stomach as I tear my gaze away and hurry outside. A single tear slides down my cheek as I bow my head. Then, the car window rolls down, and Mason’s face appears.
A heartbeat later, I get in the car. Mason doesn’t look at me as he raps on the roof. He takes out his phone and speaks in low, rapid tones, too quickly for me to hear. I press my face against the cool window, squeeze my eyes shut, and drown him out.
You’ll survive this, London. You don’t have a choice.
But with each passing day, I wonder how much, if any, of me will be left in the wake of Mason Payne.