20. Shelby
20
SHELBY
A fter a hot shower, I wrap myself in the thick silence of the guesthouse. The steam still clings to my skin, my pulse slower now, but the ache in my chest is alive and well—pressing against my ribs like it wants out.
I reach for another set of his clothes. More sweats. A T-shirt that smells faintly of cedar, earth, and him . I pause before slipping it on, holding the shirt up to my face, burying my nose in the collar like a secret.
I inhale. Deep.
It’s instinctive, shameless. And it settles something in me. Like my nerves remember him even if my logic protests. Like the scent of him quiets parts of me that have never known peace.
He’s a stranger.
And yet somehow… it doesn’t feel that way.
With Mason, there’s no performance. No shrinking to make space. No filtering the volume of my thoughts. He looks at me like he already knows the worst parts—and doesn’t flinch. Like I’m not too much. Like I might even be enough.
I’ve never felt so seen . So heard . So vindicated .
It’s terrifying.
And it’s why I can’t stop breathing him in, like the smell of his T-shirt could anchor me to the ground.
I slide the shirt on. It’s far too big, the fabric worn soft from use, the hem grazing the tops of my thighs. I knot it absently at my waist, just above my navel—one of those little habits I picked up to feel like I had control over something. Over anything .
The sweats hang low on my hips, cinched tight but still threatening to slide down with each step. Everything about them—the shirt, the pants, the way they cocoon me in his scent—feels like being wrapped in him. Like a shield. Or a promise.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel… safe.
I twist my damp hair into a messy bun, grab my phone, and make the short trek up to the main house.
Each step feels strange, like I’m floating just slightly outside my own body. Like I’m walking into something I wasn’t expecting—but maybe something I’ve been waiting for without realizing it.
Coming back to him, even if I don’t say it out loud, feels like coming home.
And I don’t know what scares me more—how easy that feels…
Or how badly I want it to be real.
I don’t realize how empty my stomach is until after Mason leaves. The gnawing hunger creeps up on me like everything else in the last twenty-four hours—sudden, insistent, and impossible to ignore.
I decide that the least I can do is make us dinner. After everything Mason has done for me—offering me shelter, standing in the fire with me while my life burned to the ground, taking hits that weren’t his to take—this is one small thing I can offer him in return.
It’s strange, this version of him I’m seeing. Granted, I’ve only known him for a couple of days, but all indications are that Mason Ironside trades in violence, ruthlessness, and a reputation built on calculated destruction. But that’s not the man who gave me a safe place to sleep.
That’s not the man who, when I crumbled into his chest outside my burning home, held me like he needed to keep me together.
So, I decide to cook. It’s what I know how to do.
But I should have known better than to expect Mason Ironside to have a fully stocked fridge.
The kitchen itself is immaculate—state-of-the-art appliances, granite countertops, sleek, masculine finishes—but the fridge? Practically barren. There’s beer, some protein shakes, an old takeout container I don’t dare open, and just enough leftover ingredients to throw something together.
I find tortilla chips, cheese, and a few other odds and ends—so, nachos it is.
By the time I’m grating the last of the cheese, Mason strolls in, moving like a man who carries more than he lets on. He tosses his phone onto the counter with a heavy sigh and scrubs a hand down his face.
“I could smell yum the minute I walked into the house,” he says, but the usual teasing warmth in his voice is absent. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
I set down the spoon I’ve been using and turn to him, scanning his features. He looks exhausted. The kind of tired that isn’t just physical, but emotional.
“You like to cook?” he asks after a beat, as he perches on one of the stools.
I shrug, offering him a small, playful glance over my shoulder. “I don’t mind it.”
What I don’t say is having a kitchen like this makes me want to cook. The polished countertops, the high-end gas range, the way everything is organized—not a single item out of place—it’s the kind of space that makes creation feel effortless.
When I slide the plate in front of him, he watches me. Really watches.
There’s something in his gaze I can’t quite place.
It’s not just hunger.
Or maybe it is—but not for food.
We eat in the quiet of the kitchen, sitting across from each other at the island. The only sound is the occasional clink of silverware against ceramic, the low hum of the refrigerator, the quiet between us charged with something heavier than words.
When he’s finished eating, he leans forward, resting his forearms on the counter, his fingers just barely grazing mine.
It’s an accident. I think.
Or maybe it isn’t.
I should move. I should pull away, break whatever moment this is.
But I don’t.
Instead, I watch the way his eyes darken , the way his breath deepens , like he’s standing at the edge of something dangerous , something he knows he shouldn’t want—but does anyway.
His fingers brush against mine again, deliberate this time. A slow, testing touch.
The heat of it travels straight through me , settling low, making my pulse stutter.
I swallow. “Mason?—”
He doesn’t let me finish.
One second, I’m sitting across from him, and the next? He’s in front of me.
Close. Too close.
One hand braces against the counter beside me, the other lifts—knuckles grazing my jaw, then my cheek, then lower, tracing the delicate curve of my neck.
I should say something.
I should stop this before it spirals into something neither of us can walk back from.
Mason’s fingers tilt my chin up, barely a touch , but it might as well be a fucking brand for how much heat it sends through me. His breath ghosts over my lips , the warmth of his hunger mixing with mine.
I don’t move away.
I breathe him in.
And wait for the moment he finally gives in.
This was supposed to be a line we didn’t cross. A temporary arrangement. A no expectations kind of deal.
But that crumbles the second his lips crash against mine.
His mouth is demanding, brutal, claiming me like I belong to him, like he’s been starving for this and finally—finally —decided to take a bite.
I barely get a breath in before he has me pinned against the kitchen bench, his body pressing into mine, hard and unforgiving. The counter digs into my hip, but I don’t care—I only care about him , the way his hands skate down my sides , gripping, taking.
I should have known this wouldn’t be gentle.
Mason doesn’t do gentle.
His hands aren’t soft—they’re rough and demanding , fingers pressing into my waist, yanking me tighter against him. I can feel him— all of him —through the thin material of the sweats I borrowed, thick and heavy , and it sends a pulse of heat straight between my thighs.
I moan against his mouth, and it’s like it snaps something inside him.
He grips my hip, lifts me clean off the floor , and I let out a sharp gasp as my back meets the cold wall, his weight pressing me into it like he wants to bury me inside it.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my neck, dragging his teeth across my pulse point before biting down just enough to make me shudder. “You’ve been driving me fucking crazy.”
I dig my nails into his back, feeling the flex of muscle beneath my fingertips, the barely-contained restraint in the way he holds me still.
“You’re the one that put up a wall and said no expectations,” I rasp, arching into him.
His breath stutters, just for a second , before he yanks my legs higher around his waist, grinding himself against me in a slow, devastating roll.
“I didn’t want you to think I had any ulterior motives for you staying here,” he mutters, voice thick, dark.
I grab his face, forcing his mouth back to mine, swallowing his groan when my teeth graze his lower lip , when I rock against him deliberately this time.
His grip on me tightens. Harder. More desperate.
He fists a hand in my hair, dragging my head back, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are wild. Blown out.
“Last chance to stop this,” he warns, but his voice is already wrecked, already telling me he won’t stop, even if I say no.
I smirk , deliberately slow, dragging my nails down his stomach, teasing the waistband of his pants.
“You’re wasting time talking, Ironside.”
That’s it. That’s the final snap.
He tears at the sweatpants, yanking them down my legs, not even bothering to fully remove them—just enough to give him what he wants. He groans when he finds me soaking wet, ready for him, and his fingers sink into me without hesitation, curling just right, making my back bow against the wall.
I bite my lip to keep from crying out , but he doesn’t let me get away with it.
“Oh no, baby,” he growls, dragging his thumb across my clit, rubbing slow, devastating circles. “I want to hear you.”
I gasp, jerk against his hand , pleasure coiling tight in my belly.
“God, Mason,” I pant, head hitting the wall behind me.
His breath is ragged as he pulls his fingers from me , shoving his pants down just enough to free himself.
And when he slides into me in one hard thrust, the stretch is unforgiving, filthy, perfect.
I cry out , fisting my hands in his hair, gripping his shoulders as he fucks into me , hard and ruthless , grinding me against the wall, each movement driving me higher, higher until I can’t tell where he ends and I begin.
It’s rough. It’s fast.
It’s exactly what we both need.
His teeth sink into my shoulder as he thrusts deep, his groan low, animalistic, vibrating against my skin.
And when I break apart in his arms, his name spilling from my lips like a fucking prayer, Mason follows—shuddering against me, his grip bruising, his mouth still claiming mine, even as we fall completely undone.
Breathing hard.
Wrecked.
And so far beyond any line we swore we wouldn’t cross.