Chapter Twenty-Six Cameron #2
“There’s something I don’t understand.” He shakes his head with bewilderment. “You’re actually a good person under…the nonsense. Why are people always breaking up with you?”
I didn’t expect the conversation to turn like this.
Mostly, people just stick to assumptions.
But I’m comfortable around Mason, even if he likes to jab me with his cruel words of sarcasm.
“People usually break up with me because they think I’m not into them,” I admit, clearing through an incoming rasp in my throat.
“They ask me out because I have this reputation for being fun and spontaneous and sex driven. But I’m not very physical with them, and if I am, I’m not into it.
They end up feeling like I’m not actually interested in them, and usually they’re right. ”
Mason’s mouth opens slowly for the next spoonful. “Then you’re not sexually attracted to people very often?” he wonders.
“Almost never.”
“Almost?”
“Well.” I rub the back of my neck, then mumble, “There’s you.”
Mason’s cheeks color once again. I’m sort of becoming obsessed with the sight. “Like, you want to have sex with me?”
“I…Yeah. I’m pretty sure.” I’ve never really fantasized about sex, but every time I’m close to him, and our breaths are heavy and short, and his eyelashes are long and his snarky voice is in my ear and his skin is slick, I want to pursue him further. “Like, I want to make you feel good.”
Mason frowns through another spoonful of soup. “I’d never want you to feel obligated—”
“It’s not like that,” I say quickly. “I’d want to do it. Because I’m getting to know you, and I’d like to make you feel…safe. With me. I think it would feel, like, nice. To know you trusted me enough. To let me. Do that. To you.”
I don’t know. Why my sentences. Are fractured.
Like that. Probably because I’m not sure how to explain myself.
Whenever I’ve had sex conversations with my partners, it often ended in frustration or tears on their end, like I just called them hideous.
Even just encroaching on the subject makes me squirm.
“So the difference between me and everyone else is what?” Mason’s head tilts sideways, curious. “You feel closer to me? Like, emotionally?”
I nod, hoping it doesn’t sound silly. Mason smiles again, tickling my chin with his thumb. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but thanks for being willing to fuck me, Cameron Morelli.”
I choke on my inhale. “I’m being sincere!”
“I know, and it’s making me want to kiss you even more.
” The amused twinkle in Mason’s eyes flickers out.
He buries his head into my shoulder, sighing.
“I started hating sex after a while. I thought as I grew older, I’d understand what was so good about physical intimacy.
But the issue wasn’t just my age, was it? It was…”
“He didn’t take care of you,” I say softly. “Just used you to take care of himself.”
Mason shrinks into my chest. I wish I’d beaten the shit out of Liam when I met him.
“You should sleep,” I say, placing the empty soup bowl on the bedside table.
I hear a small puff of laughter into my shoulder. “Clueless…”
“What?” I ask defensively.
“Go home, quarterback. If there’s a chance you’re still healthy, you should get out while you can.” There’s a playful lilt to his voice as he squirms onto his side, faced away from me. The realization slams into me.
I’m supposed to ask him out.
I’ve been so distracted that I forgot my initial intention for this night. Snickering, I wriggle under the covers and scoop him against me, hugging him. “Cameron,” he groans, but I catch his jaw and tilt his face, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.
He gasps, ripping his face free. “Don’t!” he snaps. “Do you want to get sick?”
“Yes,” I say simply, trailing kisses up the length of his jaw to his earlobe. I tug it between my teeth, and it glows red alongside his face.
“Cameron Morelli, if it turns out I have a deadly virus, you’ll be comatose for the next game.”
I frame his hip under my hand and tug so he fits snug against me. “Go out with me,” I breathe in his ear.
He makes several incoherent noises before scoffing at my audacity. “Maybe I don’t want to now,” he says.
“You don’t like the way I kiss you?” I roll my fingers over his shoulder, drawing his flannel sleeve with it and exposing his pale, smooth skin. I bend over and give him a gentle nibble that causes goose bumps to spring up his neck.
“You’re impossible,” he grumbles.
“And you’re avoiding the question.” I catch his hand, which was moving to thunk my head again, and draw it to my lips so I can slide the tip of my tongue between his knuckles.
The color deepens in his face. “Because you’re a dick,” he says tightly.
“Or because you like being teased,” I suggest, carefully dragging his flannel sleeve up his elbow so I can kiss his forearm. “Go out with me, water boy.”
The brief tremble of his skin under my lips doesn’t help him plead his case. “What will you do if I say no?” he murmurs.
“Respect your boundaries,” I say solemnly, before adding, “Or just continue taunting you until you say yes.”
“How toxic,” he snips, burying his face deeper into his pillow.
Is that permission? I drag my fingers up from his pale waist to his torso, bunching his shirt as I move higher up his ribs, to his chest, to his collar.
I shift farther down into the bed and hold his bunched shirt up, then kiss every inch of skin I can find between his shoulder blades, my fingers fumbling with the elastic of his flannel pants.
When I start massaging the flare of his waist, Mason seizes my wrist like I’ve electrocuted him.
I make a mental note that he’s sensitive there.
“Go out with me,” I whisper into the divot of his spine.
“You’re not even asking. Just demanding.” His breath has noticeably shortened and his skin is flushed enticingly, to the point where I wonder if his fever is flaring up. Maybe I shouldn’t be so mean. “How is that romantic?”
I roll over him and prop myself on my elbows, smiling at his attempt to conceal himself. “Can’t you pull your face out of your pillow?”
Mason shifts onto his back to glare at me.
His eyes are bruised with fatigue and his pale lips are curled down with feigned disdain.
His black hair is in cute disarray from having been lying in bed and his honey-brown irises are rimmed red.
Even plagued with debilitating illness, he’s enchanting to look at.
“Mason Gray,” I say, slow and careful. “You have bewitched me, body and soul.”
“You’re really going to recycle—”
“I fall asleep thinking about your smile,” I continue, grazing my knuckles against his soft cheekbone.
“I like the way you put me in my place. I can’t stop thinking about the look on your face when you’re somewhere that makes you happy.
I want to do everything I can to see that side of you, to make you smile and glow. ”
Mason stares at me with wide, glistening eyes.
“I want to make you feel safe,” I whisper. “And heard. I want to be someone you can trust and rely on. I want to become your new favorite place. More than Annie’s Brews, more than the gallery. When you think of escape and warmth and comfort, I want you to think of me.”
I lean over so our noses are skimming, a calm smile furling my face.
“So,” I breathe, pinching his chin between my thumb and index finger. “Will you go out with me, Mason Gr—”
He seizes the back of my neck and wrenches me down into a kiss.
The next morning, I wake with chills and a scratchy throat.
Fucking worth it.