Chapter 20 – Mason
Chapter
Twenty
MASON
How the fuck could I be so weak as to let him anywhere near me? I slam my beer bottle down on the kitchen counter. As soon as he put his hands on me, I lost all ability for rational thought.
I hate that I told him to get out, and even more, I hate the look on his face when I did.
It was nothing less than he deserved, but it wasn’t fair.
He’s not a mind reader. I wanted what happened, but it was easier to blame him for my loss of control, although I could have told him to stop at any point.
I could have pushed him away. I should have punched him in the face.
But the truth is I didn’t want him to stop.
It felt too good to have him touching me, to have him make my body respond the way only he’s ever been able to.
He somehow knows exactly what I want when I want it.
When to speed up and slow down, when to be soft or when to be rough.
And I hated myself for the way I felt, so I took it out on him.
Now I feel like the world’s biggest asshole and everything is fucked because I came all over his fucking hand like that awkward teenager who was obsessed with him back in high school. Is that why he did it? To prove he still had some control over me? To prove he still holds all the power?
I grab another beer from the fridge and lean against the kitchen counter. King was right. I am fucking disgusting. Just not for the reasons he believes I am.
My cell vibrates on the countertop beside me. Think of the devil. I shouldn’t answer it, but my fingers twitch against the granite—itching for me to pick up and find out why the hell he’s calling.
With a frustrated sigh, I pick it up and put him on speaker. The sound of the rain is deafening, and I glance outside at the storm. What the hell is he doing out in this? When he doesn’t speak, I do. “What do you want?”
“I’m outside.” He sounds small. Lost. Not at all himself.
Between the rain and the fact that I’m thirty floors up, I don’t expect to be able to see him. Still, I walk to the window and peer down at the street below. How does he know where I live? “What the hell are you doing here?”
The rain hammers against the pavement and parked cars, but I can’t see him. “Your d-doorman won’t let me in.” He sounds like he’s shivering.
Of course he won’t. Still doesn’t answer my question. “What do you want, King?” I press my forehead to the glass, hoping for a glimpse of him. Not much can be seen from up here other than the streetlamps.
“I don’t … I dunno, Mase. He’s … and I didn’t know …” He sobs.
Fuck, is he crying? Panic bubbles up in my chest. “King, what’s happened?”
“He’s dead, Mase.”
Is he talking about his grandfather? After seeing them together, it’s hard for me to imagine that he’s close enough to anyone else to be this upset about their death.
“I didn’t know w-where else to go,” he adds.
Fucking hell. My heart cracks in two at the desperation in his tone. “My doorman will let you in. Go hand him your phone.”
There’s a shuffling sound, and a few seconds later, I speak to Bill and ask him to show King to my private elevator.
The line goes dead, and without thought for the fact I’m wearing only my shorts, I jog out into the hallway in time to see the light indicating the elevator is traveling up.
My heart beats in my throat while I wait for him.
He sounded so distraught, and he must be to have come here. To have come to me, of all people.
The elevator doors open, and he steps out, shoulders slumped and his dripping T-shirt plastered to his skin. He looks up, his dark-green eyes full of tears when they meet mine. “He’s dead.”
“Arthur?”
He gives a single nod.
“Shit. I’m sorry, King.” I take a few steps toward him.
“I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t …” He screws his eyes closed and shakes his head, sending droplets of rain flying from his head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have …” His shoulders shake, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck!”
If King is here, that must mean he has nowhere else.
Nobody else. I have no idea how painful that must be.
Losing my mom was devastating, and it ripped out my heart, but I still had my brothers and my dad to turn to.
Instinct takes over, and I rest a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“It’s okay that you’re here. Come on in and I’ll get you something to drink.
You can get dry and then you can talk. Or you can just sit. Okay?”
He opens his eyes again and nods, and he looks so vulnerable and un-King-like that it’s easy to forget how mad I was at both of us a few minutes ago. He follows me through the open-plan space, and I gesture for him to sit at the kitchen island while I pour him a Scotch.
After checking he’s okay, I leave him to grab some dry clothes. He decides to change out of his wet clothes right there in my kitchen, and I distract myself by pouring a bag of chips into a bowl, anything to avoid staring at him while he undresses. Anything to avoid him catching me staring.
By the time I’ve set out the chips and some dip, he’s wearing my sweats but has annoyingly left the T-shirt on the kitchen island, and now I’ll be forced to stare at his chiseled physique while we talk. Great.
He rolls his neck. “It’s kind of hot in here. You don’t mind if I don’t wear that, do you?” He looks to the folded T-shirt.
It is hot in here. I like it hot because I enjoy walking around here in only my shorts, like I am right now.
Fuck, if I knew he was coming over, I would have turned the thermostat down forty degrees and left my suit on.
He’s finished his Scotch, so I pour him another and take a seat across from him. “I’m sorry about your grandfather.”
He knocks back his drink and drops his head, scrubbing his hand over the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’m sorry I turned up here like this. I guess I didn’t want to be alone, and I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
He glances around. “I haven’t interrupted anything, have I?”
I shake my head. Unfortunately, since you walked back into my life, there has been very little to interrupt.
Wisely, I keep that thought to myself. “Your grandfather seemed like a real nice guy,” I say instead, steering the conversation to safer, less likely to give me an inappropriate hard-on, territory.
“He was.”
“He was your mom’s dad, right?”
King nods vigorously. “Yeah. My dad hated him. And vice versa.”
Well, now I like the late Arthur Blackthorn even more. “Do they know?”
He snorts a laugh. “Yup. Couldn’t give a fuck. His own daughter didn’t come see him when he was dying. How fucked up is that?”
“Pretty fucked up.” I take a sip of my Scotch, and when I put my glass down on the counter, King is staring at me intently.
“I’m really sorry, Mase,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.
I swallow hard, unsure what he’s apologizing for.
“For what happened today. But also for what I did eighteen years ago. All the things I said. Leaving the way I did.”
I don’t go near the whole eighteen-years-ago thing because everything is already raw and emotional enough.
“You don’t have to apologize for what happened today.
I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. It was …
” I take a deep breath. “It was a lot to process, and it took me by surprise. But I wanted what happened, and I’m sorry if I made you feel like I didn’t. ”
“I appreciate you telling me that.” Now his deep-green eyes rake over me unashamedly. “You know, I think I do know why I came here.” His voice is dark and seductive, and that inappropriate hard-on situation is becoming more real by the second.
Fuck me, this just got a whole different kind of intense. Memories of today—of how good it felt to have his hands on me, how easily he manipulated my body—fill me with both shame and desire. “And why is that?”
“I think …” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows.
“I think I needed to be around someone who loved me. Even if it was a long time ago.” Tears fill his beautiful green eyes again, and I have to take a deep breath as the force of his admission hits me.
He downs his Scotch. “I also think it’s dangerous to admit something like that to you. ”
“Dangerous how?”
He walks around the kitchen island. “Talking feelings with you is dangerous, Mason. Don’t you think?”
It’s not talking about feelings that scares the hell out of me where he’s concerned.
It’s acting on them. Still, I inch closer, hyperaware of the heat from his body.
King Blackthorn is fire, and it seems like I’m looking to get myself burned.
This is a dumbass move—I know it and so does he.
We’re going to regret this tomorrow, but as idiotic as it is, I can’t seem to stop myself.
I’m hypnotized by those dark-green eyes, rock-hard abs, and gray sweats.
I glance down. Yeah, definitely by the gray sweats, or more likely by the outline of the impressive semi-hard cock I can clearly see in them.
Fuck me. I think I just lost fifty IQ points.
He sits on the stool directly beside where I stand, facing me and daring me to make the next move—after my reaction in my office earlier today, I can’t blame him.
“No, but I think it’s dangerous to have you sitting in my kitchen like this.” I trail my fingertips over his jawline, my fingernails rasping against his thick stubble.
He grabs my hips and pulls me between his spread thighs, and I don’t try to stop him. “Like what?” His voice is low and full of gravel, and each word feels like a caress on my skin.
“Half drunk and half dressed.”
He tilts his head to the side. “I’m not drunk. Not even a little bit. Are you?”
Nervous energy sizzles along my spine. I know exactly where this conversation is headed, and I’m powerless to stop it. Powerless to stop him. “Not drunk, no.”