Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
There’s a picture of Mason’s dick on my phone, and I don’t know what to do with it.
It’s not a full nude, but it’s explicit enough to make me hard just from looking at it.
He’s wearing those sinful gray sweatpants that drive me crazy, tugged low on his hips to reveal a glimpse of hair.
The outline of his erect cock is clearly visible, snaking down his thigh as his veiny hand grips it through the fabric.
He sent it to me a few minutes ago, and I’ve been staring at it ever since—like maybe if I study it long enough, I’ll suddenly develop the knowledge of how to respond without embarrassing myself.
He said he’s busy and can’t come over tonight, but that he misses me.
I guess this is his way of saying he wants to try… sexting? Is that even the right word?
God, it’s probably painfully obvious I’ve never done this before.
My palms are sweaty as I sit cross-legged in front of my floor-length mirror, the soft light from my desk lamp making my reflection look even more flushed.
I’m pantsless, wearing only an oversized T-shirt and tight black briefs.
I try folding my knees under myself and arching my back, sticking my ass out like I’ve seen in those thirst traps online.
I snap a photo and glance at it, instantly grimacing.
Holy shit. I’m horrible at this.
I delete the photo and try again—this time lying on my side, one leg bent, my head propped up on my hand. But the angle’s weird, and my T-shirt makes my body look too bulky. Delete.
Okay, maybe if I get a little artsy with it. I sit with my legs spread slightly, shirt falling just enough to tease without revealing too much, biting my bottom lip. Snap.
I check the photo, then instantly delete it. I look like I’m in physical pain.
Mason is probably waiting for my reply, hand on his cock, wondering why I’m taking so long. My stomach flips at the thought, and I realize I’m officially in over my head. I need help. The kind of help that can only come from a friend who has absolutely no shame.
I open my contacts, scroll to Derek’s name, and hit call.
“What’s up, bitch?” he answers after two rings.
“Uh… I need your expertise.”
There’s a pause. “Expertise in what, exactly?”
I swallow my pride. “Taking… sexy pictures.”
Derek laughs so loud I have to pull my phone away from my ear. “Oh my God, you’re finally sexting Mason, aren’t you?”
I groan. “I’m trying, but I’m so fucking awkward. Please, for the love of God, help me.”
He lets out a soft sigh. “Alright, my sweet, innocent best friend. First rule: no overhead lighting. Second rule: angles are everything. Where’s your mirror?”
“In front of me.”
“Good. Now… sit on the floor, knees bent, one leg tucked closer to you. Lean on one hand so your torso twists a little. It’ll make your waist look smaller and your ass bigger.”
I put the call on speaker and reposition, phone balanced in one hand. I try the pose. Snap. Check.
I groan. “I look constipated.”
He snorts. “Jesus Christ, you’re hopeless.”
“Derek!” I plead desperately.
“Okay, okay, listen—think smolder. Like… you’re undressing Mason with your eyes. And then you’re thinking about what you’d do once he’s naked.”
My mouth suddenly feels dry. “That’s… graphic.”
“You called me, sweetheart. Now commit.”
I bite my lip and try to picture Mason—his hazel eyes looking at me through half-lidded lashes, the slow drag of his fingertips over my skin, the lazy smirk he gets when he knows he’s teasing me. My body heat ticks up a degree. Snap.
I send it to Derek.
A moment later, he responds with an approving whistle through the phone. “There it is. That’s hot. Now—show a little more skin. Maybe push your shirt up so the waistband of your underwear is visible.”
“You’re disturbingly good at this,” I grumble.
“Of course I am. How the hell do you think Oliver and I survived when he went overseas for that foreign exchange program?”
My nose wrinkles. “Ugh, gross.”
“Fuck off. You asked for this. Now take the damn photo.”
I follow his instructions, tugging my shirt up just enough, the hem bunching under my ribs. Snap. This one’s better—messier hair, softer mouth, the chisel of my hipbones catching the low light. My hand is hovering above the visible bulge in my underwear, tastefully suggestive.
Before I can overthink it, I send it to Mason.
A minute later, my phone buzzes.
Mason: jesus christ hunter. ur making it really hard to stay home rn
I grin down at my screen, my face hot. “Derek,” I murmur into the phone, “I think you just saved my sex life.”
He laughs triumphantly. “I’m a miracle worker!”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re the best.”
“I know. Now go sext your hot lifeguard, you lucky bitch. Love you!”
“Love you too.”
He hangs up, and my fingers tremble over the keyboard. I settle on my bed and take a deep breath.
Hunter: Does that mean you like the pic?
Mason: yes. so much. want to kiss u.
My stomach flips. God, I want to kiss him too. I already miss the feeling of his lips against mine, even though we just saw each other yesterday. He’s gotten me addicted to him, which I know is dangerous, but I don’t have time to worry about that right now.
Hunter: Me too.
Mason: what are u doing?
Oh. This is the part where I’m supposed to touch myself… right?
I push my briefs down to my thighs. I drizzle some lube onto my half-hard dick before stroking it, soft and slow, letting it thicken in my fist. I close my eyes and imagine it’s Mason’s perfect mouth sucking me off, warm and slippery.
Hunter: Jerking off.
Mason: thinking of me?
Hunter: Yes. Thinking of your mouth.
Mason: me 2. what would u do if I was there?
Hunter: Drop to my knees and let you cum down my throat.
Mason: fuck. ur so naughty. love it
Well, I don’t know where that burst of confidence came from, but I’m glad he seemed to enjoy it.
I cup my balls with my free hand, rolling them gently, my hips lifting off the bed. I rub my thumb across the sensitive head, smearing the bead of precome bubbling at the slit. A shiver racks me, my hand moving faster now.
Mason: are u close? can u come for me?
I want to tell him that I’d do just about anything for him right now if he asked for it. That I’m completely at his mercy. But instead, I use my free hand to type out a frantic reply as I continue jerking myself off.
Hunter: So close. Are you?
Mason: yeah
I close my eyes and imagine Mason getting himself off, his face twisted in pleasure, muscles glistening with sweat. His big hands wrapped around his huge, rigid cock, fucking his fist with heated need.
Pleasure pulses through me as I climax, thrusting into my slicked hand. An embarrassingly loud moan rips from my throat as I cover my fingers and stomach with my release.
I stare up at the ceiling for a few minutes, catching my breath. Holy shit. That was… intense.
Mason: just came so hard. thank u for that. goodnight hunter <3
I stare at the heart emoticon for a few seconds longer than I’d like to admit. I know it doesn’t mean anything. He’s just being nice. But it still makes my stomach flutter as I type out a shaky response.
Hunter: Me too. Goodnight. <3
***
The early morning sun slips through the blinds, leaving stripes of golden light on the hardwood floor. I putter through the house with my misting bottle and watering can, tending to my plants. In the kitchen, I pluck a wilted frond off my fern—named Fernie Sanders—and drop it in the trash.
When I turn away, the calendar magnetized on the fridge catches my eye. My stomach sinks when I notice today’s date.
Father’s Day.
I plop onto one of the barstools, phone in hand. I stare at the screen longer than I should before pulling up dad’s contact. My thumb hovers over the call button. I suck in a deep breath before pressing it.
It rings four times before he picks up.
“Hunter.” His voice is stiff. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Hey, Dad. Happy Father’s Day.”
“Thanks, son. I appreciate it.” There’s a pause. “How are things going? With your… plant research thing?”
Plant research thing. I wonder how he’d feel if I referred to his orthopedic surgeon career as his broken bone fixing thing?
I tell him it’s fine, that I’ve gathered some interesting data so far, that the weather’s been good. He makes polite noises in all the right places, and for a few seconds, it almost feels normal.
“Are you coming out here for your birthday next month?” he asks suddenly. “Your mom’s been asking.”
I fiddle with my fingers, chipping at the purple polish. “Uh… I don’t know yet. Things are kind of… busy here.”
“Yeah, Landon told me you’d say that,” he says, just enough edge in his voice to sting.
I shut my eyes and exhale a quiet huff of frustration. Of course Landon’s been talking to them about me. He’s their perfect doting son.
“I’ll let you know when I decide, okay?” I say, a little too quickly.
There’s another pause. “Listen, son, whatever’s going on between you and Landon–”
“It’s nothing, Dad. We’re fine.”
He ignores me, like always, and talks right over me. “Does it have anything to do with Travis? You know, he was Landon’s friend first. It’s not fair to expect him to drop the guy just because you two… you know.”
“It’s complicated, Dad.”
He gives me a skeptical grunt. “Alright. Well. I gotta go. Good luck with your plant stuff.”
“Yeah, thanks. Have a good day.”
We hang up without the usual “love you,” and I slide my phone back into my pocket. I grab my backpack and head out for the beach, trying to shake the heaviness before it follows me all day.
***
Measuring pollination frequency is boring, tedious work.
It’s me, a clipboard, and a stopwatch, baking in the sun while marking a tally every time a pollinator decides to grace a flower with its presence.
The data sheet is neatly split into categories: bumblebees, honeybees, flies, butterflies, and moths.
Focus is already hard enough without Mason’s stupidly sexy body looming in my peripheral vision. He’s working with one of his coworkers today—Richard, I think, or maybe his name is Ryan.
Mason stands in the lifeguard tower with his hands on his waist, eyes scanning across the crowded lake. His skin-tight tank top shows off his broad shoulders, his honey brown curls tucked into a messy bun. His chiseled arms are glistening with a mixture of sweat and oily sunscreen.
I force myself to look away.
Thirty minutes in, my lower back is screaming at me, my joints are stiff, and I’m sweating in places I didn’t even know could produce sweat. The lake breeze teases me with the promise of relief, but it’s faint—just enough to waft the hair off my forehead before disappearing again.
By the time Mason’s lunch break rolls around, my hand is cramping from tally marks and my patience is hanging by a thread. He meets me at our usual spot—the park maintenance shed—but the second he walks in, I know something’s wrong.
He kisses me, but it’s short and stiff. When we sit down to eat, he doesn’t really look at me. He just stares at the floor while he eats his turkey sandwich. When he chews, his molars grind together, and his shoulders are tense like he’s holding in a breath.
A knot of anxiety twists in my chest. My brain immediately leaps to worst-case scenarios. Is this it? Is this when he finally realizes I’m not good enough for him? Was I really that bad at sexting last night?
I inhale a shaky breath. “Mason? Are you… okay?”
He hesitates, then sets his sandwich down like it suddenly weighs too much. “I hate Father’s Day.”
Oh. The thought never even crossed my mind, and guilt punches me in the ribs. I don’t know much about his dad. He never volunteers information, and I’ve never pushed. All I know is that he’s not around anymore.
I scoot closer to Mason until our knees knock together. Thankfully, he doesn’t lean away from me.
“I’m sorry, Mase.”
He shrugs, eyes fixed on his lap. “Every year, when this day rolls around, I’m reminded that my dad didn’t want me. He left when I was eight, just a few months after my diagnosis. He told my mom it was too much for him to handle—having a new baby and a sick kid at the same time.”
My chest aches so sharply I swear I can feel the edges of it splinter. I rest my hand on his knee, squeezing gently.
“He’s reached out a few times since,” Mason says, voice low. “Trying to make things right. But… I don’t really want anything to do with him. And I definitely don’t want him anywhere near Maddie.”
“I wouldn’t either, if I were you.”
His eyes finally lift, vulnerable and shy. I don’t try to fix it or tell him it’ll all be okay. I just lean in until our foreheads touch, cupping his cheek. His eyes flutter shut, and I feel the tension loosen from his shoulders. I kiss him softly, and his lips slide against mine, warm and tender.
When the kiss breaks, I keep my hands anchored to his shoulders and stare into his earthy hazel eyes.
“Your dad missed out by not having you in his life,” I tell him. “I know you don’t let people in easily. But the people you care about? They’re lucky. I’m lucky.”
He gives me a warm smile. “Thanks, babyface.”
And just like that, my heart pulls in two directions at once—toward the warmth of him here and now, and toward the knowledge that when September comes, he’ll be gone.
The thought stings, but I know even one summer with Mason Burke will be worth the pain that follows.