Chapter 64
LILY
Mason's bedroom is big but sparse, nothing much in it except the bare amenities: a bed, a dresser, a single lamp casting warm light across dark wood.
He’s downstairs. He told me to use the bathroom and get into bed, that he'd be up shortly. He's giving me space to adjust, I know—space to process being here with him.
I appreciate the space—I do—but I don't want it anymore.
I lie in his bed—his bed, the thought sends a shiver through me—and I think about everything that's led to this moment. The thing is, I've spent so long running from touch that I forgot that I have the choice to run toward it.
That’s what I’m doing tonight—I’m choosing to run toward him.
My heart is beating fast as I lie here in the darkness, waiting for him. I'm not afraid. I'm not uncertain. I know exactly what I want, and I'm not going to apologize for it or second-guess it or let fear make the decision for me.
I hear his footsteps on the stairs, slow and deliberate. He's giving me time to change my mind, to ask him to sleep elsewhere, to maintain the careful distance he's been holding.
The only thing I’m going to ask him is to make me feel as good as I did last night.
The bedroom door opens and he stands in the doorway a moment before he steps inside and closes the door behind him. I have all the lights on, so there’s no missing that I’m in his bed.
“You should sleep,” he says quietly. It's not a command. It's an offering, a way out if I need one.
I don't need one.
“I don't want to sleep.” My voice is steady and clear. “I want you to come to bed.”
He goes completely still. I can feel the weight of his attention on me, the intensity of his focus. “Lily, we—”
“I've thought about it,” I continue, and I'm sitting up now, the sheets pooling around my waist. I'm wearing one of his T-shirts. He offered it to me after I showered, and I took it because it smells like him. “Since I met you, I've thought about nothing else.”
He shakes his head, his hands fisted at his sides like he’s physically restraining himself. “You've had a traumatic day—”
“Yes,” I interrupt. “And I'm here choosing this. I'm choosing.” I take a breath, and the vulnerability of it hits me—the rawness of saying it out loud. “I don't want space. I don't want you to wait. I don't want to be handled like I'm fragile.”
He moves toward the bed, and I can see the tension in every line of his body. The war between what he wants and what he thinks is right.
“I want you to touch me,” I say, and the words come out fierce and certain. “I want you to claim me. I want to feel like I belong to someone instead of feeling like I belong to no one. And I want it to be you.”
“Lily—”
“I'm not asking,” I say. “I'm telling you. This is what I want. This is my choice.”
He reaches the bed and stands there, looking down at me. In the light, I can see every emotion crossing his face. The hunger. The need. The absolute certainty that he's about to lose control.
“If I touch you,” he says, his voice rough, “I'm not sure I can be gentle.”
My nipples peak at that confession. “I don't want gentle. I want you.”
And then I pull his shirt over my head and drop it to the floor.
He takes a sharp breath in, his gaze devouring me. I remember how much he liked watching me touch myself yesterday, so I tentatively run my hand over my breasts.
In one fluid motion, he strips his shirt off and climbs onto the bed, stopping just short of me. His hands find my face, tilting it up to his. “You give me permission?”
“Yes,” I say breathily, so turned on.
Groaning, he lowers his head and kisses me like he's been starving for it—like I'm the only thing that matters.
Like I'm his.
And, God help me, I am.