Chapter 25 Something Shy
Mason Reed bent down to pick it up.
The soft cotton fabric and faint, lingering scent hit him like a jolt. It was Clara Bennett's bra—plain, no frills. He held it in his palm, his thumb brushing over the cup, wondering how it hugged her when she wore it.
A smirk tugged at his lips.
Looked like a C, maybe? For someone so petite, she sure didn't skimp where it counted.
Mason licked his dry lips, a restless heat stirring in him. He snapped out of it, ready to toss the clothes into the washer, when the front door clicked open. Clara's voice floated in, flustered and breathless.
"Mason, you home? Ugh, I drank too much water this afternoon—I'm dying for the bathroom..."
Their eyes locked.
Both froze.
Clara stared, wide-eyed, her gaze dropping to the laundry basket beside him, the pile of dirty clothes, the open washer—and then... that. Her face flared red, the blush racing to her ears as she let out a yelp.
"What are you doing with that?!" She lunged forward, snatching the bra from his hand so fast you'd think the floor might swallow her whole.
Mason shifted, a little sheepish. With that reaction, anyone would've thought he was a burglar—or worse, some creep with a lingerie fetish.
He cleared his throat, keeping his tone steady. "I was just kicking around, figured I'd do the laundry."
Clara kept her eyes down, her heart pounding like a drum. "Y-you... just leave it. I'll handle it later."
"Didn't you say this place belongs to both of us?" he countered. "Housework's a team effort, right?"
"No, really, it's fine!" she insisted, shaking her head furiously, her mix of embarrassment and panic almost too cute to handle. "It's my stuff—I'll wash it myself..."
Mason watched her, that restless spark flaring up again, clawing at his chest like a caged animal. "I'm your husband," he said, his voice low and rough as he leaned close to her ear. "What's mine is yours, right? Washing your bra—isn't that just part of the deal?"
Clara ducked her head lower, her big, bright eyes flickering with nerves, her breathing quickening.
Mason's warmth pressed closer, and her small hands clutched the bra tighter.
She was all jitters and softness—like a kitten too timid to fight back—stirring every ounce of his protective streak and something hungrier.
Then, in a rush, he pulled her into his arms. His lips crashed down on hers, urgent and overwhelming. Clara melted into it, dazed, her clumsy attempts to kiss back only fanning the fire.
Her inexperience—those awkward, fumbling responses—made Mason want her more, to hold her close and claim her completely.
Her face glowed red when he pulled back, her breaths ragged, eyes misty as she stared up at him, lost. What came next? Was this the moment—the one they'd skipped on their wedding night?
"Mason..." Her voice was a fragile whisper, trembling like a soft scratch at his heart.
He scooped her up, striding into the bedroom, and they tumbled onto the bed together. His hands moved to lift her shirt—then his phone blared, relentless, buzzing over and over like it knew he'd pick up.
Mason groaned, rolling off her with a huff. He stormed into the living room and snatched it up, barking, "What?!"
On the other end, Jasper White flinched, his voice shaking. "T-Third Master... uh, you... bad time?"