Mason
MASON
So close you can touch her,
Delicate and sweet.
You need her, you crave her,
To hide your deceit.
Be gentle and coaxing,
You can’t let her know.
If she finds out the truth,
Out the door she will go.
B lue Hill dims the lights in the evening at six o’clock sharp.
The dinner atmosphere is romantic with lit candles on the tables, combined with the soothing sound of water flowing down the river rock wall next to the kitchen.
The chatter from the other guests goes unheard as I sit here alone.
The only sound that resonates with me is the clink of silverware and glasses as I wait for Jules to walk through the doors.
My fingertips brush over the silver tines of my salad fork as I stare straight ahead toward the entrance and ma?tre d’.
Multiple guests have arrived since I sat down twenty minutes ago, each one catching my attention and disappointing me.
I glance down at my watch again. She still has five minutes until she’s late.
I make a habit of being early, but I’m regretting it this time. Every minute that passes makes me more eager to leave. Curiosity is the only thing keeping me here in my seat. The door opens and the soft cadence of heels clicking on the slate floor echoes in the large open space.
She’s here. Jules slips her gray wool peacoat off her shoulders when she walks in and drapes it in her arms as she strides to the ma?tre d’. I stand and button my suit jacket as I walk toward her. I’m only a few tables away and she sees me as the man asks her if she has a reservation.
“She’s with me.” My voice comes out deep, confident … possessive even. As she turns toward my voice, the hem of her plum-colored dress sways around her thighs. It’s tighter around her ass and waist, showing off her curves and reminding me how she looked beneath me last night.
“Of course,” the ma?tre d’ says and nods.
“Thank you,” Jules answers sweetly, giving him a soft smile and looking back at me. It’s only a quick glance before a blush rises to her cheeks and she takes my hand.
She has a shy elegance about her, but there’s more to her than that. I want to dig a little deeper, if for nothing more than curiosity’s sake.
I gesture toward the table, pulling out her chair for her like a gentleman. It’s not in my nature, but I have enough manners to impress a woman at least.
“I’m surprised you wanted to see me again,” Jules says as I take my own seat. The confession sits between the two of us for a moment as I consider a response.
Before I can say anything, she adds, “Thank you, by the way.” Her eyes flicker from mine to the candle. I don’t miss how she takes a few glances around us as if she’s searching for someone.
I nod my head easily, setting my napkin in my lap and giving her a moment to get comfortable. The waiter quickly pours her a glass of water from the pitcher he’s holding.
“Good evening. May I start you off with something to drink?” The young man squares his shoulders and waits, holding the pitcher at attention. He’s dressed in a crisp white button-down and dark gray slacks that match his thin tie.
“A bourbon for me, please,” I say and wait for Jules.
Her slender neck and shoulders are on display.
The way the thin straps of her dress lay across the very edge of her shoulders taunt me to pull them down.
A simple thin silver necklace sits right in the dip of her collarbone with the word happy etched in the middle.
It’s the only piece of jewelry she’s wearing.
No ring on her finger. I didn’t notice one last night either.
“A glass of chardonnay, please.”
“Right away,” the waiter says and nods, leaving us alone. Once again, Jules squirms uncomfortably. I love her nervousness and how she has a habit of tucking her hair behind her ear. It only adds to her innocence.
“No tequila?” I say, playing around with her to break the ice.
She huffs a small laugh and rolls her eyes. “No,” she says as she unfolds her napkin and moves it to her lap, smoothing it out. “No tequila tonight.”
I shrug, waiting for those soft baby blue eyes to look back up at me.
“I didn’t mind the tequila.” I murmur the confession across the table.
There’s not a damn thing dirty that I’ve said but she still blushes.
There’s an attraction between us that’s undeniable.
It’s easy and carefree. But the air is tense as she looks to her left again and then back to me.
She hesitates to say something, then changes her mind and clears her throat as she picks up the menu. She talks without looking at me. “I’ve never done anything like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like, seeing someone.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” I ask her. “Seeing each other?”
Jules puts her menu down and looks at me with a serious expression. “I have no idea.” The sincere answer and complete honesty in her voice force a rough laugh from my chest. I was only teasing her, but she’s too sweet and sincere to get a rise out of her.
“You can laugh all you want, but I have no clue what’s going on.” She picks her menu back up and says, “I’m just along for the ride, Mr. Thatcher.”
“Is that so?” I ask her playfully and reach for my glass of water when the waiter returns, setting down my drink first and then hers.
“It is,” she says, smiling into her glass and taking a sip of the white wine. She closes her eyes and lets out the softest moan of satisfaction that’s barely audible. My cock hardens as I remember last night, the same sweet sound slipping from her lips as I thrust into her over and over again.
She’s completely oblivious. Even with a shiver of desire running down my spine, she doesn’t seem to notice what she does to me.
“So, what changed in your plans?” I ask as she eyes the menu again. I don’t bother looking at mine. I know exactly what I’ll have.
A short, feminine laugh makes her shoulders shake as she pulls her long dark hair over her shoulder and then brushes it back again. “I thought this would be better than what I had planned.”
Bullshit. I can tell she’s lying from a mile away.
“And what did you have planned before?” I say and smirk, pushing for more and wanting to see her admit to this little game she played this morning.
She takes a sip of wine and then answers, “Writing.”
“Writing?”
“I like to go to Central Park to write,” she says easily, slipping her hands into her lap and leaning forward.
“Are you a journalist?”
“No,” she says and shakes her head, “I’m an author.” She takes a sip of wine again and I watch as she fiddles with the stem and continues. “I’m not well known or anything. Just poetry.” She tries to wave off her insecurity then adds, “It doesn’t really make much money, but it’s the career I chose.”
She’s already justifying herself and I don’t like it. She should be proud.
“I think that’s wonderful. It takes a lot of work and diligence to write a novel of poetry.”
Her eyes light up and she visibly relaxes as she says in a delicate voice, “Thank you.”
“Who’s your favorite poet?” I ask her.
“Robert Frost,” she answers quickly. “Hands down.”
“I’ve read a bit of Frost.” It’s true, albeit years and years ago in grade school and I’m pretty sure I hated every minute I was forced to read it. It doesn’t matter, though; my remark makes her calm and that sweet smile comes back.
I clear my throat, smoothing the napkin on my lap and trying to remember what Mrs. Harper said.
“‘Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought,’” I say as I look into her eyes and try to say the second part correctly, “‘and the thought has found words.’ I believe it was Frost who said that.” Her entire demeanor changes to one of surprise and ease.
I’m shocked that I remembered it myself.
A surprised grin looks back at me. It’s amazing how something so small can make her genuinely happy. She nods and says, “Yes, I do believe you’re right.”
The moment between us is filled with comfortable silence as we each take a sip of our drinks.
“So you’re in construction, I believe?”
“I’m a developer,” I say, hoping she won’t ask too many questions. I don’t think she has any idea of the connections. I don’t intend to lie to her, but I don’t need to give her anything that would help her put the pieces together.
“In the city, right?”
“Brooklyn mostly, although we’re currently under contract with the city to renovate and rebuild some properties in Manhattan.”
“What’s that like?”
“Being a developer?” I’ve never had anyone ask me before and I take a moment to consider my reply.
“It’s challenging at times and it pisses me off most days.
A lot goes wrong and hardly anything goes the way it’s planned.
” I smirk at her as she laughs into her glass at my answer.
“Isn’t that what all jobs are like, though? ”
She nods her head, setting the glass down but then her expression changes. “I’m not sure I should be doing this,” she tells me with her forehead scrunched.
“Doing what?”
“This,” she says and gestures between the two of us.
“We’re just having dinner.”
Her eyes narrow and I ignore the accusatory stare, picking up my bourbon and taking an easy drink of it. It burns just right on the way down, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
“I just want to feed you,” I say in a tone that I hope comes out somewhat innocent.
“And fuck me,” she whispers so softly but with a roughness I haven’t heard from that sexy voice of hers. I stare into her gorgeous gaze, daring her to blush, to be embarrassed by it, but she only stares back with desire in her baby blue eyes.
“Yes, and fuck you,” I say. It doesn’t go unnoticed that she clenches her thighs. “You want that, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure I should be sleeping with you,” she says simply but with a firm resolve in her voice. My heart beats in a way that makes it feel tight. Like there’s not quite enough room for it to beat again.
“Are you seeing someone else?” I ask her. My knuckles brush against the white tablecloth as my hands start to fist. I stop them and try to keep my body from showing what I’m really feeling. She better not be fucking anyone else.
She loses the conviction in her voice when she answers, “No.”
“Then why shouldn’t we?” I say, glancing at the waiter as he makes his way toward us.
“Because—” Jules stops as soon as she notices him. She plasters on a fake smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and waits patiently for him to address her.
“Are you ready for me to take your order?” he asks me but I gesture to Jules, taking another sip to settle my irritation.
“For you, miss?”
“May I have the herb-grilled salmon, please?” She passes the menu to him and rests her hands in her lap, giving him her full attention. Meanwhile, I can’t take my eyes off her and wondering why the hell she thinks she shouldn’t be seeing me.
“Are the grilled vegetables all right with that?” he asks her.
“Yes, they’re perfect.”
The waiter scribbles on the notepad in his hand then turns toward me.
“Sirloin, medium rare. Vegetables are fine.” I preemptively answer his unasked question, still staring at Jules. The waiter takes the hint, nodding once and immediately leaving us.
“You were saying?” I say, picking up my bourbon.
“I—” Again she hesitates, sensing the change in my temperament. “I don’t know if I should really be seeing anyone .”
I wait for more, taking another sip.
“I’m not sure how to,” she says, waving her hand in the air, at a loss for words. “I’m still—” She can’t put a sentence together.
“I want to fuck you, Jules. Give me one good reason why there’s a problem with that.” I hold her gaze listing all the reasons in my head, but ignoring every last one of them. She needs someone to fuck, to hold her, someone to make her smile. I can do that; I can be that person.
“It’s just sex?” she asks and from the look in her eyes, I don’t know what answer she wants in return.
Fuck, I wish it were. I can’t explain why I want her this badly. It’s more than the physical attraction, but I’ll never admit the truth to her.
“Just sex,” I lie. “If that’s what you want.”
She licks her lush lips, peering down at her silverware and then up to me. “I’d be using you,” she says as if she’s confessing a sin.
A bark of a laugh leaves me and my tense muscles relax.
“Use me, Jules.” I stare into her blue eyes flecked with silver, feeling the tension between us morph into something sweeter, something darker and depraved. “I want you to.”