Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
Mason
The morning sun slants through the penthouse windows, painting my skin with golden light. But it's not the warmth that wakes me—it's thoughts of her . Harper. Her vivid image burns behind my eyelids, consuming me from the inside out.
I sit up, sheets pooling around my waist, and run a hand through my hair. "Jesus," I mutter, my voice rough with sleep and something darker.
Last night replays in my mind: Harper weaving through the fundraiser crowd, a whirlwind of color against Oakwood's muted elegance. The way her eyes flashed when she spoke about her art, challenging the world to keep up.
I close my eyes, letting the memories wash over me. Harper was radiant last night, her auburn hair catching the light like burnished copper. Those hazel eyes sparked with passion as she described her latest series—a study in motion and stillness. Her slender hands moved gracefully, punctuating each point.
My breath catches as I recall the way her emerald dress clung to every curve. The neckline dipped just low enough to hint at the swell of her breasts. When she turned, the fabric skimmed over the perfect arch of her back, down to the flare of her hips.
I groan, my cock hardening as I imagine running my hands over that silken skin. Tracing the line of her collarbone with my tongue. Cupping those pert breasts, feeling her nipples harden beneath my palms. I picture her gasping as I push her against the wall, hiking up that tantalizingly short dress.
My hand drifts lower, wrapping around my shaft as visions of Harper writhe through my mind. I want to worship every inch of her body. To claim her, possess her, make her mine in every way.
I groan and make myself stop, my fists clenching in the Egyptian cotton sheets. This obsession is...unexpected. Unprecedented.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting cool hardwood. "Get it together, Blackwood," I growl at myself. But even as I say it, I know it's futile. The fire Harper ignited refuses to be extinguished by logic or self-control.
I stalk to the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out at Oakwood's pristine streets. The town looks small from up here, containable. But Harper...she's anything but. Her raw talent, her unapologetic authenticity—it's intoxicating. Dangerous.
"I have to see her again," I decide, the words escaping before I can stop them. It's not a want. It's a need , primal and all-consuming.
I press my forehead against the cool glass, wrestling with the intensity of my reaction. This isn't me. I don't lose control. I don't fixate.
But as I watch Oakwood come to life below, all I can think about is finding a way to make Harper mine.
I reach for my phone, fingers flying across the screen as I pull up my contacts. "James," I bark when my assistant answers. "I need you to arrange a meeting with Harper Lane. Today."
"The artist from last night's gallery opening, sir?" James's voice is carefully neutral.
"Yes," I reply, pacing the length of the penthouse. "Set it up under the pretense of discussing her work. I want to commission a piece."
As James confirms the details, I find myself standing before a mirror, studying my reflection. The man staring back at me is unfamiliar—eyes too bright, jaw too tight. I look...hungry.
"Is there anything else, Mr. Blackwood?"
I pause, considering. "Yes. I want a full background check on Ms. Lane. Finances, family, everything."
There's a beat of silence before James responds. "Of course, sir. I'll have it to you within the hour."
As I end the call, a flicker of unease passes through me. This is crossing a line, isn't it? But I brush the thought aside. I'm not doing anything wrong. I'm simply...interested. In her art, of course.
"You're supporting a talented artist," I tell my reflection. "That's all this is."
But even as the words leave my lips, I know they're a lie. The possessive glint in my eyes betrays a darker truth. I want more than her art. I want her. All of her.
I turn away from the mirror, unable to face the raw need I see there. "It's for her own good," I mutter, trying to convince myself. "She needs a patron, someone to help her reach her full potential."
But I know better.
I clench my fists, fighting against the urge to smash something. This isn't me. I'm not some obsessed stalker. I'm Mason fucking Blackwood. I take what I want, when I want it.
And right now, what I want is Harper Lane.
I pace the length of the bathroom, my body thrumming with an intensity I can't shake. Harper's image flashes in my mind—her bright, defiant eyes, the curve of her lips as she smiled. My breath catches, and a wave of heat washes over me, settling low in my abdomen.
"Damn it," I growl, gripping the edge of the marble countertop. The cool stone does nothing to quell the fire burning through my veins.
I try to focus on something else— anything else—but it's futile. My thoughts keep circling back to Harper, to the way her auburn hair caught the light, to those puffy pink lips.
I wonder if her other lips are just as pink and puffy…
I run a hand through my hair and try to shake her from my thoughts.
But my body has other ideas. The urgency builds, an insistent pressure I can't ignore. With a frustrated groan, I push away from the counter and make my way across the bathroom. The tile is cold against my bare feet, a stark contrast to the heat coursing through me.
I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror and pause. The man staring back at me is barely recognizable—eyes dark with hunger, jaw clenched, muscles taut with tension. I look...dangerous. Unhinged.
"What are you doing?" I ask my reflection, but the only answer is the rapid rise and fall of my chest as I struggle to control my breathing.
I know I should walk away, take a cold shower, do something— anything —to regain my composure. But the need is too strong, the pull of desire too powerful to resist.
As I reach for the waistband of my pants, a sharp knock at the door makes me freeze.
"Mr. Blackwood?" James's voice calls out. "I have that information you requested."
I close my eyes, torn between relief and frustration. "Just...give me a minute. I’ll call you when I’m ready," I call back, my voice rougher than I'd like.
And then my hand wraps around my cock as I give in to the urge to relieve myself.
I close my eyes, letting Harper's image flood my senses. Her defiant gaze softens, melting into something more...yielding. In my mind, I see her in my penthouse, her paint-splattered clothes discarded on the floor.
" Mason ," she whispers, her voice husky with need. " I want you ."
My hand moves lower, finding its target. I start a slow, deliberate rhythm, hissing at the contact.
In my fantasy, Harper's body arches towards me, her skin flushed and glistening. I imagine the softness of her curves, the warmth of her breath on my neck.
"God, Harper," I groan, my movements becoming more urgent.
The bathroom fills with the sound of my ragged breathing, echoing off the tile walls. My free hand grips the edge of the sink, knuckles white with tension.
I picture Harper's lips parting, her eyes locked on mine as I claim her. In my mind, she's pliant, willing, surrendering to my touch with a desperation that matches my own.
My muscles coil tighter, a pressure building that demands release. I'm lost in the fantasy, consumed by the imagined feel of Harper's body against mine, the taste of her skin, the sound of her pleasure.
" Please ," fantasy Harper begs. " I need you, Mason ."
I grit my teeth, fighting to maintain control even as I spiral towards the edge. The Harper in my mind writhes beneath me, completely at my mercy, and it's almost more than I can bear.
I catch my reflection in the mirror, and for a moment, reality intrudes. The man staring back at me is wild-eyed, desperate. A flicker of doubt crosses my mind. Is this obsession healthy? Am I losing myself to a woman I barely know?
But then I picture Harper's smile, hear the passion in her voice as she talked about her art, and I know I can't let her go. The thought of never seeing her again is unbearable.
"Fuck," I growl, my hand moving faster.
The pressure builds to a crescendo, and suddenly I'm there. My body shudders violently, waves of pleasure crashing over me as I reach my climax. I cry out, Harper's name on my lips as I spill over my hand.
For a few blissful moments, my mind is blank, free from the torment of wanting her. But as the afterglow fades, frustration creeps in. This release, intense as it was, is a poor substitute for the real thing.
I clean up mechanically, my thoughts a swirling mess. Satisfaction wars with an aching emptiness that threatens to consume me. Harper has gotten under my skin in a way no one else ever has.
I run a hand through my disheveled hair, steadying myself against the cool marble countertop.
I stride out of the bathroom, purpose in every step.
I move to the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse suite, gazing out at the Oakwood skyline. The morning sun glints off glass and steel, turning the city into a dazzling jewel. But my eyes are drawn to the west, where I know Harper's modest apartment lies among the converted industrial spaces and small galleries.
My hands press against the cool glass, as if I could reach out and touch her from here. "Harper," I whisper, her name a prayer and a curse on my lips.
The sprawling vista below reminds me of all I've built, all I control. Yet none of it compares to the storm she's unleashed within me. I close my eyes, picturing her defiant stance, the fire in her hazel eyes when she spoke about her art before I sigh and press the button to my intercom.
"Sir?" My assistant's voice crackles through the intercom.
I clear my throat. "Yes?"
"I've arranged the meeting with Ms. Lane. She's agreed to meet you at The Rustic Bean at 2 PM today."
A surge of adrenaline courses through me. "Excellent work," I reply, fighting to keep my voice level. "That will be all."
As the connection cuts, I turn back to the window. My reflection stares back at me, superimposed over the city I've conquered.
I will have Harper Lane.