Chapter 15 Sierra #2
He’s still behind the bar, with those women fawning over him. He glances over at me, notices Lee sitting next to me, and . . .
Does absolutely nothing about it.
In fact, not five minutes later, when Lee is still chatting me up, Mason leaves the bar.
Maybe an hour later, Sophie and I walk back to Honeymoon Lane along the beach walk. We’re talking about anything other than Mason, because I asked her, shortly after he left the bar, not to mention him again.
I didn’t want to spend another night thinking about a man who isn’t thinking about me.
Who cares if Maria and Trish and even Sophie think he wants me? They don’t know. They’re not Mason, and Mason left.
Mason, who could probably have me with just one touch, one word, business rivalry or no, hasn’t made a move and clearly isn’t going to.
But when the path spits us out onto Honeymoon Lane, I find myself gazing up the Grant family’s driveway, because I am thinking about him.
Of course I am. The man is impossible not to think about.
Have I ever been this attracted to anyone else on earth?
Sadly, no.
I can’t see his house from here. I can’t see the cidery or anything at all but trees. But I know he’s probably in there, somewhere.
It’s disturbing how well I know his routine by now. How I mentally track him all day, filling in the gaps between my glimpses of him. And since he’s not at the bar, and I know the cider house is closed for the night, I can guess where he’ll probably be.
At home.
Showering, maybe. Cleaning up. Going to bed.
Doing laundry or watching TV or jerking off?
And not thinking about me.
I stop in my tracks at the entrance of his driveway, by the Sea Haven Orchard sign.
“I’m going to pop in,” I tell Sophie before I can change my mind. “To see Mason.”
She considers me thoughtfully. “How drunk are you, and should I veto this?”
“Not very. I had two drinks. And no, I’m okay.”
“Hmm. Do you want me to wait here? Or come with you?”
“No. No, you go home. I’ll catch up with you soon.”
“Okay . . .” She gives me a quick hug. “But if you don’t come home, I’ll just assume . . . ?”
“You can assume that some member of the Grant family shot me for trespassing.”
“Not funny.”
“Humor is all I have left.” I give her a kiss on the cheek. “Go have phone sex with your amazing husband.”
“He is amazing,” she says dreamily. “Good luck! And if you want to yell at him or screw him, just know that I support you one hundred percent.”
“Love you,” I call after her as she fades away into the dark between the far-flung streetlights.
I walk up the quiet drive and climb right over the low traffic gate that says the cider house is closed.
I pass the cidery building, the distillery, and take the fork in the path that leads me to another, smaller gate.
It has a Private Property sign on it, meant to keep customers from wandering up to the house.
I go right through, and up the path to where it splits off again. I take the way that leads me to the front porch of the Grant family home.
The house is large and white, a modern farmhouse, probably updated from its original form, with a charcoal-gray roof and black window frames, and a dark-blue front door. There’s a wide white porch along the front, and a faint glow coming through the windows.
I climb the steps in the dark, my heart thumping. After I ring the bell, it takes a minute before the porch light flips on and the door opens from inside.
Mason.
Wearing nothing but a pair of dark sweats.
Dear god.
My gaze ravages his naked torso as he stands there, staring at me. I think I’ve shocked him.
He’s shocked me more.
Juicy pecs. Abs for days. Leanly muscled V disappearing into the low-slung sweats . . .
“Sierra. Is everything okay?”
I blink up at his eyes, struggling not to gawk.
How can he even ask me that? Has anything ever been “okay” between us?
When I don’t answer fast enough, he glances past me, trying to figure out what exact disaster is at play. Like if I’m standing here, at his door, the town must be on fire.
“You left,” I finally manage to say. Because that sums up the disaster, doesn’t it?
I was there. You left.
“Left?”
“The bar.”
“Yeah. Uh, I always leave the bar around that time.”
“But I was there.”
He takes that in. Nods. “You were there,” he agrees softly.
So, at least he’s admitting that he knew I was still sitting there when he left.
“You could’ve come over and had a drink.”
“I could’ve.”
The acknowledgment reinforces the rejection. I know I could’ve. I know you would’ve let me. I didn’t want to.
I swallow. “So, you just want to be enemies? Is that it?”
His bottomless gaze slides over me. “No. I don’t want us to be enemies. But that’s just how it is, right?”
Maybe.
Or maybe we could be something else. Something more?
Like enemies, plus . . . I don’t know.
Lovers?
Yes. Fuck yes, we could.
We both know we could.
He’s single. I’m single. And I can’t stop undressing him with my eyes wherever he goes, no matter how much of an ill-mannered jerk he’s being. He must notice it.
How I fucking thirst for him.
Yet he’s making no move.
“This is a bad idea.”
I turn to leave, but as I reach the bottom of the porch steps, he says, “Wait.”
I stop, heart lurching into my throat, and look up at him.
His jaw has hardened, and he wears that guarded look that I know so well. The one that tells me he thinks I’m trouble. “If you’re thinking of hooking up with Lee Weston,” he says in a low voice. Hesitates. “I should warn you, he’s bad news.”
I laugh humorlessly. “Let me guess. He’s a playboy? Uses women for a quick fix, then tosses them aside? Doesn’t get attached?”
He frowns, like he’s surprised that I already know. And bothered, maybe, that I seem unbothered by it. “Something like that.”
“Do you know that’s the same thing people say about you?”
He takes a step toward me, his brow furling. “What? I don’t use women. I don’t toss them aside.”
“No? So, telling them to stay the hell away from you after you’ve spent the night with them isn’t your usual move?”
He’s silent for a moment. Then: “I never told you to stay away from me.”
“Oh, that’s right. You just ordered me to stay away from your family. Are they here right now? Should I leave before I poison them with my toxic presence?”
His chest rises and falls in a small sigh. “They’re not here. Layne and Kaylie moved into their cottage out back.”
I’m not sure why he’s telling me this.
I wrap my arms around myself, even though it’s not cold. “What about Tommy? Doesn’t he live here, too?”
“My grandpa lives in a fully contained suite on the back side of the house. Technically it’s attached, but he’d never wander in here uninvited. This is my house now, and he respects that.”
We stare at each other.
I don’t know what to think of this information, except that he seems to be telling me that we’re alone.
“Great,” I say lightly. “We wouldn’t want him to stumble upon you fraternizing with the enemy like this.”
“Sierra . . .” He sighs again. But he says nothing more. Just my name, hanging in the air between us.
It feels like when he called me “beautiful” last night, then walked away. And when he stared at me tonight, across the bar, then went home.
It’s so, so frustrating.
I think I liked it better when I thought he actually hated me. At least that was clear.
“Are you trying to fuck with my head on purpose?” I ask him. “I know we’re rivals and all, but this is cruel.”
He looks confused now. “How am I being cruel?”
“You flirted with me at the bar. With that purple drink.”
He rubs his hands over his face.
But I don’t care if he’s uncomfortable. Or frustrated. Or all fucked-up over me.
He did flirt.
And I’m definitely all fucked-up over him.
“You want me to keep thinking about you,” I press. “To want you.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” he growls, frustration slipping through.
Good. Emotions are sexual lubricant, and with him standing there with his shirt off and telling me we’re alone right now, my head is firmly in the gutter. If he’s trying to be a tease, to get me back for that drunken night when I wouldn’t let him hit it, it’s working.
“Do you think about me?” I demand.
“Of course I do. How can I not? You’re every-fucking-where I turn.”
Nice try.
“No. It’s more than that.” I climb the porch steps and stand in front of him. “That first night, in your bed . . .” My voice drops to a whisper. “You wanted me.”
“Yes.” His voice is gravelly. “I did.”
“But that’s changed now?”
“It never changed,” he says gruffly.
Then he grabs me, his hands sliding into my hair as he pulls me to him, and he almost kisses me.
I suck in a breath.
His mouth hovers over mine for one breath, two. Testing. Do I want this?
Will I tell him to stop?
“Don’t stop,” I breathe.
His mouth slams down on mine. Hot. Hungry.
No, ravenous.
His lips are soft, his beard is silky-rough, his tongue is greedy for mine, and I love it all.
I kiss him back with all the pent-up hunger I feel.
He pulls me into the house, slams the door behind us, and presses me up against it.
“This is . . . just sex,” I gasp between kisses, panic spiking at the back of my mind. Vulnerability. His kisses feel way too good. “Right?”
He pauses, breathing heavily and studying my face. Maybe wondering if I meant it, when I accused him of using women for sex. “If that’s what you want.”
But of course that’s what I want.
“I’m leaving,” I pant. “At the end of the month or in a few months. I don’t belong here. This isn’t my home.”
He isn’t my home.
He’s just a hot, delicious man I don’t want to deny myself the pleasure of getting naked with for one more second.
“I know,” he says.
“Great.”
“Okay.”
“Yeah.”
We stare at each other, my heart beating wildly against his chest, his knee pressed up between my legs, his hands buried in my hair.
I know this is a risk.
But he wants me, too.
It’s in his eyes and his hammering pulse, his rock-hard cock against my hip. And somehow, just knowing this is enough.
All my worries are silenced in the crashing waves of want as we slam together, making out against his door, and then on his floor.
He peels off my clothes, piece by piece, as his mouth moves over my skin. Kissing. Sucking. Softly biting. Testing with his teeth and tongue as he explores every curve.
And I let him, fucking basking in it.
When he strips off my bra, he cups my breasts and suckles my nipples into hard peaks, making both of us moan. He kisses his way down my belly with a fervor.
He strokes his beard on the insides of my thighs as he moves between them, nuzzling my pussy through my panties, inhaling my scent.
I shiver, feeling dizzy with lust, my heart pounding with excitement. His desire is palpable and it’s making me feel high.
As soon as he rips my panties down and gets them off, he buries his face between my legs, groaning in pleasure. He wraps his lips around my clit. His mouth is warm and insistent, and he goes after it as hungrily as he did my mouth.
Fuck. I knew he’d be good at this.
He sucks on my pulsing clit and I gasp.
So, so good . . .
He eats me out like he’s been craving it for days, weeks, ever since we met. Lapping and kissing and suckling as I pant and dig my fingers into his hair. His tongue delves inside me, making me groan.
Then he flickers it over my clit, teasing. And when I shiver, gasp “yes,” he rewards me with more ravenous sucking.
“Mmm, Sierra,” he moans as he makes out with my pussy, and heat shudders through me.
He slides a thick finger inside me, fucking me with it as he sucks. The flood of sensations is almost too much to handle and I cry out, bucking against him.
“Shh,” he soothes me. “I’ve got you.” But he sounds thrilled. Like he’s just discovered his new favorite game. Then he slides a second finger up my pussy.
I whimper, swear, and he groans.
“This what you needed, baby?” he murmurs against my thigh.
It’s like we’ve both been reduced to this singular act, stripped down in mere frantic moments to our aching bodies as he pours all his focus into guiding my pleasure, and I just try to hold on.
I want to come.
I don’t want to come so fast.
I bite my lip. Struggle not to grind against his hand, his face.
I can’t even respond to his question, and he doesn’t need a verbal answer.
My body says it all. My moans and helpless gasps as he strokes his fingers in and out. I spread my thighs wider, wanting more, more, more.
“Good,” he murmurs drunkenly. Sucking on me. Teasing with his hot mouth. “That’s good, Sierra. You feel so good, don’t you?”
In his voice, the pain of his aching resistance, his own struggle to hold back.
I don’t know if I’ve ever felt more beautiful, more magical, more fucking desired.
The floor is hard and kind of cold, but I don’t care. There’s something fantastically raw and dirty and fucking perfect about sprawling naked on Mason Grant’s hardwood floor while he urges me toward orgasm.
“You’re gonna come,” he mutters. “Aren’t you. Fuck . . . you’re gorgeous.”
The words this man utters in between the things he’s doing to me . . .
And all the while he watches me. Every shudder and twitch of my body, every roll of my hips as he fucks me with three fingers now. I think. It’s all rolling into a blur of bliss and mounting need. My core tightening, bearing down . . .
“Please,” I gasp. “Oh, god.” I grab at his hair, just trying to anchor myself in the pleasure as he controls me completely.
He picks up the pace a bit, making me cry out.
“That’s it. You need to come, don’t you, baby?” He urges me on between licks, his carnal kisses. “Come for me . . .”
Oh, fuck. His words undo me. His rough, sexy voice, strained with his arousal.
The way he calls me “baby” before he lavishes my throbbing clit with his tongue.
His eyes, pupils blown wide as they lock on mine . . .
When he closes his hot, wet mouth on my clit again and hungrily sucks, eyes on me, I come in a rush, screaming. Clenching on his fingers as my core spasms. Clawing at his hair as the pulses rack my body and my eyes roll back in my head.
“Mason,” I sob as he keeps sucking, keeps stroking . . . patiently lavishing my body with wave upon wave of pleasure.
For a few stunning moments of pure euphoria, I’m no longer in Orchard Cove. I’m not naked on the floor in my enemy’s house.
I’m rolling in the ecstasy where Mason put me, totally forgetting that this could hurt me tomorrow.