Chapter 17 Sierra #3
“Do you think she’s lonely?” I ask, though I don’t know why I’d expect him to have an answer.
Mason is silent for a moment. Then says, “I think . . . some people live alone so long, they just get used to it.”
God. I hope that’s not me one day.
We’ve reached the end of the apple trees. The orchard stops, or rather, is cut in half, by a simple, raw-wood farm fence. “The infamous fence, I presume?”
“Correct,” he says as we come to a halt.
It’s chest-high, with three vertical slats of wood. Some of it is ensnarled with weeds and bush. It appears unattended, forgotten.
Even more interesting and decidedly picturesque than the modest fence are the several large trees that stand along it on June’s side.
The most impressive of which is the very first one, right in front of me.
It’s immense, easily over twenty feet high and just as broad, dark and twisted, with long, thick arms covered in dark purplish leaves.
It looks majestic and timeless in the moonlight.
I wonder how long it’s been here.
The path leads right to it.
I realize that I’ve seen this tree, at least the top of it, from the back porch of the Cozy Cottage; it stretches above the thicket of trees and bushes that surround the cottage.
“Did I mention you have to climb a tree?”
I gape at Mason, then at the long arm of the tree that swoops down over the fence and past our heads.
“It’s a plum tree,” he says, “so try not to knock off the blossoms as you go.”
“Uh . . .”
“Just kidding. There’s a gate.” He brushes aside some weeds to reveal the latch.
“And why is there a gate in this incredibly symbolic fence?”
“So you don’t have to climb the tree?”
“Wait. Is this the tree? Like, the twisted tree of Twisted Tree Cider Co.?”
“This is it.”
I gaze up at it in awe.
Mason opens the gate for me and I step through. When I turn to face him, he hasn’t closed the gate, but he hasn’t followed me through, either.
We stare at each other as an unspoken question passes between us.
“We used to sneak over there,” he says casually. “When we were kids.”
“Of course you did,” I say lightly. “Sneaking around can be fun.”
There’s a moment of silence in which my heart pounds and I wait to see what he’ll do.
Then he steps through the gate and closes it behind him. He comes close to me. Closer. “June wouldn’t want me here, on her property.”
“June doesn’t have to know.”
I turn on my heel and follow the path that leads up to the bushes behind the Cozy Cottage. We only have to shove a few branches out of the way to get through.
The motion-activated light on the back porch turns on as I climb the steps, heart thudding.
As I unlock the door, Mason is right behind me. He follows me inside, shuts the door, peels my bag off my arm, and places it gently on the floor.
Then we smash together. Making out, groping, stumbling through the near-dark. I steer him toward my bedroom.
“Sorry the bed is so small,” I say.
“I seem to remember,” he mutters between kisses, “that we fit into a small bed . . . very nicely.” He drives me over to the bed, kissing his way down my neck. He yanks my shirt up and off, over my head, and we go at it again.
But then I get distracted, wondering. Did he say that because he’s thinking about staying in the small bed with me, all night?
“We’re still enemies, right?” I pant. “Just checking.”
“Of course.” He undoes my bra. “With incredible benefits . . .” He whips my bra off.
“Good. ’Cause I’m not yielding.”
“Wouldn’t expect you to.” He peels down my skirt. My panties go with it.
I step out of them and he tosses them across the room. Then we keep making out.
“I don’t want you to think . . .” I say between kisses, “that just ’cause you creamed me . . . in sales today . . . that anything has changed. I still want Pier Seven.”
“Cool. How about I make you cream right now?”
Before I can react, he pushes me back on the bed and drops to his knees on the floor. He spreads my thighs and goes down on me immediately, his hot, wonderful mouth making me melt.
“Oh god” slips out of my mouth. “Don’t I need to shower first . . . ? It’s been a long day . . .”
“Mmm. No shower.” He laps at my clit, savoring me like I’m his favorite meal. “You just need me, making you moan.” He wraps his lips around my pussy and sucks.
“Ahh. Fuck. This doesn’t mean I like you,” I moan.
“Mm-hmm. Be a good girl and keep still.”
He focuses all his attention and that amazing mouth of his—warm, soft lips; silken beard—between my legs, and I go limp. I forget how to argue. He is so, so good at this. Kyle didn’t even like going down.
How did I live like that for so damn long?
I was blinded by love.
Maybe all I need is hot, hot sex with my enemy.
Fuck love.
I watch Mason, feasting between my thighs. He runs a hand up my thigh and shoves a thick finger inside me, making me squeal and convulse. We lock eyes, right before mine roll closed.
“Sierra,” he murmurs, and I shiver. “Look at me.”
I look. I watch him eating me out, and I know it thrills him; that I’m submitting to him. Because this is the only way I do.
He pulls away abruptly, stands up, impatient to get his zipper down. His erection presses at his jeans. “Spread your legs,” he orders.
I spread, like the good girl he says I am, as he peels off his shirt, and an ecstatic thrill runs through me. My pulse beats in my core, the driving need to be possessed by him.
His chest rises and falls, fast, as he takes out his fantastic cock and palms it, thick, hard, and ready.
I take a deep breath. My heart is beating way too fast.
His eyes haze with lust as he runs his hand up and down his length, and he looks between my legs.
I know this is just sex for him. I insisted on it.
But . . . it’s not just sex for me.
As his eyes roam over my body and he settles over me, I wrap my legs around his waist.
As he pushes into me, filling me with his heat, he kisses me . . . and I’m afraid that I like him, way too much. And that he just doesn’t see me that way.
Enemies.
With hot-as-fuck benefits.
It’s all I’ve ever asked him for.
It’s all he’s ever offered me.