Chapter 19

19

FIA

W e had fun.

That was the only way I could describe the thrill of being an absolute menace on Mason’s arm, the two of us gossiping and laughing in corners while the party, gilded in gold and dripping in wealth and diamonds, went on without us taking it seriously whatsoever.

He spun me in circles on the dance floor. He helped me stuff two pieces of tiramisu in my bag for later. We drank fruity, sweet champagne and watched the city lights reflect on the water until late in the night. I hadn’t had to play a part. The erratic beating of my heart whenever he touched me was real. His smile, one that radiated joy, was real. The way he leaned in to whisper in my ear, telling me stupid little jokes about the grumpy old men and their plastic wives he had to introduce me to, was real.

Maybe I’d been thinking too far into this when I went shopping with Liv. Maybe, just maybe, he felt the same way I did.

But as the night wore on, it became more and more obvious that we would have to retire to our stateroom. Together. Sleeping together . In the same room, at least.

“Do you need a Dramamine?” Mason asked as he slipped a keycard into a door at the very end of a hallway below deck.

“I don’t get seasick. It would have happened by now if I did.”

“Lucky,” he murmured, throwing me a smirk. “I can barely stand up straight on my own yacht.” He pushed open the door, revealing darkness and a twinge of city lights reflecting through several windows on a far wall.

I stepped in behind him, blinking into the darkness. “Of course you have a yacht. Is it bigger than this one?”

“Of course.” He chuckled, mimicking my sarcasm. “It’s in a port in Greece right now. I normally take a trip every February and sail around for a week or so just to get out of the city.”

I imagined Mason wearing one of those loose, white shirts pirates wore while he stood on the bow of his fancy-pants yacht, a warm breeze in his hair and a stern look on his face, of course. Otherwise it wouldn’t be Mason.

He flipped on a light switch. I covered my eyes with my arm. “Rather bright,” he grumbled absently. I stood totally still as he moved throughout the room, turning on lamps. I didn’t move until he turned off the overhead light and the room flushed into comfortable dimness. “Better, I think.”

“Thanks—” My breath caught in my throat as I lowered my arm and caught my first glimpse of our lodgings for the night. I wasn’t sure what I expected. I wasn’t sure why, in my mind, I saw two beds, or maybe a couch and a separate bedroom where there would be a level of separation between us.

Mason’s jaw flexed as he scanned the room to meet my eyes. “Shit.”

“Shit,” I echoed, sighing as our reality smacked us right in the face.

There was a king-sized bed. That was it. The only chair was barely big enough for me and butted up against a silly little desk that was probably only there to make the room look more professional. Everything was a soft, warm white. Fresh flowers in the traditional Christmas colors—red with greenery. A few bundles of Baby Breath. The room smelled like cashmere and fresh linen. It was clean, soft, and romantic.

“I’ll sleep on the floor.” Mason huffed a sigh, running his fingers through his hair.

“We’re adults.” I swallowed hard. “We can share a bed.”

We stared at each other. I held my breath, and I was sure he was holding his. He was the first to breathe. He turned to the side, motioning to the two suitcases at the foot of the bed. His suitcase, strong sturdy material that could take a beating in cargo during overseas flights, and mine, bright pink plastic with stickers I’d been collecting since high school coating almost the entire surface.

“We, uh, there’s going to be pajamas for us in the en suite,” he said quietly. A hint of nerves ran through his words, highlighted by the way his hands curled into fists at his sides.

I found this odd. I knew Mason well now. He was never nervous around me. At least, I hadn’t thought so.

“Matching pajamas?” I took a step toward him.

“Probably. Don’t look at me like that.” His mouth ticked into a wry smile.

I arched a brow. “We’re going to look so cute. ”

“You’ll be disappointed to know that I don’t sleep in anything but boxers, then.”

I shrugged but a tingling sensation started to spread through my lower back as I replied, “I never sleep in anything at all.”

He held my gaze—suddenly hot and heavy. Something shifted in his expression, his normally aloof, uninterested look hardening, the planes of his face falling into shadow.

I could feel the tension snapping between us as we stood only a few feet from each other. I desperately wanted to cross that distance. I wanted to touch him. To feel him beneath my hands. To press on his chest until he was beneath me on the bed.

I hadn’t realized my lips had parted until a soft, breathy sound escaped my mouth and Mason’s gaze went dark as night.

His jaw sharpened as he ground his teeth, his gaze sweeping from my face to the hem of my dress, slow and deliberate. “Do you need help getting out of the dress?”

I swallowed hard. “No.”

“Are you sure? You told me Liv had to help you into it.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah, actually.” I turned around before he could see the look on my face. I felt a blush spreading from my chest all the way up my neck, blooming with heat. It only grew hotter when one of his hands rested firmly on my hip and the other began to tug on the impossibly difficult zipper. His knuckles brushed against the bare skin of my back. The zipper finally came free, but he took his time, each zipper tooth giving away in the rhythm of my heart.

He was standing so close I could feel his thighs brushing against my ass. His breath hitched, and I swore I felt a shiver run through them when the dress went slack, the shockingly tight fabric sliding free off my hips.

But I didn’t step away. My eyes were closed. I felt everything—every beat of my heart. The soft touch of his fingers traveling up my bare spine. The slight tug of the pins being freed from my hair. My curls falling over my back.

I clutched the dress to my chest to prevent it from falling off completely. I wasn’t wearing a bra. The simple white thong I’d chosen for the occasion wasn’t anything special but suddenly felt like the most scandalous thing I’d ever worn in my life—because this was scandalous. The way he leaned in, his knuckles brushing my hair away from my neck so he could run his fingertips over my shoulder, the side of my neck, was beyond scandalous.

This wasn’t in his rule book. This wasn’t part of the series of events laid out in our shared calendar.

This was for us. He felt it. I felt it.

“Fia,” he rasped, his free hand splayed flat across my belly as he pulled me closer so my back was flush against his front. “You smell divine.”

He made a breathy sound in his throat as his lips pressed against the nape of my neck. I exhaled, my arms feeling heavy and numb, so much so that I forgot I was holding my dress up to cover my breasts.

It didn’t matter. I didn’t care. Just like he said to me on the deck, I did not care about the ramifications of this moment. I wanted this. I wanted it so badly I could feel the want simmering in my blood. Maybe I’d wanted this from him since the beginning. Call it morbid curiosity getting the best of me, but I had to know.

I had to know that this feeling—this pull—wasn’t just in my head.

My dress gathered around my waist. He sucked in a breath and let it out slowly as his hand touched my bare, heated skin.

I fought the self-consciousness bubbling up inside of me as his hands began to roam. I’d always been fuller—softer. More rounded. Mom had always pointed out the Grecian statues every time we visited the Met, mentioning how our body type had never, and would never, go out of style, but I grew up in a city of models and socialites. I hadn’t been a size zero since second grade.

But Mason gathered up my softness, kneading my full breasts, clutching my hips and grazing his palm over the soft swell of my stomach, all while groaning with approval in my ear. I lost myself to his heated, wanting touch. His desire was evident. My own desire began to flood through me, blurring the already gray lines we’d drawn between us.

All I knew—the only thing in my head—was that I wanted Mason O’Leary.

I wanted more than a kiss tonight.

My earlier uncertainties dissolved as he roughly turned me around. I stepped out of my dress, kicking it roughly to the side at the very moment his mouth crashed into mine. The kiss was hot, our teeth and tongues clashing as he tasted and explored. I was breathless as I unbuttoned his shirt, smoothing my hands over the taut, hard muscles of his chest, my fingers drifting through a soft covering of chest hair the same soft brown as his hair.

His hands cupped my ass and he lifted me up like I weighed nothing. I bit down on his lower lip and he groaned, a tremor running through both of us.

He laid me on the bed with gentleness I’d expected from him. I lifted up on my elbows as he stepped away from the edge of the bed, loosening his tie.

“Mason?” I started to cover my breasts, but he shook his head.

“Let me look at you.”

His face was flushed as he slid his tie free and discarded it on the floor. His shirt was hanging off his shoulders, his skin a ruddy pink against the tan leftover from what must have been a somewhat recent vacation. He looked so different. His eyes flared with a new emotion—hunger, I realized, the thought sending fresh desire tingling through my back and lower belly.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he grated out, his eyes mapping every inch of my body before they met mine with a hazy, broken expression behind them.

“Come to bed,” I whispered, but he shook his head.

I didn’t have time to feel crushed. Reality didn’t have a chance to settle deep before he stalked toward the bed and knelt, smoothing his warm, callused hands up my bare thighs. I shuddered, closing my eyes to focus on the way his touch set every connection in my brain ablaze.

He pressed a kiss to the apex of my thighs. My eyes opened wide.

“Tell me no,” he rasped, low in his throat. “Tell me no, and I’ll stop. I’ll stop wanting you if you just tell me no.” His fingers brushed between my thighs. “But, Fia, I’ve been dying to do this. You have no idea how often the image of you laid out just like this has crossed my mind. I think about it all the time.”

My brain shut down completely. The only thing I could see and feel was him. His touch was soft. I needed more. I wanted him to leave marks on my skin. I wanted the bruises he left to sting. I wanted him to leave his mark on my body. I’d wear the scar proudly.

“Please,” I whimpered, choking back a moan. He ran his knuckles up my thigh.

I trusted him. He wouldn’t hurt me. He would stop if I came back to my senses and told him no, that I didn’t want this. But I wanted it so badly.

He pulled my underwear down my thighs, cursing something dark and needy under his breath, then hooked his arms beneath my legs. His tongue parted my folds in a rough stroke, nibbling at the gentle, sensitive skin. He released one thigh to rub circles over my clit with his thumb, tapping and pressing, using the feral, primitive sounds coming from my throat to judge his next movements.

I unraveled in moments. My skin was damp with sweat as he drew out my pleasure, edging me toward a climax before reeling me back in to elongate the moment.

No one had ever been able to get me off with just their tongue. It was a religious experience, and soon I was begging, my hands tangled in his hair as my legs shook and toes curled around the most mind-blowing orgasm I’d ever felt.

I rode it out on his tongue, his name on my lips.