Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

THE ONE-NIGHT STAND – Romance math dictates that the less likely a character is to have a one-night stand, the more likely they are to run into said one-night stand again.

H oly shit, his place was nice. If Sawyer was going to get murdered, at least she would go out knowing she died somewhere clean, as her mother would have wanted. Mason took her coat from her, hanging it in the closet by the front door. If he was a serial killer, he was a polite one. She missed the warmth of her coat, though she was fairly certain the chill clinging to her was more from nerves than actual cold.

She didn’t do this. She didn’t let guys—or gals—pick her up at bars, and she didn’t do the picking up. Yet here she was, in this stranger’s very nice apartment that she basically invited herself back to. He hadn’t batted an eye. Strangers must hit on him all the time. She’d gone out tonight in need of distraction, and as far as distractions went, he was a great one.

As he hung up his coat next to hers, she realized she’d been giving the coat too much credit. Yes, there was some undeniable magic about peacoats and how they made anyone wearing them instantly 27 percent hotter. But the broad shoulders and the V-shaped back? He came by that naturally.

She wondered what else he came by naturally, her fingers fumbling with the frozen laces of her boots as she tried her best not to fling snow sludge all over his tiled entryway.

“Is bourbon okay?” he called.

Following the sound of his voice down the short foyer, she nearly tripped as she passed through the kitchen, the black cabinets and countertops falling away to reveal floor-to-ceiling windows, the view of Lake Michigan reflecting the skyline back to them.

“Bourbon is preferred,” she said once she picked her jaw up off the floor.

It was obscene how nice his place was. What the fuck did he do for a living? Probably something incredibly boring with stocks or numbers, utilizing a very expensive Ivy League degree his parents bought him in between snatching up yachts and summer homes.

Either that, or this was the place of the last girl he went home with, and she was stuffed in the walls somewhere.

She should probably listen to fewer true-crime podcasts.

Or more.

It was up in the air at this point.

He pulled two glasses and a bottle of bourbon out of a hutch, and she sighed in relief. If he had one of those bar carts with crystal decanters or ice in an ice bucket, that would have been too far. She wasn’t sure why that was where she drew the line on acceptably rich and unacceptably rich, but it was.

“Ice?” he asked.

“Are they those big, fancy spheres?” she teased.

He grimaced. “Only the regular kind from the freezer, I’m afraid.”

“Perfect,” she said genuinely. “I’ll take two regular-ass ice cubes, please.”

One corner of his mouth curved upward in bemusement as he brushed past her to grab the ice. She leaned a hip against the corner of his sofa, straightening when the leather groaned, as if offended by the touch of her thrifted pants. Thankfully, Mason returned before she could slight the ottoman, too, handing her a tumbler with a healthy pour of bourbon, and she clinked her glass against his.

“Cheers.” Notes of cinnamon, vanilla, and caramel danced across her tongue, and she hated that drinking good whiskey always made her think of her ex.

She wanted to send a picture of the drink with the skyline lit up in the background to her, knowing it would make Sadie froth at the mouth that she wasn’t drinking out of the “ideal glassware for optimal nose and palate.” As if they hadn’t met while drinking warm beer out of red Solo cups at a frat party, two queer redneck girls from southern Indiana bonding over living in “the city” for the first time. It was no surprise Sadie now worked at a distillery.

“You don’t like it?” he asked, misreading the scowl on her face.

Sawyer hastily slapped a smile on her face. “No—it’s delicious. My ex was just really into booze, and I hate that I acquired my love of fancy whiskey from her.”

“And an aversion to spherical ice cubes, I take it,” he deduced correctly.

She angled her drink toward him in confirmation before taking another sip. The bourbon burned less than memories of Sadie. It wasn’t fair how, years later, no matter how over her she was, her past resurfaced to haunt her in new and unexpected ways, like strong opinions about ice cube shapes. “She would probably keel over, roll onto her back, legs twitching in the air like a dying cockroach if she saw the bargain box of rosé currently in my fridge.”

Mason barked out a laugh as he leaned against the kitchen counter opposite her. “You have a way with words, you know that?”

She smirked. “Y’know, I’ve been told that before.” She wasn’t surprised he hadn’t recognized her name when she told him. Names on the New York Times bestsellers list weren’t given the same amount of reverence as the ones on movie posters or sportsball jerseys.

“How long ago did you two break up?” he hedged.

“You can just ask me if I’m also on the rebound. It’s fine.”

He smiled down at his drink, swirling the contents contemplatively. “I wouldn’t say I’m on the rebound…”

She raised her brows with a quirk of the head as if to say, Sure, bud .

He shook his head at the ceiling. “As far as I’m concerned, we broke up six months ago.”

“And did you see anyone else during your ‘break’?”

Sucking on his teeth, he visibly deflated. “No. But I was busy, okay?”

“Uh-huh,” she said skeptically.

He crossed his arms, giving her an assessing look that flooded through her, melting the chill in her bones. “And you’ve been living it up since your ex… How long ago?”

Tugging her beanie off her head, she fluffed out her hair and arranged her bangs before answering. “Three years. Haven’t dated anyone since, haven’t wanted to, best decision of my life.”

He tried to keep his face impassive, but his brows knit together slightly, creasing in the middle.

She knew people expected her answer to be something shorter, like six months or a year ago. But no, she lived this way on purpose, actually.

“So, let me get this straight: you read romance… but you hate romance?”

She aimed finger guns at him. “Nailed it.”

Mason ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it before throwing his hand in the air in defeat. “I don’t get it.”

Sawyer shrugged. “It’s a fantasy,” she said simply. “Like warlocks and elves and fairies. It’s nice to think about, but it’s not real. There is no happily ever after, fade to black, ride off into the sunset. The fact that we’re told to aspire to that—it sends us chasing our tails, looking for signs where there aren’t any, making us stay with the wrong person because we’re so scared of being alone that we tell ourselves we’re happy when we’re miserable. We willingly misinterpret things in the hope that it all means something, when really they’re not being secretive because they’re planning a surprise party or proposing but because they’re sleeping with someone else and somehow that’s your fault because you’re too focused on your work because it makes you happy and how dare you? They’re supposed to be what makes you happy. Your cup should runneth over simply because you belong to someone, right? It’s fucking bullshit.” She exhaled heavily, not having meant to ramble-rant. But this was her third whiskey tonight, so, oops.

Mason regarded her through narrowed eyes. “I don’t know if I want to clap or cry or… both ?”

“Both.” She laughed. “Definitely both.”

He grinned, pushing off the counter to stand before her. Her heart rate picked up automatically as she lifted her gaze to meet his. “Well, then—” He held his nearly empty glass up between them. “Cheers to being single.”

She matched his grin, clinking her glass against his before draining it. Every time she stated her credo on the Lies Hollywood Has Fed Us, people brushed it off like she was a philosophizing teenager. For once, she didn’t feel like she was being mocked.

As he set his empty glass on the counter behind her, she rested her hands on his hips, guiding him closer. Fuck, he was attractive. Why had she wasted so much time being broken up over Sadie, then casually dating or insisting on friends with benefits, when she could have been having one-night stands instead? No-fuss sex. No coy beating around the bush. They both knew why they were here, and no one was going to get in too deep and get their feelings hurt.

He brushed her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear, only for her bangs to slide right back into place, tickling the tops of her cheeks. As his fingers came to rest at the hinge of her jaw, goose bumps of nerves and excitement erupted on her skin.

“I should probably tell you something.” She couldn’t meet his gaze, her hands traveling slowly from his hips to his chest. Her mouth went dry at the muscles she felt beneath his shirt. No way he was in finance, not with a body like that.

He pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger, guiding her to look at him. “Is it that your vagina has teeth? Because if so—” Mason sucked in a sharp breath. “That’s gonna be a deal-breaker for me, sorry.”

Sawyer laughed. “Nah, Coochie Mane doesn’t have teeth.”

A surprised laugh bubbled past his lips that turned into a full-body shake. With effort, he calmed himself, tugging on the corners of his mouth to keep from smiling. She slid her finger between the buttons of his shirt absentmindedly. “This is my first one-night stand.” She wasn’t sure why she told him. She blamed the whiskey for making her tongue loose. That, and the knowledge she’d never see him again, emboldened her. “Not that, like, it’s a big deal, or anything, I just—I dunno, thought you should know.”

He placed his hand over hers, flattening her palm over his heart. “I’m honored.”

“You should be,” she quipped.

“I will do my best to make it worth your time.”

His voice had dropped to a low timbre, and Sawyer sagged against the counter, her brain taking slightly longer than usual to produce a response. “Well, I expected that regardless.”

His laugh coasted across her cheek, his chin dipping down to rest against his chest. As he regarded her through heavy lidded eyes, her stomach fluttered with the realization that they were done talking. Which was a shame, really. Sawyer couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so much with someone, and she would never see him again after tonight.

The thought flew from her mind as his fingers grazed her jaw. Her eyes locked onto his, the air between them taut with expectation as both of them waited for the other to make the first move.

And then they were both moving. She tilted her face back in invitation, and he took it, brushing his lips against hers once, her lips parting as her mind went blank, his mouth coming back to hers in a kiss that was much too sweet for what they were here to do.

She buried her hands in his hair, cursing against his mouth when she found it was as soft as it looked, twining her fingers through his dark curls enviously. She made a mental note to scope out his shampoo brand before she left. His hands slid into her back pockets, squeezing softly and eliciting a smile from her.

“You don’t have to be so gentle,” she murmured against his mouth.

A low growl escaped him, his fingers flexing more forcefully.

She crushed her mouth against his, every fiber of her attuned to his wandering hands. She didn’t normally like to talk during sex, found it embarrassing, but she didn’t really care about impressing him. So she told him when he did something she liked—which was pretty much everything he did—and she didn’t bother stifling her moans or gasps.

“Why do we still have clothes on?”

He palmed her breast through her shirt. “I have no idea, but,” he panted, “the inventor of turtlenecks should send you a thank-you note.”

Sawyer laughed. “I mean, I can leave it on.”

Mason gave her an assessing once-over, shaking his head infinitesimally. “No,” he said gutturally.

“I can take it off?” she suggested with a lazy grin.

“In a minute.”

Before she could respond, he unfastened the button of her pants, yanking them down to her knees in one fluid motion. Clearly, he had other priorities, which was fine by her. He gave her ass another none-too-gentle squeeze before hoisting her up on the counter and pulling her pants all the way off. He kissed her roughly before making his way down her body, lowering himself onto his knees.

They were going to do this here. In his kitchen. She supposed it was an appropriate place to get eaten out.

Shoving their empty drink glasses out of the way, she lay back atop the kitchen island, hands tangled in his hair as his tongue and teeth and fingers gently teased her, taking cues from her moans and gasps and whimpers of “ Yes .”

At one point, she may have even whimpered, “Thank you,” to the romance gods for delivering her a man who treated cunnilingus like a job and his rent was due. She didn’t care if she was about to come too quickly. She didn’t care if Mason álvarez was a fake name or if he thought Sawyer Greene was fake, too, because right now, as he coaxed her over the edge atop his kitchen counter in his obscenely nice apartment, she didn’t remember what her name was, what his name was, or if it even mattered.

She sucked in a shaky breath as Mason kissed his way up her body, pushing her shirt up under her breasts. “Bedroom. Now,” she rasped.

He guided her legs around his waist before picking her up. She was still limp-noodle-limbed, so it was a feat that he managed to move her at all, but she supposed he didn’t have all those muscles for nothing. Speaking of…

As he carried her down the hallway to the primary bedroom—how big was this fucking condo, honestly?—she pressed kisses along his jawline, keeping one arm around his neck while the other began slowly undoing the buttons of his shirt. He lowered her onto the bed, and she tucked her legs beneath her, rising up on her knees to finish unbuttoning his shirt. She needed to see what her fingers had felt earlier, before she got too distracted again. The last button undone, she pressed her palms against his chest, pushing the shirt back over his shoulders, sending it cascading to the ground.

“Are you kidding?” she blurted.

“What?” he asked in alarm, glancing down at himself.

“Who actually has abs like that? Who has the time?” she bleated.

He glanced at her, a ghost of a smile playing across his lips, cheeks dimpling. Fucking unreal. This man was not real. This was some highly vivid sex dream she was having, which was why she allowed herself to stare unabashedly, her hands roving over his chest, her fingers dipping between the muscles of his abdomen. Absurd. Ab -surd. Sawyer laughed under her breath.

“Could you not laugh while touching my body?” Mason chastised lightly.

She tore her eyes off his stupidly perfect body to look him in the eye while her hand continued roaming south, palming his erection through his pants. His eyes fluttered shut, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly. She grinned to herself, making quick work of unbuttoning his pants and undoing his fly, his pants pooling on the ground next to his shirt. She snaked a hand around his waist, slipping beneath his boxers to squeeze his ass.

His teeth clamped down on his bottom lip to keep from grinning. He did that a lot, and now that she knew how those teeth felt when scraping across her skin, nipping at it—she forgot what she was doing for a moment, needing to feel his mouth on hers again. He moaned, pulling her against him brusquely before pushing her back on the bed and crawling on top of her.

She always thought she wouldn’t enjoy a one-night stand, too self-conscious to get out of her own head, but Mason was like a fantasy plucked straight from her daydreams. He groaned every time she ground her hips against his, sighed when she took his bottom lip between her teeth, touched her where she wanted and also where he wanted.

He worked her shirt over her head, sighing contentedly, though she wore her most boring nude bra—she was wearing a white shirt, what else was she supposed to wear underneath? But the way his eyes lit up, she glanced down expecting to see that she’d worn one of the lacy-cutout bralettes that barely kept her boobs from spilling out. As he reached around to unhook her bra, she reached down, running her hand over the length of him. His teeth sank into her shoulder and she moaned, stroking him again.

“Fuck,” he swore into her neck, breathing heavily.

She tugged on the waistband of his boxers, his erection springing free. He bit down on her shoulder once more as she wrapped her hand around him, pumping once, twice, before pushing him onto his back. She made a show of shrugging out of her bra, his pupils blown wide. He wanted to play with her breasts—badly. She wanted it, too, but first, she had a favor to repay. She kissed her way down his body before taking him into her mouth. When he’d gone down on her, she’d forgotten her name, his name—how to make words in general, really—but Mason did not. He moaned and swore and cursed her name incessantly. He wasn’t one of those men who bit back his noises, and the way he made his pleasure known with his guttural groans and gasped swears—was really fucking hot.

“Fuck, Sawyer, please,” he moaned, guiding her face back up to his.

“Yes?” was all she managed before he crushed his mouth against hers, rolling her under him and pressing her into the mattress.

Just as suddenly, his warmth was gone. Disappointed, she propped up on her elbows to see him sitting on his feet at the edge of the bed, rifling through his nightstand. The dim lighting caught on the foil packet, and she sighed in relief. This foreplay was amazing, but she was fairly certain she was at risk of becoming dehydrated from how goddamn wet she was.

As he came to hover over her, she held up a hand, rolling onto her stomach. “I’m not doing fucking missionary for my first one-night stand.”

He gently guided her hips up before pressing his chest against her back. Brushing her hair off to the side, his lips grazed the shell of her ear. “Just because it’s a one-night stand doesn’t mean we only get to go one round.”

Her witty retort died on her tongue as he eased slowly into her. Oh, fuck yes. They were definitely going multiple rounds. Sawyer was fairly certain she entered some sort of sex-induced fugue state, only coming to when he had her on her back in some new position she’d never done before and wasn’t sure why not. Sure, it wasn’t the most flattering angle for her, but it was a great angle for the only part of her body she cared about right now. Fanfuckingtastic actually.

Was this what she’d been missing out on all this time? Were all one-night stands this mind-blowingly good? Why had she wasted so many years of her prime doing anything but this? Or was it just Mason? It was unfortunate that this could only be a one-time thing. She could use a few more nights of this. As she hurtled over the edge for the nth time, she vowed to rename all her vibrators Mason.