Fucking. Edible.
His hair is a blonde wavy mess, messier when he pushes a hand through it as he watches me. Both of us are in sneakers, which I had to run home for after he sent me a text this afternoon.
Mason: Your arse looks amazing in those heels. It also looks amazing in runners. That’s what you should be wearing this weekend. Lots of walking, gorgeous.
How did I forget about shoes? I remember floss and a nail file, but comfortable shoes? Not a priority.
After setting the cooler down on the back of the car, Mason jogs over and takes my duffle.
“Here. I’ll take that.” He slides the bag off my shoulder and lifts it with one hand, gauging the weight. His brows pull together as we move to the car. “A bit heavy, yeah? You pack for both of us?”
I hook a thumb behind me. “Oh, that’s just my lube. My clothes are in my other bag. Can you grab it?”
His face right now? Priceless.
Mouth falling open. Alarmed eyes shifting between the bag in his hand and my face. His lips pinch together after a few seconds of utter shock, and he fights a smile through a shake of his head. “Your lube? Jesus, Brooke. A bit of a wasted purchase, don’t you think?”
We stop at the back of the car. Mason moves a few things around to make room for my bag.
“Wasted? How is stocking up on lube a wasted purchase? You should always have some handy, just in case. And they last a while. I don’t think they expire for like two years or something.”
“Do you have any idea how wet I make you? You don’t need lube, sweetheart. Not with me.”
I cross my arms, leaning against the side of the car. “Are you sure about that? What about anal?”
He freezes, keeping his hands on the duffle after he stuffs it beside the cooler.
His head is down. Profile tense and body deathly rigid.
There is something extremely satisfying about supplying Mason with another spank-bank image. I like the high it gives me, knowing he’ll get off on that later. Picturing my body to seek out his release.
Enjoy that.
Laughing at my own cleverness, I start to move to the sidewalk, but he reaches out and grabs me, pinning my body between him and the bumper. My breath hitches when his hand connects sharply with my ass and stays there, his other roughly roaming over my curves.
His touch is possessive. Indecent.
I mold to his front like warm putty. I suddenly feel drugged.
So much for having the upper hand.
“Don’t give me any ideas about this perfect fucking arse, Brooke. Unless you want me to show you why we wouldn’t need lube for that either.” He sucks on the skin beneath my ear, then drops his hands, moving away as suddenly as this delicious assault came on. “You ready to get going? I want to set up camp before dark,” he says, completely casually, grabbing a rolled up sleeping bag off the sidewalk and sliding it next to my duffle.
I blink him into focus, reaching up and wiping my chin. I’m surprised it’s not wet with drool.
“Y-Yeah, sure. Just let me use the bathroom first.”
Jesus. Pull yourself together, Brooke.
I rush inside the studio before I see or hear his reaction to my obvious discomposure.
Lord, the man’s hands are wicked. Paired with that voice? I’m completely defenseless.
“You started it,” I mumble to myself as I tie my hair up off my heated neck. I guess it serves me right for trying to get a rise out of Mason.
He got one. I definitely felt it. And now I can very easily confirm his statement about not needing lube.
I push the door open at the top of the stairs and step out into the loft.
The room is exactly how I remember it from my first embarrassing experience up here. Lots of grays and blues. Massive wood-panel bed. A small kitchen table that looks to also be serving as a desk. It’s covered in membership forms and signed contracts. A laptop. A book about franchising.
I walk over to the accent chair in the corner and pick up the stuffed koala. I crush it to my chest.
“Hey, mate,” I whisper.
He kept it.
After using the bathroom and washing my hands, I stop at the refrigerator to hopefully grab a bottle of water. Something to hold in the car when my hands become restless. I swing the door open and startle at the contents littering the shelves.
Boxes. Bakery boxes. A lot of them.
Why are there so many?
“What the hell?” I grab the closest one in reach and open the lid. Four cupcakes fill the container. Four cupcakes I made. Completely untouched. I set the box down and reach for another. And another. Each one still exactly how I delivered it. No bites taken. None of the icing sampled. I find the first box I gave to Mason on the sidewalk the morning we met. The only cupcake that has been disturbed is the dolce and banana I tasted for him.
He isn’t eating anything I give him. He’s not even tasting them.