“It’s sad that I went to a movie with my boss and his girlfriend and then dropped by The Blackout to catch another friend of mine’s band play?” I make a quick turn into a gas station and pull up to the mini-mart.
“Not when you say it like that, it’s not,” she mumbles and turns to watch out the window. “What are we doing?”
“How do you like your coffee?” I study her stunned expression and smile.
“It’s eleven o’clock at night.”
I lift my eyebrows, waiting.
“Cream and sugar, please.” Her eyebrows pinch together, and she pulls on her lower lip. “Oh, unless they have those flavored creamers, in which case, I’ll take a few of those. Vanilla, if they have it.”
There she goes being cute.
“Done.” I grab the keys and hop from my truck. “Be right back.” After the door shuts, I hit lock on the key fob and chuckle when her confused eyes come to mine. “Stay put.”
She rolls her eyes, and I turn to head in to the mini-mart, wondering why I feel so drawn to her. The need to protect her is overwhelming. The desire to be close to her is uncontrollable. And the urge to know her, really know her, is irresistible.
Trix
Coffee. What in the hell does he have planned?
I assumed, after my embarrassing display at the club, he was going to drop me at home and try to forget the evening’s foot-in-mouth events. At least, that was what I planned to do. Instead, I’m sitting in his truck, feeling like a high-school girl on a date with the quarterback.
I watch as he moves to the gas station market, long strides from his powerful legs that carry his gorgeously sculpted body through the door. I lose the visual as he gets lost within the market aisles and take the moment to pull down the visor and check my face.
Ugh. Yep, I look like a stripper. I grab a small packet of tissues from my clutch, swipe at my cheeks, and dab my eyes. There’s something about being around Mason that makes me want to strip everything away. I want him to see more than the sex and temptation. I want him to see, well, me. Maybe it’s because he’s so down to earth, so real, that I want to meet him on the same level. A whisper of guilt tightens my chest, but I push it back, telling myself I have nothing to be embarrassed about.
I take my clothes off for a living, and a damn good living at that. I’ve done what I had to do to get the things I’ve needed, and there’s zero shame in my plight. And yet, when Mason looks at me, he makes me want to be better. He reminds me what it felt like to be unguarded, to live in my skin without playing a role.
“Stupid.” Finished removing a good fifty percent of my makeup, I pull my hair over one shoulder and throw it in a quick braid. The car alarm tweets and the door locks flip up. With a final check in the mirror and unable to do a thing about the tight one-shoulder shirt and mini skirt I’m wearing, I flip the mirror closed.
The driver’s side door swings open, and Mason folds into the truck with a bag around his arm and two cups of coffee balancing in one hand.
“Here, let me help.” I grab both cups and deposit them into the cup holders.
“Thanks.” He turns and drops the bag into the backseat, and my eyes go immediately to his stubbled jawline. The dark shadow contrasts with the blond shaggy hair that meets it just in front of his ear. He must feel me staring, because he tenses and turns his liquid blue eyes to mine. His eyebrows pinch as his gaze glides from my hair to my eyes, my lips, and my neck. “Wow!”
“What?” The single word question falls from my lips on an exhale.
His hand reaches for my braid, wrapping it around his fingers and giving it a gentle but firm tug before he cups my jaw. He stares at my lips, and I self-consciously dart out my tongue to moisten them. His eyes flare, and he runs his thumb roughly along my lower lip, sucking his bottom one while watching the path of his finger. “You’re so pretty.”
I blink to rid the burning in the backs of my eyes. Pretty? Only my parents have ever called me pretty. Sexy, fuckable, a wet dream—those are the things I’m used to hearing. But pretty? My chest warms, and I lean into his hold, lips tingling with the urge to press against his.
He blinks and clears his throat. “We, uh, we better get going.” He removes his hand from my cheek and shifts in his seat, a painful expression on his face.
The loss of his warmth and sting of rejection burns in my gut, but the lingering arousal that his simple touch brings doesn’t seem to notice.
“So where are you taking me?” I grab my coffee, needing something for my hands to do so they don’t reach over and grip at his massive thighs.
“It’s a surprise.” He peeks over at me with a half-smile. “You don’t have a curfew, do you?”
I shake my head and smile into the lid of my coffee. “No.”
“Good.” He leans forward, his powerful arm pulling the cotton of his blue tee tight around his biceps, and adjusts the stereo. “Do you like Blink 182?”
“Yeah.” The scratchy sound comes through the speakers. “Is this Cheshire Cat?”