I look over at Mason sleeping beside me.
He’s lying on his back, one arm tucked beneath the pillow under his head, the other relaxed across his stomach, his face turned away. My eyes linger on the lines of his body. The slope of his neck. The smooth swell of his muscles, his trim waist, and the bulge of his cock against the satin sheet.
Mercy. I’m sharing the bed with an Adonis. Again . . . how is this guy even real?
My thighs pinch together. An ache gathers there. It’s nearly painful. I can’t remember how many times Mason and I have fucked tonight. I lost count after he bent me over the kitchen table and spanked me until I came.
My cheeks burn as the memory of his desperate voice fills my ears.
“Oh . . . fuck, Brooke. Fuck! Your * . . . ah, God. I need to come. Baby . . . Baby.”
A shiver runs down my spine.
Damn, I love him like that. Wild for me. Fucking like a man depraved, and still giving me those tender moments in between where he kisses my cheek and whispers across my skin.
“You are loved, Brooke Wicks. My adoration for you is endless.”
I smile against my fingers.
I want to absorb him, every flavor of Mason. His sweetness and his ferocity. The gentle planes and sharp, savage angles of his passion.
Why did it take me this long to choose him? To be okay with this? I’m so happy I could burst.
Sliding out from underneath the covers, I pad around to the other side of the bed and grab my jeans, tugging my phone out of my pocket. I note the time.
Eleven-forty-two P.M. .
I flatten a hand to my stomach. Geez. No wonder I’m starving. I skipped dinner. The only thing I’ve had since lunch is a banana fosters cupcake and some tequila.
Grabbing Mason’s shirt off the chair on my way across the room, I slide my arms through the soft cotton and slip it over my head. The hem reaches my thighs. It smells like detergent and a faint hint of cologne. I bury my face in the collar.
Yummy.
I step into the bathroom to relieve myself and wash my hands. I gape at my reflection.
Jesus. Did we fuck in the middle of a tornado?
My hair looks atrocious. Matted and sticking out every which way. Some pieces still damp with sweat.
I tame the long strands with my fingers and gather them over one shoulder into a braid, securing the end with the elastic band around my wrist. I rub underneath my eyes to remove the smudges of makeup and pinch my cheeks.
There. Major improvement.
When I open the door and step back out into the loft, Mason is awake, lying on his side facing the kitchen, his weight braced on his elbow and the sheet gathered around his waist.
A plate of food sits on the bed in front of him. Grapes and cheese, by the looks of it. Maybe some raisins.
He pops a piece of fruit into his mouth and sucks on his finger. “Nice shirt,” he says, smiling.
I tug on the hem. “Yeah, you know. If we’re doing this whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing, I’m allowed full access to your wardrobe. Don’t be surprised if several comfortable pieces go missing.”
“If?” He tilts his head. “You love me, and there’s still an if?”
The peaceful look on his face doesn’t mask the restlessness in his voice. The tension crusting his words. I hear it. He worries I’m still unsure, or maybe that I’m slowly backing off and changing my mind, but I’m not.
And I hate that his brain automatically goes to that place.
“No. No if’s. We’re doing it.” I move across the room and climb onto the bed, kneeling beside him. I snag a grape off the plate. “Don’t tell Joey because he’ll never shut up about it, but he was right.” I shrug. “I want to keep you.”
The biggest, most contented smile pulls across Mason’s face.
I laugh around my grape.
God, he’s adorable.
“Say that again.”
I lean forward and kiss his mouth. “I want to keep you.”
“Mm.”
“And I really, really want to suck your massive cock.”
He moans, sliding his hand to my neck. “Jesus. You just got me real fucking hard, Brooke.”