The Soul Mate (Roommates #4)

“Too many to name.”

“Ah, so you were spoiled,” I teased.

“I was well-loved,” he amended with a wide grin.

“I see.” I nodded. “Well, gun to your head, what was your favorite?”

“I don’t know. I guess…I had a stuffed giraffe when I was little. I mean, really little. There are a bunch of pictures of me with it.”

“What was his name?” I asked.

He shrugged. “We had no need for names. Our connection was more spiritual than that.”

I laughed out loud. “Right. Well, good to know.”

We finished our meal and before I got the chance to clean up, Mason grabbed my dish and handled everything for me. Which left me to sit there, wondering what came next. Our conversation was a little awkward, but that was to be expected. We were still in the getting-to-know-you stage. But he was trying—cooking for me, asking questions about me, and attempting to make me feel comfortable. He was one of the good guys—and that’s what scared me.

I couldn’t very well eat and run.

Worse, I didn’t want to.

I wanted to run, all right. Run straight into his bedroom and thank him for dinner in the most intimate way I could. But then, of course, that was only because I knew this time could never be as good as the last.

If I slept with him tonight—which I definitely wasn’t going to—but if I did? Maybe I’d finally have a lukewarm memory to wash away the searing hotness of our first night together. There was no way it could be as good as I remembered. No way.

Or at least, that’s what I kept telling myself as I tried to justify still wanting to sleep with him.

Which I totally wasn’t going to do.

“Want to watch a little TV?” Mason asked as he stepped away from the sink, rolling his thick shoulders to stretch and leaving me with my tongue hanging out.

“TV sounds good,” I said, wondering if I should plant the seed for my early departure now so it would be an easy, hassle-free extraction.

“Cool. Pick your poison.” He turned on the flat-screen TV hanging on the wall opposite his bedroom, his Netflix cue already loaded.

“Lots of car shows.” I nodded toward the screen.

“Yeah.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, then settled back onto his cream-colored sofa. “I’ve got one I’m working on. Probably not worth the price I pay to store it, but it’s a hobby.”

“What kind of car is it?”

“A Mustang,” he said. “My dad taught me how to work on old muscle cars when I was growing up. It helps to have something to do with your hands or to unwind after a bad day.”

I could think of something he could do to occupy his hands. Shaking the mental image away of his weight pinning me to the bed while I moaned, I moved toward the sofa.

“I can understand that,” I said.

In fact, the similarities in our lives growing up were almost eerily similar. Before my father had gotten sick, I spent almost every Saturday in our garage, watching him as he toiled over a Cadillac he’d inherited from my grandfather. He used to tell me that oil ran in our blood and that—once I figured out my true calling—there’d finally be a mechanic in the family.

Every time I’d laugh and he’d explain that he was kidding, but that if I ever wanted to work on the car I could join him. Instead, I’d always sat on my stool and handed him tools as he fiddled with this or that and tried to explain to me what he was doing. I never understood, of course. I was too young then.

But selling that Cadillac once he was gone to help my mom get on her feet financially? That had been one of the hardest days of my life. Handing over the keys had been like handing over a part of my dad to some random stranger.

“Maybe not car stuff,” I said. “You ever watch Jane the Virgin? That’s a pretty funny show.”

“No, what’s it about?”

“It’s about a girl who accidentally gets pregnant and—” I heard myself, then stopped. “You know what? That one is probably a bad idea too.”

He laughed. “Maybe we should just talk.” He patted the seat beside him on the sofa, and I could feel his gaze raking over me, surveying me. He knew, of course, what was underneath my clothes. He’d already seen me—all of me.

So why did I still feel so exposed? Because baring my body was far easier than stripping away the curtain to my soul.

Joining him on the couch, I crossed my legs if only to dull the ache that rose inside me at the smell of his spicy-sweet cologne. “What do you want to talk about now?” I asked.

“You. Always you,” he said.

I grabbed a nearby throw pillow and hugged it close. “Well, not much to say there. You know where I work and my favorite childhood toy. That’s about all of it.”

He laughed, then moved a little closer, so close that his arm brushed against mine. “Do you date much? Any serious relationships you want to rehash? Bad blind dates, maybe? Tinder horror stories?”

“Well…” I thought hard about my answer. What I did technically couldn’t be called dating. Unless, of course, he counted my long-term, committed relationship with my friendly bedside vibrator. If that were the case, I’d bet at this point I could petition for common law marriage.

“Not quite,” I said.

“So before me, the last guy was?”

“Years ago,” I confessed, averting my gaze.

“I wondered,” he murmured.

“Something about me just screams cat lady?” I joked.

“No.” He shook his head. “You were…I could tell.”

“How could you tell?” I narrowed my eyes, wondering what in the hell he meant. That I was so inexperienced and rusty it gave me away? White hot annoyance crept up my spine and landed on the back of my neck. Maybe I’d just discovered a minor flaw marring his perfect resume.

“Honestly? You were just so tight,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “I’ve been wondering ever since then if it was because you hadn’t been with anyone for a while, or if maybe you always feel that way. So wet and warm and—”

There was no denying the surge of need building between my thighs now, and my breath caught as I met his gaze. “I-I don’t know.”

His eyes went dark and his jaw tensed.

“Only one way to find out,” he said.





Chapter Fourteen


Bren



I should have said no.

I will be the first person to admit that, when propositioned by my potential baby daddy, the answer should have been unequivocal and sure.

No.

No thank you.

Not again.

But that answer, of course, didn’t factor in the way he looked at me—the way his blue eyes raked over my skin like he was touching it already, laving it with his tongue and readying me for his thick, hard cock.