Never in my life have I felt this way. I’m standing on air. No, I’m floating. I get it now—what people mean when they say they are on ‘cloud nine.’
All too quickly, he pulls away, and for the first time, I’m left wanting more. Needing more.
Craving more.
And if his triumphant smile is any indication, it’s written all over me like a cheap romance novel.
He places a chaste kiss on my lips and laughs. “Was that just our first fight?” His hand lingers on me, tracing the curve of my neck.
Smiling, I say, “No, that would have been the airport. You know, when you called me a bitch and a drunk.”
“Oh, right.” He has the decency to look shameful.
“It wasn’t even our second fight,” I say. “That was at Skylar’s when you said I wasn’t an athlete and my legs were too short to run a marathon.”
His eyes fill with regret. “I was a dick, Piper. I’m really sorry. I think I was just trying to fight my attraction for you from the very beginning. Anyway, you proved me wrong. Those little legs beat my ass and now you have bragging rights.”
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes, knowing he let me win. “So, you find me attractive, huh?”
“You have no idea, do you?” his eyes snap down to his tented pants.
My pulse races. And not in a good I’m-standing-on-a-cloud kind of way. It races in a turn-and-open-the-door-and-run-for-dear-life kind of way.
In typical Mason fashion, he senses my anxiety and pulls away. He grabs my hand. “Come and sit down. Can I get you a drink? Maybe an adult beverage?”
I want this. I want him. Maybe if I get a few drinks in me, I’ll relax.
What the fuck are you doing, Piper? My conscience screams at me, knowing good and well the position that could put me in. I try to push my pangs of conscience aside. I try to push my fears aside. Mason is a good man.
Mason is a good man, I repeat over and over inside my head.
“What, no more juice boxes?” I joke. Then instead of sitting on the couch, I follow him to the kitchen. “I can help.”
He pulls out a bottle of Jack. It’s unopened and I wonder if he got it specifically for me, after seeing it was my drink of choice at the benefit. I watch him expertly mix it with just the right amount of Coke, splitting a can between us and not going too heavy on the liquor.
I take my glass from him and we walk back in the living room to sit on the couch.
“What was it you wanted me to see?” I ask.
He narrows his eyes in question while taking a drink.
“At the train. You said you wanted to show me something at your apartment.”
“Oh, that. Yeah . . . well, you’re looking at it.”
“What?” I look around.
“My apartment. I wanted to show you my apartment.”
I shake my head in mock disgust.
“What?” he says. “It worked, didn’t it? I got you to come back here. I just never planned anything out beyond that. I have no idea what to do with you. I mean, I haven’t been on an actual adult-like date where a girl comes back to my place before, so I’m not sure exactly how this works.”
I have to hold in my giggle. Mason Lawrence—hot, sexy, almost-famous football player—doesn’t know what to do on a date. But then I realize, neither do I. Hell, I don’t even read my sister’s romance novels. Do we watch television? Play a board game? Get out our phones and text our friends?
I take a drink. “Um . . . do you have any movies?”
He lets out a relieved breath. “Movies, yes! I have lots of movies.” He hops off the couch and opens his entertainment center to reveal an impressive stockpile of titles that probably cost more than my first car.
I follow him over and peruse his collection. He has all the great sports movies, of course. He has some documentaries, sci-fi, and even some romantic comedies. I survey the hundreds of films surrounding his massive T.V. But I gasp and my fingers stop browsing when I spot one in particular.
Mason recognizes the way my eyes hesitate when they come across this specific title. He reaches out and pulls it from the case. “Okay. Roxanne it is. Are you a big Steve Martin fan or something?”
“Something like that,” I say, my gaze fixed on the floor as I make my way back to the couch.
I was always in love with Cyrano de Bergerac. It was my favorite play of all time when I was little. I wanted to play Roxane. Maybe not from the original play that was written entirely in verse, but some of the later adaptations. And although I love the Steve Martin/Daryl Hannah movie version, it has always bothered me that they spelled her name wrong, adding an ‘n’ to it.
My heart is heavy as we watch it. I haven’t seen it in years. I didn’t realize I still craved acting so much. What I wouldn’t give to change things.
“I think you would make a wonderful Roxanne,” Mason says.
Completely ignoring the movie, I turn to him. My eyebrows scrunch and my nose crinkles. Why would he say such a thing?
Duh—of course. Realization hits me.
“Skylar told you. Or was it Baylor?”
He puts his arm on the back of the couch behind me and hooks an ankle over his knee, giving me his undivided attention. “It was Skylar. But I wish I would have heard it from you. I wish I would hear a lot of things from you.”
I shake my head. “I don’t like to talk about myself.”
“You were an actress. A damn good one based on what I’ve heard. Was it Charlie’s mom that made you quit? Did you think you would grow up to become like her?”
“I told you, Mason. I don’t like to talk about myself. Can we just watch the movie please?”
He turns back towards the television. “Sure. We can watch the movie. But maybe one day . . .”
I close my eyes and sigh. “I told you, there won’t—”
“I know, I know.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “There won’t be a one day. But that doesn’t mean I won’t try like hell to change your mind about it.”
Halfway through the movie, it occurs to me that my head has fallen and rested against Mason’s shoulder and that we are holding hands. And now that I’m aware of it, I can’t concentrate on anything else. His thumb rubs slow circles across my palm, putting me in a trance. The heat surging between our bodies is increasing by the minute.
He can’t see that I’m not even watching the movie anymore. My eyes are closed. They are closed as I try to imagine a ‘one day.’ I try to imagine Hailey playing next to us on the floor. I try to imagine family birthdays and holidays, Sunday brunches and vacations. I dream of the what-ifs and the possibilities.
Then I remember dreams aren’t always good. Sometimes they are just twisted versions of the truth that your mind tries to accept. And no matter how much I want to accept that I could have a normal future, my dreams remind me of how that could never be possible.
“Piper,” I hear him whisper. “Are you tired? Would you like to turn off the movie?”
I look up at him and I can tell by the look of worry on his face that he now realizes I wasn’t asleep, but rather in another world. Suddenly, his hands cup my face. “You look sad. What’s wrong?” he asks, his thumb slowly tracing my bottom lip. It’s a gesture I’ve come to crave.
My eyes shift focus between his lips and his mesmerizing blue irises. When our eyes meet, the intensity of his dark gaze takes my breath away. I try to answer him, but I’m speechless.
“God, Piper. I . . . ” His words fade away as his mouth starts to move towards mine.
My body responds to his movement immediately, my pulse racing and my breathing becoming ragged. His lips haven’t even touched mine yet, but I already feel the air under my feet, raising me back up to the cloud.
Cloud nine—that is where I want to live. It’s my happy place. The place where nothing bad can happen and nobody evil can hurt me. Pain doesn’t exist. Hearts don’t get ripped to shreds. Girls don’t get raped.
His lips crash into mine. Soft kisses quickly t
urn hard and demanding as my tongue meets his, stroke for stroke. He tastes like rum and Coke, with a hint of spearmint. He tastes amazing. He tastes of everything I want my life to be. He tastes of heaven.
Once again, he trails soft kisses over my neck and jaw. He takes extra time when his lips meet the skin behind my ear that is branded with ink. Part of me feels the urge to pull away. That piece of me is private. But he sucks on it lightly and I find I can’t move. I’m putty under his lips, his mouth, his skillful tongue. Almost as if my tattoo is a direct portal to my pain, he draws some of it out of me, extracting pieces of it with every gentle touch.
My fall from the cloud is instantaneous when I feel his hand trail up my ribs and gingerly cup my breast. I can’t breathe. Fear grips my spine like a vise, squeezing the air from my lungs as my body stiffens and trembles. Panic builds quickly, not wasting time giving me much warning. I cry out as anguish consumes me.
His hand retreats abruptly. “Piper, sweetheart. Look at me.”
I’m shaking, the tremors in my hands clearly visible.
Mason holds my hands tightly in his. “Look at me,” he implores. “Look into my eyes.”
I take a deep breath and raise my eyes to meet his.
“It’s me, sweetheart. It’s Mason. Don’t take your eyes off me.” He smiles. He smiles my favorite smile. The one that raises only half of his mouth. The smile that tells me he’s a good man.
Mason is a good man, I repeat over and over in my head.
“Listen to me, Piper. And listen good. When I touch you, it’s not to use you or hurt you. When I touch you, it’s so I can worship you. And every time you allow me to see you—feel you, is a gift I intend to treasure.”
He squeezes my hands and then releases them, moving one of his hands up my rib cage again. My eyes try to close in fear.
“Eyes on me, sweetheart. It’s only me. We both have shit in our past. But this—this here is so much different than anything I’ve ever felt. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to cherish you with every touch. Let yourself feel me. Let go of everything else.”
Our eyes lock together as his hand meets my breast. He cups it gently, letting his hand take the weight of it slowly. His eyes beg me to relax under his touch. My heart begs me to comply.
I breathe through my emotions. Slowly inhaling through my nose and out through my mouth. If my eyes start to stray, he urges them back.
Slowly, methodically, he traces the fleshiness of my breast over my top. When his knuckles lightly brush over my nipple, I struggle to keep my eyes open because the sensation flowing between us is overwhelming.
Our eyes burn into each other. Mine telling stories that shouldn’t be told. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”
I nod.
I’m okay.
I’m okay!
“Can I put my hand under your shirt?” he asks.
I inhale another cleansing breath and then I nod once more.
He untucks my shirt and places a hand on the bare flesh of my stomach, causing ripples of pleasure and nervousness to tumble my insides. His eyes never leave mine as he works his hands up my rib cage all the way to my bra. He caresses me through the thin cotton before pulling the cup down to free my breast.
The sensations build as he continues his manipulation. My nipples are stiff and he pinches them lightly. A pleasurable sound escapes me, surprising even myself. This is what passion feels like. This is the exact feeling I dreamed of as a girl. No—it’s better. This feeling is beyond any of my dreams.
I dare to let my hand fall onto his thigh, giving his leg a reassuring squeeze. I smile hearing his quiet gasp, knowing what my hands on him can do. It’s the first time I’ve purposefully touched him, other than maybe that hug I gave him at the marathon. Even when he’s kissed me, my hands have lain at my side. But looking into his eyes right now, I have nothing but desire to put my hands on him.
I start to move my fingers, inching them further up towards his lap. I look down to see what I’m doing as I reach for the bulge in his pants.
In a split second my confidence turns to panic. No, please, no. I silently plea to my mind and body. But despite my attempt to gain control, waves of anxiety crash over me, pulling me under so I can’t breathe. Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall even as frustration overcomes me.
“Piper.” He peels his hand from my breast and then removes my hand from his erection. He cradles his fingers under my chin, forcing me to look up at him. Gently, he touches my face, his fingertips sliding over my cheekbones to caress my lips. “You lost eye contact, sweetheart.” He leans down to kiss me, placing both hands on either side of my face. He kisses me until I go limp in his arms. He kisses me until I can’t think of anything but how much I want this feeling to last.
Emotionally exhausted, we lie back against the couch and hold each other. Eventually, Mason speaks in barely more than a whisper. “Thank you for tonight,” he says, pulling away, making sure my shirt is situated. “And thank you for trusting me.” He hugs me, molding me into his arms as a feeling of calm washes over me. Then he gently kisses my forehead and says with a mischievous smile, “Just so you know, I’m dangerously close to moving to New York.”
My heart falls into the pit of my stomach as my distant eyes fall to my lap. I sigh. “You don’t want to move to New York, Mason.”
“Why not?”
“New York is a dark and scary place,” I explain. “Demons lurk in the shadows. Filth lines the streets. People are homeless and broken.”
“It doesn’t have to be scary, Piper. Not if you go with someone you care about. New York can be great. Magical even.”
I shake my head. “Not for me.”
“Can we stop talking in code now and have a real conversation?” he asks. “I’m serious about you. I want you to give us a real chance. Don’t you think we deserve that? Don’t you deserve that?”
I spring up off the couch and walk across the room. “Thank you for the wonderful day, Mason. I had a great time.”
He shakes his head and rakes his hands through his hair. “Are you really going to ignore what we have here? You can’t possibly tell me we don’t have this incredible connection. I’ve never felt this way about anyone, Piper. Can you honestly say you don’t feel the same?”
I reach for the door. “I’m not capable of having feelings for anyone, Mason. Please, don’t follow me. I’d like to be alone.”
As I walk through the doorway, his words chase after me. “You may be living here temporarily, but you might as well be back over there—in Egypt maybe. Because you are living in fucking denial.”
The door slams shut, silencing any words that dared to come after.
chapter twenty
mason
I’m trying hard to participate in conversation. After all, Piper’s sisters did go through the trouble of securing a sitter so we could all go out tonight. It’s a momentous occasion. ‘Couples Night.’ Even Piper used the term when we discussed it earlier this week. I dare to hope she’s beginning to think of us as a couple; even after her disappointing exodus last weekend.
It’s been almost a week. Six whole days since I’ve seen her and she’s all I think about. I can’t stop imagining her lips and how they molded to mine as if we were made to flawlessly complement each other. It was amazing to be able to caress and comfort her and have her trust me, if even for a short time. And damn it if I can’t stop thinking about her breasts and how perfectly they fit into my hands. Hell, I can’t even manage to get her out of my head on the football field. Two things I live to hold—a football and Piper.
Actually, a football, Hailey and Piper.
But can they all go together? Is there any way I can work some miracle and convince her to stay?
I have five more weeks.
I shift myself in my pants and look away from her, concentrating instead on the conversation Gavin and Griffin are having in an attempt to lose my erection. We’re at a bar now, but they are busy arguing over what they
ate for dinner earlier.
“I’m telling you, they weren’t scallops,” Griffin says. “It was shark meat.”
“Well, what the hell is the difference?” Gavin asks. “And who the hell really cares?”
Griffin shakes his head. “Oh Lord, don’t let my future wife hear you say that. It must be nice to be married to a romance author instead of a restaurant manager. I never hear the end of it. I don’t even like to go out to dinner with her unless we go to a five-star restaurant. It’s like being engaged to a goddamn food critic. I haven’t been with Skylar all that long, but believe me when I say I know the difference between a scallop and shark meat. I know it nauseatingly well.”
I laugh at his comment and they both turn to me. Griffin leans in so only Gavin and I can hear. “Hey, Dix, glad you could tear your eyes away from my fiancée’s sister’s chest long enough to give us the time of day.”
“What?” I feign ignorance and they simultaneously raise their eyebrows at me. “Shit. Was I that obvious?”
“Does this mean you’re a thing?” Griffin asks. “I mean, it’d be nice to know I didn’t put off marrying the mother of my child for nothing.”
My mouth drops open. “You what?” I glance over at the girls to make sure they aren’t listening. “You mean to tell me you postponed your wedding to get us together?”
Griffin gives me a pointed stare and nods his head.
“Holy crap,” I say. “So the dress excuse, and the church—”
“All a sham,” he says. “The dress was delivered the day before we postponed.” He nods to Skylar. “It was all her idea. I want to marry her yesterday. But when Piper came home from your first date, it was like meeting an entirely new person. I’m telling you, the girl was walking on air. It took Skylar all of five seconds to pick up the phone and start moving the date.”
“That’s fucking huge, man,” I say, reaching over to shake his hand. “And it’s probably one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”
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