by A. C. Bextor
Lifting the bottom hem of my bright pink tank top, he kisses the heated skin at my waist. A tug near my hip, and a tickle from his jaw, sends a quake of need as Mason licks just below my navel. With each brush of his lips, he’s tugging my oversized, cutoff jean shorts down as far as they’ll go.
I sigh, closing my eyes and blocking the stars. Images of what he’s doing take over. My body starts to fever and my thighs fight not to spread.
The buttons to my shorts loosen. Next, the night echoes with the sound of my zipper being drawn down. The touch of his mouth…so close to….
Mason’s large hands grasp each side of my shorts, taking them down with ease. The late night breeze strikes my center, lending fact that I’m completely bared.
Half-embarrassed, half-aware of what’s about to happen, I open my mouth to ask for a second to think.
But I’m too late.
Mason parts my thighs, his fingers wrapping around, his thumbs digging deep, wordlessly conveying where they need to stay. His mouth covers me completely. His tongue pushes against my clit before he sucks it in with greed.
Never has intimacy been like this. Open. Raw. Exposed. Safe.
My fingers run through his thick dark hair, holding him to me as my hips move in sync with his mouth.
Mason’s aggression continues.
His tongue enters—again and again, triggering a small whimpered cry to break from my throat. His thrusts become aggressive, each coming with fiery punishment. When a charged, guttural moan breaks, this time from my chest, a carnal growl explodes from his.
“Oh, please don’t stop doing that,” I beg, jutting my hips and seeking more.
“Fuck,” he hisses, taking his mouth away.
Looking at him, Mason’s wet lips wear Lucifer’s grin, paralyzing my next plea.
Holding eye contact, without warning, Mason slides his finger inside, filling me so full my neck snaps, aiming my head to the sky, and my eyes slam shut.
“Don’t look away,” he orders while I pant. “Hold on, baby,” he utters, just as I start to get lost again.
As Mason’s thumb works my clit, his fingers continue their search inside.
“Responsive as fuck,” he tells himself, continuing his assault.
Torture: his mouth, his fingers, his thumb.
I’m so close!
“Fuck!” I scream, pulling his hair and thrashing my head side to side.
My knees bend, offering him more room. Then when I don’t think I can take any more, when my body is no longer under my mind’s control but his, I have no choice but to cry out. And I do.
Abruptly. Loudly. And without shame.
That is, until the sensation passes and the air around us shifts.
The fear and humiliation of what we’ve done creeps in. I’ve never come apart like this before. Not even by myself and I know my body more than anyone.
Mason sits up. I don’t chance another look down.
Covering my eyes with my arm, I hear rustling of clothes, likely those of mine he’s putting back together. I focus on taking in even breaths. My breathing is shallow. My chest moving up and down. My mind is full of images of Mason between my legs and how he felt doing what he did. My thighs try to come together to ease a newly stirring ache, but they can’t.
Mason hovers from above. His shirt is gone, his bare chest flat against mine. His jeans have been removed.
Oh, my God.
“You scream fuck, and all I wanna do is show you what that word means,” he tells me.
Narrowing my eyes, I’m pulled from all I’ve seen, which is to say Mason’s large cock fitted in a condom and rubbing against my thigh.
We’re doing this. He’s giving me this. After he already gave me that.
My insides throb with familiar ache, as if my body can handle any more. As if he could do more to my body than he’s already done.
Oh, my God.
We’re doing this!
Mason’s hand cups my jaw, tilting my face toward his. He searches my expression. This is my last chance to refuse. Not that I ever would, but his attentive consideration is sweet.
“Kiss me,” I instruct.
He smiles then sets his lips to mine. I taste myself. I taste all of him mixing with all of me.
When he positions his hips firmly between mine again, lifting my leg at the side, I lose his mouth and my neck extends. He takes advantage, biting then sucking the skin below my ear.
“Mason,” I breathe out.
My tank comes up, the bra along too. Using his mouth, he covers my chest from one side to the next. His ministrations are merciless; his mouth as hungry as his determination.
Mason doesn’t ask permission. Settling his hand between us, he holds himself at my entrance. My hips flex in search for what’s to come.
At the same time his finger rolls over my clit, he bids, “Eyes to mine when I’m inside you.”
At his order, my eyes open and I concentrate on his gaze. Mason slides in deep and I gasp. He’s stretching me, enveloping me.
He’s consuming me.
“Fuck, so beautiful,” he murmurs, staring down and starting to move.
“Mason,” I utter.
“Breathe,” he eases. “Eyes to mine and breathe.”
The truck bed rocks with each controlling thrust. My back arches, taking him in—again and again.
“You’re not his,” he states as promise, his eyes still locked on mine.
I never was Thomas’.
When I don’t respond, his drives become aggressive. “You’re with me.”
I’ve always been.
In and out. Over and Over. Fast, furious, and deliberate. My body begins to move up the bed and Mason wraps his arms beneath me, grasping my shoulders tightly in his hands.
Another build is cresting. This time, with him all over me, its momentum becomes too much. My insides tighten, anxious and ready for the release I know is coming.
“Mason,” I voice softly and out of breath.
“You’re close, Katie,” he insists. “But you hold it.”
“I can’t,” I utter, feeling my body warm all over.
“You’ll wait.”
“Mason, please,” I beg, the warmth heating beyond measure.
My legs at his sides start to quiver. Mason positions his hands to my ass, squeezing tightly to the point of pain. He tilts my hips, driving deeper than before. With the weight of his body on top of mine, the solidity of us together takes flight, and I give what he’s demanding.
“Now,” he instructs. “Let it go.”
Again and again, I cry his name until his drives are no longer deliberate and controlled. They’re fevered and unpredictable.
His release follows, and his cock pulses inside. A feral groan of satisfaction vibrates against my chest when his mouth takes mine in a painfully punishing kiss.
Mason’s lips touch my neck, and I wrap my arms around his shoulders, holding him as tightly as I’m able. The stars in the sky shine down brightly, leaving us in silence and peace.
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU doin’ here?” Mason scolds, as the front door of his cabin swings open.
The generous amount of wine I’d tasted earlier provided the required liquid courage it took to get here.
The last few days have been frustrating, to say the least. I’ve replayed how comfortable Mason seemed, as he stood in my kitchen—confident and sure. The sound of his voice as he ushered my girls outside, understanding they were about to do one of most painful things they’d ever done in their young lives—burying their pet.
I replayed his promised words of friendship, the desperation of his voice, begging I give him back the pieces of me that I could.
I’ve been overwhelmed in not wanting to feel that pain alone anymore. It’s been brutal and unforgiving.
And unfortunately transparent to those who know me best.
Thomas called this morning from Phoenix. Our conversation was short, prompting him to ask if something more than Duke dying
had happened, and if I was okay. His concern was genuine, though maybe a little suspicious. I assured him all was fine, and I’d have the list of items he’d asked me to do in his absence done by the time he got home. He told me he loved me, which in his way, I knew was true. He also promised he’d call back later.
Earlier this evening, standing among a room full of strangers, I finally decided I’d had enough talk of wine. For hours, I expelled too much effort to keep calm. When I couldn’t manage another minute with my own thoughts, I tugged on Connie’s arm and told her I needed to go.
As any best friend would, she knew exactly where I intended to be.
On the way to Mason’s cabin, I sat in her passenger seat, hearing but not listening to the music she played. Instead, I fumed.
So much has been left unsaid between us. At least on his end. I was angry at his reaction to me. Bitter at his distance and disposition. Furious with his ability to rattle the very unstable ground I’ve been walking on since he approached me in that bar.
I didn’t know what I’d say when I saw him and I had little time to prepare. I just knew I wanted to be close to him, in anger or not, and this was the only way to work through the feelings. I needed to be alone with Mason again to prove to us both we were okay.
“Katie?” Mason prods.
Stepping inside, a gray puppy with ice-blue eyes, oversized paws, and wagging tail nudges my leg. He licks my hand and I smile down with remembrance of Duke.
“Damn it, woman,” Mason prompts and I look up.
He’s standing in a pair of black running shorts. He’s not wearing a shirt and a single bead of water treks its way down his chest. His abs are straining under the array of his colorful tattoos. His knuckles are white as they hold onto the edge of the large wooden front door. He smells clean, freshly showered.
His television is on, its volume up loud in the background. The sounds of cheering fans at a ball game echo throughout the room.
I’d forgotten how much Mason loved baseball. How he and my dad would talk about games after they’d been played.
A single bottle of what I know is Mason’s favorite beer sits on a table next to a small, black remote. Until tonight, I’d forgotten what he drank. Not that I’ve forgotten how it tasted on his lips.
A few lights in his front room are on. From what I can see, he’s also alone.
Mason always loved his space. He’s always been a man who appreciated peace and quiet.
“I came over to…” I stop, losing what I had to say.
The aggression in his eyes transforms to humor. He’s going to make fun of me.
“Get your drunk ass in here,” he orders, grabbing my wrist and bringing me farther into his home.
I turn back to find him lifting a single finger to Connie’s sports car sitting in the drive. She honks a quick beep in return.
When Mason’s puppy makes a move to jump, its master shakes his head sternly and commands, “Titan, no.”
Titan does as ordered, but just barely. He sits at my feet, tail wagging, and tongue out to the side, waiting for the attention he feels he deserves.
Looking around Mason’s home, I recognize I’ve never been inside anywhere he’s ever lived. As a kid or adult. The times together we shared were always in my home before he left. And a hotel room after when he’d return.
I always imagined his choice of decor would be manly, though. Which is exactly what this is.
Dark leather furniture decorates the room. A very large, big-screen television hangs on the wall over an empty but exuberant brick fireplace. Burgundy rugs, white decorative pillows, and barren walls make up the rest of his place.
To the right is the kitchen. It’s small with black appliances and clean, black and gray swirled granite countertops.
To the left, there’s a wooden staircase leading up to a loft, which is lined with rails in order to overlook the house. With a small pang of aching jealousy, I wonder if that’s where Mason sleeps. Alone…or not.
On the far wall, a very large bay window looks over the lake. There are no curtains, blinds, or coverings of any kind. Just one of the most breathtaking views I ever imagined. The lake water and its waves glisten and dance beneath the moon’s light. The trees sway to the wind. So soothing and serene.
“I love your cabin,” I say aloud.
Mentally, though, I really love his home. Mason’s house is everything he is.
Dark but honest.
Broody but genuine.
Everything here is him. I wouldn’t change a thing.
“Is that why you drove all the way out here in those ridiculous clothes?”
Looking down, I scan the outfit I wore to the event. A simple, black dress with red belt. One of my favorites.
“This is a nice dress. What are you talking about?” I argue.
“And your hair? You changed that too,” he marks.
“I like my hair this color.”
“The fuck you do,” he all by snarls. “Your husband likes that color.”
He’s not wrong and the truth in this pisses me off. Thomas has always liked my hair blonde. The first time I came home with highlights, he’d doted on how much younger he thought they made me look. I’ve been going back for regular appointments to the same beautician ever since.
Seeming to have lost the Mason that stood at my front door, asking for our friendship back, I tempt, “What is the matter with you?”
“Why are you here?” he clips.
On the way over, I stewed, yes. And I felt every bit of why I was so angry. But I don’t understand his change of mood. Maybe his abrasiveness is because I’m here, uninvited, late at night, after admitting just days ago how unsure I am with or without him.
“Good to see you, too,” I smart.
Exasperated, he pushes, “What the fuck are you doin’ here?”
“I came to say thank you for helping with Duke. I know you’re busy, but you didn’t have to—”
“You said that already,” he clips, then utters, “Jesus Christ.”
“I mean, I’m saying thank you for taking care of the girls. They just lost Duke and Thomas wasn’t—” I snap in return.
“Don’t say his name in my house,” Mason demands, his jaw tight and chiseled, his tone deliberate.
“I’m sorry,” I advance, lost for anything to say.
“You have my number. You could’ve sent a text. Yet, you didn’t. Now, tell me. Why are you really here?”
“My God,” I clip. “Are you always this angry?”
“The Katie I knew was a smart girl. Unless that’s all changed too, I’ll leave you to figure it out,” he pushes further, giving me his back and walking into his home.
“Mason?” I call.
He turns with no more anger. His eyes are soft, remaining studiously on mine.
“Baby, I’m here. You’re here. Tell me what’s on your mind,” he gently coaxes.
The open-ended question brings many answers I’m not certain I’ll ever have, so I start with, “Are you safe?” His brows furrow, so I include, “With your job, I mean.”
“Katie…” he trails off without an answer.
Maybe he senses I’m stalling, or perhaps he doesn’t want to share details about his life.
“I worry about everything,” I remind and include, “I always have.”
“I know that,” he admits.
“I worry about you.”
When he says nothing, I look down to his bare feet. Uncomfortably, I think to how I’ve always remembered those too.
“Katie,” he calls.
“I still wonder where you are. I think about what you might be doing. And who you’re doing it with,” I whisper further.
When he doesn’t respond, I look up and stare into his eyes that still haunt me.
Mason studies my countenance, examining carefully before asserting, “I hate that he’s never made you happy.”
“You don’t know I’m unhappy.”
“No?” he questions, taking a small
step toward me. His scent consumes, taking us back to years ago when he was mine. “You don’t fuckin’ look happy.”
“I’m happy enough,” I answer honestly.
I’m happy with my girls. I’m happy with my home. Of course, there are pieces of my marriage that will never, can’t ever, be put back together.
Yet, Mason doesn’t know that, financially, Thomas provides our family a stable life. But emotionally, he knows our marriage is unfilled. He knows because I’ve told him. And even if I didn’t, the times we’ve shared since my marriage began, he’d guess because he was there.
Mason’s hand lifts and his thumb moves over my bottom lip, dropping to my chin. The traitorous touch burns equal to hot acid. But as ever, I revel in the sensation. The piercing pain. The everlasting ache. Feeling something from him, even this, is more than I thought I’d have again.
As if reciting what he’s wanted to say for so long, Mason pledges, “If you were mine, not a day would go by when you didn’t feel loved. You’d know you were the only reason I woke up each morning.”
“Mason,” I call with tears blurring my vision.
“If you were mine, I’d fuck all that sadness from your eyes.”
My stomach turns.
“I’d find any reason I could to have you smile at me the way you used to.”
Flutters of excitement progress through my veins.
“I’d tie you to our bed if I had to. Just so you wouldn’t look so fuckin’ lost bein’ anywhere but with me.”
“Oh, God.”
Mason smirks, deep and unforgiving. “And that’s what you’d be gasping in my ear when I fucked you hard in our bed at night.”
“I can’t do this again.”
“Do what?” he questions with surprise. “All you’re doin’ is standin’ in my home,” he asserts.
“I can’t be your friend.”
Mason’s posture stands rigid. “I’ve lost your friendship because I let you go to him. I cleared the fuckin’ way by leavin’ like I did.”
“I forgave you a long time ago.”
“I don’t know how,” he returns. “I haven’t forgiven myself.”
“You feel guilty for choices I made after you left,” I surmise.
“The first, second, or third time I did that?” he strikes and it takes me back.