by Andrea Joy
Chapter Ten
SOFIA
Present Day
My palms are sweaty and my heart’s racing as I pay the cab driver and step out of the car. This is either going to go really right or horribly wrong. I hope it’s not the latter. With my hands shoved into the pockets of my leather jacket, I hunch over against the late spring wind and trudge up the front walk of Mason’s house.
I don’t know what possessed me to get into a cab and come over after dropping my bags off at Braxton’s house once I landed at Pearson International. I know it cannot end in my favour and that I’d be inviting even more heart ache, but I can’t ignore the fact that I need to tell him the truth any longer. Plus, I’m not going to lie, I’m extremely horny and I don’t want anyone else to help sate the need I feel than Mason. Truth be told, I haven’t slept with anyone else. Oh, I know I can, and I know that there’s no way he’s been abstaining in between our rounds between his sheets, but no one else has appealed to me. God, I sound so stupid, don’t I?
All too soon I’m standing at his front door, and it swings open before I can knock. A version of Mason James I haven’t seen before greets me. His hair is messy, like he’s ran his fingers through it a couple times before falling asleep on the couch. Grey sweatpants sit low on his hips and a tight black wife beater covers his chest and stomach. I wasn’t expecting him to open the door before I knocked and wearing that nonetheless, so I’m left speechless.
Mason grins, opening the door wider. “Are you just going to stand there, or do you want to come in for a beer?”
Snapping myself out of whatever stupor I’m in, I step inside the house and slip my shoes off while he closes the door behind me.
“How’d you know I was here?” I ask, following him further into the house.
The main floor is an open-floor layout. The entry way leads seamlessly into a living room with an L-shaped couch and 70-inch flat screen TV mounted on the wall. To the left is the kitchen. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s nothing to scoff at either. The cupboards are painted a bright white to match the long island in the centre. A stainless-steel gas stove and matching double door fridge offset the starkness of the colour as well as the green succulent sitting in the middle of the island. The plant takes me by surprise. I never would have pegged Mason as the plant type.
Beside the kitchen and directly behind the living room on the far wall is the dining room. A long six-person table sits in the middle. Just like the plant, the house isn’t what I pictured for Mason, but it undeniably suits him. Or maybe it suited Emily. I shake off the thought immediately. Surely he would’ve made changes to the place by now.
“I was heading up to bed and saw the headlights of the cab,” he answers, handing me a bottle of Canadian while reaching down to pet the big black and white dog that appears at his side.
“Oh,” I blanche. It didn’t even occur to me that he might be in bed or heading that way. “Do you want me to…” I point a thumb over my shoulder indicating the door, but Mason shakes his head.
“No, it’s all good. Doubt I’d get much sleep anyway. Want to watch a movie or something?”
His question takes me aback. I expected a fight when I got here. I expected him to tell me to turn around and go home, that we couldn’t do this, that I shouldn’t be here at this hour. What I didn’t expect is for him to actually treat me like… a friend.
“Yeah,” I squeak and then hurriedly clear my throat, embarrassed at the sound. “That sounds good.”
I follow him around the arm of the couch and take a seat at the far end from him, curling a leg under me and wait for him to flick through the options on Netflix until he finds something he likes. But when I look up at the screen, it’s not Netflix that he’s pulled up. It’s Disney+ and he’s stopped on The Mandalorian.
“I take it, you’re a fan?” He asks, grinning at me.
I can’t help the giddy smile that stretches my lips. “I love me some Baby Yoda,” I say, feeling some of the nerves from earlier melt away.
Mason studies me for a minute then reaches over to put his beer bottle on the coffee table in front of the couch before stretching back out against the cushions. “You know you don’t have to stay so far over there. I don’t bite.”
I cock my head to the side, sure that I’ve heard him wrong. Ever since that day at the range, he’s had these walls built so high around him whenever I’m close. He’s never let himself relax like this with me, or hell, even flirted like this with me. It gives me an unnecessary amount of hope.
Rolling my eyes, I mirror his actions and put my beer on the coffee table then scoot a little closer, but apparently still not close enough for him because suddenly his hands are gripping my hips and he’s pulling me back into him until my side is pressing into his and then he lays down, pulling me down with him. I have to wiggle around a bit to get comfortable. When I’m done, my back is pressed up against the cushions of the couch, our legs are intertwined, and my head is laying on his chest. This was definitely not what I had in mind when I came over here, but I’ll take cuddling with Mason on the couch any day.
“What episode are you on?”
His voice rumbles beneath my ear and I can’t say that I hate the sound. I shrug, enjoying the way his fingertips run up and down my arm.
“I forget. Just start from wherever you ended off at,” I say.
I watch him click through all the episodes until he finds the one he ended off on and presses play. When the opening scene starts, I don’t remember any of what’s happening on screen, but I don’t mention it to him. Knowing that he’ll stop it and go back until he finds the last one, I watched. I don’t really care that much. I can always go back and watch whatever I missed later, for right now I’m enjoying this. It’s not every day that I can say I cuddled on the couch with Mason while we watched Disney.
About halfway through the episode, my eyes start to feel heavy and I begin to drift. Images of Mason and I doing just this while our son plays on the floor in front of the couch. Mason’s deep rumble of laughter vibrating beneath my ear when he laughs at something silly our child did.
“Hey, Sleeping beauty.” His large hand smooths down my hair to my back, bringing me out of my dream.
“Hmm?” I keep my head on his chest, not wanting to move and lose this content feeling.
“It’s time for you to go home.”
That does have my head lifting from his chest. I pull myself up just a bit so I can peer down at him and then kiss him. His lips are warm and soft beneath mine. He resists the kiss at first, but when my tongue licks a path between his lips, he opens for me and starts kissing me back. I shift until I’m laying completely on top of him, my knees on either side of his hips. His hands roam a path from my waist to around my back and then down to cup my ass, guiding me back and forth over his thickening length.
“I thought you were tired?” He asks when we come up for air.
“Just got my second wind,” I grin, leaning back down to capture his mouth again. God, I’ll never get tired of kissing him. His kisses are like a drug, and I’m addicted.
“Sof,” he groans as I grind down on his length. The thin material of the sweatpants not doing anything to protect against the friction.
He bucks up. The head of his hard cock hitting my clit through my jeans. I moan and tangle my fingers in his hair, deepening the kiss. Mason slides his hands under the waistband of my jeans and palms my ass over the cotton of my underwear. My jeans were already snug before, but with his hands down them, they’re uncomfortably tight. I reach behind me and grab his wrists, forcing his hands out of my pants and move them so they’re on the arm of the couch above his head. The position makes his hips buck up again and the powerful position does something funny to my insides. I always thought of myself as more of the submissive type, but now… well, maybe it’s possible that I like a bit of dominating too.
I lean up slightly and press my palms to his stomach, pushing up his shirt as I glide my hands up his muscular torso. Maso
n gathers my hair in his fist and pushes my head down until my mouth is hovering precariously close to the large bulge behind the drawstring of his sweats. I grin at his not so subtle hint.
Curling my fingers in the waistband of his sweats, I pull them down just enough for his hard cock to bob free, Mason lifts his hips letting the material slide over his round ass to sit around his thighs. I lick my lips, watching a bead of pre-cum pearl at the tip. My tongue slips out to lick it up and I moan at the taste. I always thought it was stupid when women in romance novels or movies begged for a man’s cum and then lapped it up like it was their last meal. I couldn’t imagine cum possibly tasting that good. But with Mason… with Mason it’s not necessarily about the taste but it’s the sound that he makes, it’s the look that overcomes his face, it’s the fact that I did that to him. That it was my mouth and my hands that brought him to ecstasy.
I take his cock between my lips and curl my tongue around his shaft. His grip in my hair tightens, holding me in place as he fucks up into my mouth, and I let him. Relaxing my throat, I let him set the pace. I gag a couple times when he hits the back of my throat, but when he starts to pull away, I shake my head and take him deeper. A guttural groan escapes his throat making a thrill of pride course through my body.
“Argh! I’m so fucking close. Turn around and give me that sweet cunt,” he commands, pulling me up by my hair. Before I can stand up to get rid of my pants, Mason pulls me up to his face and crushes his lips to mine.
I whimper into his mouth, settling my weight on top of him and ride him through the material of my pants. We kiss for a bit until it becomes almost painful. Breaking apart, chests heaving, I climb off him and stand to shuck my pants and underwear. Mason shifts down the couch a bit to make more room for my knees, his fist lazily stroking up and down his length.
“Come here.”
I strip off my tank top first and then straddle him. My knees on either side of his face. I swat his hand away from his cock and replace it with my own, squeezing the base to stave off his orgasm. Mason’s hands roam over the globes of my ass when I bend over further to wrap my lips around his cock. When he slaps a cheek, I moan around his length making him buck. He pulls my cheeks a part and then his mouth is right there. Not on my clit but my ass. His tongue licks around the hole and I clench, trying to wiggle away but his arms band across my lower back, holding me in place as he does it again and again. When I’ve relaxed enough and resume my ministrations on his cock, his tongue pushes inside. It’s weird but also oddly erotic.
“Holy fuck,” I groan, my eyes flutter shut as the new sensations rock through my body. And when he adds a couple fingers to the mix, I’m gone, bucking wildly against his mouth and hand. Mason finger fucks me through my orgasm.
“That was…” I have no idea how to finish my sentence because my brain is mush. “I think you literally fucked my brains out.” I giggle, resting my head on my hand on his chest.
Mason chuckles, fingers running up and down through the long strands of my hair. After he made me come on the couch, he threw me over his shoulder and raced up the stairs to his bedroom. His main goal seemingly to see how many times he could make me come before I passed out.
Four.
The number was four. I vaguely remember hearing him come all over my belly and then feeling the bed dip and something warm moving over my body before his arm encircled me and pulled me into his side. We woke up a couple hours later to do it all over again.
“Do you have to go into the office today?”
Mason hums, the sound sending shivers down my spine. “No, but I’ll need to work from home.”
“Maybe we can go grab lunch or something. You know, like a real date?”
Mason turns to stone beneath me and I instantly regret the words as soon as they leave my lips. He pushes up, forcing me to sit up and let him go. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, forcefully pulling up the pants that were discarded on the floor last night. When he finally stands and faces me, the content and relaxed look that was on his face minutes ago is replaced with one of guilt and regret. His sweatpants sit low on his hips.
He looks fucking edible, and I suddenly feel very vulnerable. Laying naked and alone in his bed while he stares at me like he’s about to say something that I really don’t want to hear. Gathering the sheet around my chest, I slip out of the bed. Leaving my discarded underwear on the ground, I go in search of my jeans and yank them up one leg at a time. My tank top's next and then swiping my thong from the floor, tucking it into the front pockets of my pants. I’ve refused to look at him while getting dressed but there’s nothing left to distract myself with anymore, so I finally turn to him.
“Sof.” His voice is quiet, apologetic.
I squeeze my eyes shut against the flood of emotions threatening to overflow and yank my tank top over my head deciding to forgo the bra. The quicker I can get out of here the better.
I’m such an idiot. I knew nothing would change his mind about us.
You still haven’t told him the truth.
I shake the last thought away and take another look around the room to try and locate my bra.
“You knew this couldn’t go any further than this.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, gathering my bra from where it landed on a lampshade. “I, uh, just realized I already made plans with Jessika,” I lie.
“Sofia,” Mason says, moving toward me. I bolt downstairs, not giving him a chance to continue.
“Don’t.”
“Sofia…”
“Don’t you dare, Mason.” I hastily step into my shoes. He’s right. You did know. Shaking my head of the thought, I cross my arms over my chest as a makeshift shield and force myself to meet his stare.
“I can’t do this, Mason. One minute we’re tearing each other’s clothes off and the next you’re pushing me away because you feel guilty. You have to make up your mind.” I pause, dropping my gaze to his clenched fists at his side. “You know how I feel about you, Mason. You must. And maybe I’m an idiot, but some days… some days I swear I think you feel something for me too. But my heart can’t take this push and pull thing we seem to be stuck in anymore.”
I’m bleeding out on his entryway floor, laying my heart at his feet and praying he doesn’t stomp on it, but bracing for the hit too. “It’s been eight years. At some point you need to move on.” My words are harsh, but no less true.
When he takes a step toward me and then another and another, I stop breathing. His hand comes up to cradle the side of my face and I lean into his touch. My eye lids lower at the rare show of affection and I greedily drink it in like I’m stranded in the desert and he’s offering water. His other hand curls around my neck. I grip his wrists. My heart is ready to start doing summersaults, but I do my best to prevent it from getting too excited until I hear him say the words. He pulls my face forward to press a kiss to my forehead and then all too soon his touch and his warmth are gone. I open my eyes to see him retreat back to the other side of the room and instead of summersaults, my heart sinks because I know that look on his face and in his eyes.
Gathering my jacket from the floor, I tug it on and zip it up. I can feel the heat of the summer sun streaming in through the narrow windows on the walls on either side of the front door, but the jacket is more like a safe keeping my emotions at bay and allowing me to get through this with as little pain as possible.
Without thinking, I take a step toward him, my hand outstretched to touch his face one more time, but I stop myself and pull back at the last minute, turning for the door instead. I can see that he wants to say something, it’s in the longing look he’s giving me, but he doesn’t let himself.
“You deserve to be happy, Mason. She would’ve wanted you to be happy,” I say, and then pull open the door and leave. Leaving my heart behind not for the first time.
Chapter Eleven
MASON
The sun is barely peaking up from the horizon when I step out of my car and lean my back
against the driver’s side door, just staring out over the garden across the street. My hands stuffed into the pockets of my leather jacket. It might be late spring, but the early morning is still blistering cold.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been here since the funeral, but it feels like it all the same. There’s a weight around my heart. An ache that I can’t seem to rub out no matter how many times or how hard I rub at my chest. After a few more deep breaths, I get the bouquet from the backseat and trudge passed other headstones before I reach the one that has a starring role in my dreams.
“Hi, baby,” I say, placing the delicately wrapped carnations on top of the stone and then squatting down so I’m eye level with the inscription. I reach out and run my fingers along the words. Emily James. Loving wife. 1979-2012. “They played your favourite episode of Friends on the comedy network last night. The one where Ross is moving the couch up the stairs.” My lips quirk up on the corners, memories of Em giggling every time he said pivot rushing to the forefront. The show wouldn’t have been my first pick for a binge night, but Em loved it, so I never complained when she cuddled up with me in our bed, surrounded by our favourite snacks and drinks. I would’ve done anything to hear her laugh the way she did when we’d watch the show together, even if I never understood why she’d continue if it made her cry and angry too.
Twisting around, I sit down on the grass with my back resting against the smooth stone, letting my head fall back so I can watch the sun continue to rise.
“I wish you were here, Em. I need you to tell me what to do because I’m so lost, baby.”
Is it weird to talk to your dead wife about your attraction to another woman? Probably, but nobody ever said anything about this was normal.