by Margot Scott
His fingers flexed. For a second, I thought he might reach for me. He stood, and the way he positioned his sketchbook over his lap did not escape my notice.
“That’s enough for today,” he said.
With long, swift strides, he crossed the room and ascended the stairs to the loft, leaving me alone in the studio.
Chapter Nine
The air turned brittle in the sudden quiet, save for my heart beating like a drum in my chest. I donned the robe he’d tried to give me earlier, securing the terrycloth sash around my waist, then padded to the sink for a glass of water.
I had wanted Mason to draw me like he used to. I should’ve known that it wouldn’t be that simple.
Time had changed us. I wasn’t his little girl anymore, and the things he wanted from his models were things I had no business giving him. It was natural for him to get aroused with the others. I wondered if he slept with them, too. The thought made me sick, not from disgust, but from jealousy.
I had never felt so emotionally naked with a boy before, let alone a man—and that's what Mason was, a man. Jagged and smooth, hard and soft, so many amazing things at once. Once upon a time, I was his daughter, and now I was a woman, with breasts and hips and the ability to give and receive pleasure.
He’d touched my pussy. No hand but mine had ever touched me there.
It happened so quickly I hadn’t had time to process. But thinking about it now made me want to rub my thighs together.
I liked it. More than that, I wanted it to happen again.
Something was seriously wrong with me.
I refilled the glass, running the tap too hard and splashing water everywhere. I forced myself to drink, to drown, to suppress these chilling urges.
This man had abandoned me, but until a few weeks ago, he was still my father. Had six years apart turned us into strangers who could mistake one another for love interests? My mind cried out for an explanation for which my body had no answer. None that made sense, anyway.
My lungs begged for air. I coughed, water spluttering from my mouth into the sink. I moved to set the glass on the countertop and misjudged the edge. The glass fell to the hardwood floor and shattered.
“Fuck.” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and stooped to gather the pieces.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
“What happened?” Mason asked, coming to stand behind me.
“I dropped a glass.” My voice cracked from coughing. I couldn’t look at him. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He ripped a handful of paper towels from the roll under the cupboard and knelt to help me collect the pieces. “Careful. Don’t use your bare hands.”
“I’m fine.” I sidestepped to toss the pieces into the trash. Pain shot through the base of my right foot.
I shouted.
“Did you cut yourself?” Mason asked.
“My heel.” I stood on one foot, afraid to put pressure on the wound.
He grabbed another bunch of paper towels, scooped me into his arms, and carried me to the futon like I weighed nothing.
“Hold these under your heel,” he said, handing me the paper towels.
I saw the inch-long chunk of glass sticking out of my foot and winced. Mason returned to the sink, crunching glass beneath his thick-soled boots, and pulled a first aid kit from the cupboard. He dragged the chair he’d been sketching from over to the futon and rested my foot in his lap.
“You might want to bite down on something.” He withdrew a pair of tweezers from the kit.
I closed my eyes and leaned back onto my elbows. A jolt of pain pierced my calf as he worked to free the chunk of glass from my flesh. I swore, then clenched my teeth against the throbbing in my foot.
“It doesn’t look deep,” he said. Something cold and wet that stung like the fire of a thousand suns slid over my heel. “Try to hold still.”
“Sorry. It hurts so bad.” I opened my eyes and a flood of longing filled my chest like oxygen. Memories of my father soothing my bumps and bruises, bandaging paper cuts.
He curved a hand over my ankle as he cleaned the wound; I tried not to think about where those fingers had been. He dabbed a glob of antiseptic, cool and tacky, onto the cut, then layered the area with gauze and secured the dressing with medical tape.
“You should stay off your foot for the next day or two,” he said. “I’ll help you into the apartment.”
He held out his hand. I inhaled a ragged breath and accepted his help.
“Thanks,” I said, wrapping my arm around his shoulders as he lifted me. “Good thing you weren’t planning on having me stand for the painting.”
Mason stayed quiet as we made our way to the door. “I’ve changed my mind about that, Jett. I don’t think it’s a good idea to have you model for me.”
“Oh,” I said, the word why sticking like a lump in my throat.
I should’ve been grateful. I should’ve been relieved. But all I felt was disappointment, like he was abandoning me all over again.
“Is it...” I couldn’t make myself say the words, is it because I made you hard? “Did I do something wrong?”
“No. You were perfect.” He let us into the apartment. “I shouldn’t have asked you to do that.”
“But I offered.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He lowered me onto the couch cushion. “Anyway, it’s better for you if you’re not involved in my work.”
“Better for me how?”
“Too much controversy.”
“Since when are you shy about controversy?”
Mason pushed the ottoman closer so I could rest my foot on it. “I’m not. But it wouldn’t fall solely on me. It would mark your career before it even started. Better they see you as an artist first, and as my daughter second. Not as my subject."
“Who’s they?”
“Critics, dealers, other artists.”
“But I don’t care how they see me.” I couldn’t believe I was fighting him on this, considering how badly the session had rattled me. But when the alternative was moving out of Mason’s light and back to the darkness... I couldn’t let that happen.
I couldn’t have cared less whether the piece went viral, or never amounted to anything more than kindling. I could not handle losing him again.
“Dad, I’m doing this for you, not for them.”
“I thought you were doing it for you.”
“I am. I’m doing it for both of us.”
“You’re not hearing me, Jett.” Mason rubbed his eyes. “I’m not going to paint you.”
“Because you’re worried about my career prospects?”
“Because you’re mine.” The edge in his voice told me not to push, but there was something in the way he said the word mine that hooked its claws in me. A twinge of anguish, the threat of darkness buried, something protective about his straight-backed stance.
No, not just protective.
Possessive.
Maybe there was a reason Mason had turned his mouth toward mine yesterday, the same reason he’d chosen not to confront me about spying on him. What if, when he spread my legs and touched my pussy and got hard watching me masturbate, it wasn’t just a biological response?
I had spent the last twenty-four hours wondering if I was going crazy, when perhaps the truth lay somewhere on the ground between us.
Like the apple that never falls far from the tree.
“The kiss,” I said, gazing up at him. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?”
Mason eyed me like he would a predator, like I was something dangerous. Maybe I was. He shook his head no.
“Then this is real, what I’m feeling? It’s not just in my head?”
“Only you know what you’re feeling,” he said. “But no, it’s not all in your head.”
I brought my fingers to my lips. Now that the pain in my foot had subsided, all I could think about was the fact that the man I’d called Daddy had wanted to kiss me. Not on the cheek or the forehead. On the
mouth. Like a lover.
This attraction, this completely inappropriate desire I was battling, wasn’t one-sided. Mason wanted this as much as I did. Wanted it so badly he hadn’t been able to stop himself from kissing me, touching me, watching me.
A current of arousal quivered up my spine, making my skin tingle and my inner muscles clench. I was turned on again—and confused and conflicted. But still...
“I’m sorry, Jett,” he said. “I didn’t know it would be like this. I never thought I wouldn’t be able to control myself, especially around you. But you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to touch you again… or ask you to sit for me. I’ll keep my distance, let you have the run of the house and the studio. I’ll even leave the apartment, if it’d make you more comfortable.”
I didn’t want him to leave. I didn’t want to stop sitting for him either, and I sure as hell didn’t want him to keep his distance. I wanted him to pull me close, run his fingers through my hair, and then kiss me for real. A kiss with the power to turn back the clock and make me forget he’d ever left me.
“What if I don’t want any of that?” I asked.
His expression shuttered. “Then I’ll drive you to the airport and get you a first-class ticket home.”
“That’s not what I want either.”
He held out his hands. “Tell me what to do here, Jett, and I’ll do it.”
My thoughts raced like frenzied kittens around in my head. For the life of me, I couldn’t drum up the words to tell him what I needed, all the things I wanted him to do to me.
Shameful things. Unspeakable things. Nasty, dirty, forbidden things.
Fortunately, some languages are universal.
I untied the sash around my waist and opened the robe, letting it slide off my shoulders. Mason’s gaze dipped to my breasts, the look on his face equal parts apprehension and arousal.
His lips parted. “Jetty?”
Hands trembling, I reached for him, my fingers closing around the fabric of his shirt. I drew him toward me, down onto the couch.
Before I had a chance to overthink anything, I swung my leg across his lap and straddled him.
“Kiss me again,” I whispered.
I tipped my face and wetted my mouth...and waited.
Chapter Ten
Mason stared at me, unblinking, then cradled my face in his big, warm hands. He pressed his lips to mine. This wasn’t a chaste kiss, like the one he’d initiated in my bedroom. This was slow and deliberate sensory overload.
I melted, letting the robe fall from my arms to pool around my hips.
Tension wound tighter and tighter between my legs. I touched his chest; his heart was rioting like a caged animal. I shivered and he must’ve felt it because within seconds his hands were on me, dispersing their warmth across my goose-prickled skin. Like his kiss, his touch was measured yet adamant, as though he feared he’d hurt me if he pressed too hard.
“I can’t believe you’re really here.” He held my waist, then slid his palms to the small of my back.
I whimpered against his mouth. “Believe it.”
He pulled me close, trailing kisses along my jaw. His stubble tickled my cheek and I laughed. I pushed my breasts against him, and the rumble in his chest rattled my body like a small seismic shift. He drew back to look at me.
“I want you, Jett. I know it’s fucked up but no matter how hard I try, I can’t get the thought of you touching yourself out of my head. But you have to tell me what you want.”
I closed my eyes as he stroked my arms, his touch feather-light. In that moment there was no question in my mind—or in my body.
“I want this,” I said. “I want you.”
He kissed me, sliding his hands beneath the robe to grip my backside. I rocked against him, gasping when I felt the bulge of his erection against my inner thigh. The man who’d helped raise me was hard and there was no mistaking the cause. It was me.
“My God, how are you so beautiful?” he whispered between kisses. “And soft. You’re so fucking soft.”
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d smiled like this, my top and bottom teeth bared, eyelids pinched, blurred vision.
Mason’s tongue skimmed my bottom lip, a clear signal that he wanted to taste me. I offered my mouth and he delved inside, drawing a moan from deep in my throat. His tongue was warm and tasted of spearmint and black tea. I followed his lead, mimicking each nip and lick. This wasn’t my first French kiss, but I was dreadfully out of practice.
He tugged his shirt off in one fluid motion and pulled me flush against him, flooding my chest and belly with heat, as his cock continued to demand attention—despite the confines of his pants. I wanted to see it, to hold it in my hands, but I couldn’t make myself reach for it. What if I stroked too hard or not hard enough? There’d be no hiding my inexperience.
I groaned softly as he palmed my breasts, his thumbs raking over my nipples. Greedily, he took a puckered tip into his warm, wet mouth.
“Your nipples are luscious,” he said. “I can’t wait to taste every inch of you.”
I moaned and clenched my inner muscles at the thought of him putting his mouth on other places, especially my clit. He pushed my breasts together, gliding his tongue back and forth over my nipples.
My fingers twitched, restless. I weaved them into his hair. Mason was making me feel amazing, but what the hell was I doing for him? His cock was there, begging to be touched, and I was too damn scared to do anything about it.
His gaze caught mine. “You okay?”
I nodded. “I’m fine.”
“Just fine?”
I kissed him so he couldn’t look at me.
“More than fine,” I whispered.
Goddamn, those hands. They were everywhere—gliding up my back, down my chest, over my breasts and belly, between my legs. His fingers grazed my folds and I shivered, whimpering around our tongues, unable to keep my hips from rocking. He pressed the heel of his hand against me, putting pressure on my clit. His palm fit my mound like they’d been made for each other, like he’d sculpted me from clay to be his perfect match. I gave myself over to it, to him. I was his, and my heart swelled with gratitude for the fact that he seemed to want me every bit as much.
Mason dipped two fingers between my folds and spread my own moisture over my clit, drawing circles that made my calves and other, more intimate areas, spasm. My nails etched into his shoulders, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care. His erection continued to prod my thigh, a reminder of all the things I should’ve been doing to him.
“I want...” I whined softly. “I can’t...”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
Hearing him call me sweetheart made my eyes burn with unshed tears. “I want to touch you.”
“You are touching me.”
“But...” I leaned my head on his shoulder, my thoughts coming at me in illicit pictures rather than words. “I want...more.”
He smoothed my hair as a tender smile touched his lips.
“Where do you want to touch me, Jetty?”
I wanted to touch him where he’d touched me and everywhere else, to memorize the constellation of freckles on his chest and back. I wanted to know him better than he knew himself, to taste his elbows and the backs of his knees.
He placed my hands on either side of his face.
“Start here.”
His fingers returned to my clit. Meanwhile, I made it my mission to learn more about this man I used to know so well.
I skimmed his cheekbones and brows, traced the edge of his jaw. I licked the pulse points below his ears, and kissed his collar bones, the hollow of his throat, his tight, tan nipples. I mapped him, this artist who had helped craft me, raking my fingernails down his chest and outlining the veins along his arm with my tongue.
Everything I wanted to do to him, I did.
Finally, I reached his belt buckle. With feigned confidence, I freed the leather strap from its metal enclosure and unfastened his jeans.
He sucked in a breath as I pulled at the front of his boxers, granting me access to all of him. I encircled his cock with all five of my fingers, my hand warmed by the blood-hot burn of his skin.
Mason watched intently, his eyes crescent moons, as I slid my fist along his length the way I’d watched him do it. Touching a cock, holding it firmly, was new to me. I couldn’t believe how hard and soft it was. Such silkiness, on top of all that pressure.
After a few test strokes, Mason sighed and angled his pelvis toward me. I wrapped both hands around him, one above the other, and stroked down. He inhaled sharply.
“Was that good or bad?” I asked.
He chuckled breathlessly. “That was very good, sweetheart.”
A smile consumed my face. He cupped my pussy with his whole hand—a simple gesture that made me feel cared for, comforted. He showed me how to round the head of his cock with every pass, how tight to squeeze the shaft without hurting him. I studied his reactions and adjusted my technique accordingly, captivated by how good I could make him feel using just my hands.
A cry bubbled up from my chest as he pushed two fingers inside me. I winced. The pain was brief, but sharp and unexpected.
“Did I hurt you?”
“A little,” I said.
He stilled his hand and looked at me—really looked at me. “Jett, have you done anything like this before?”
Was my lack of experience that obvious? I shook my head, letting my hair fall over my face.
How was it possible to feel both eight and eighteen in the exact same moment?
Mason sighed and pressed his forehead to mine. “I wish you’d told me. I would’ve gone slower.”
But I didn’t want to slow down. Slowing down meant thinking, and thinking meant overthinking. Second-guessing. “Does this mean we have to stop?”
He planted a kiss between my eyebrows. I bristled at the tenderness in his touch, afraid he’d gone back to seeing me as just his little girl.
“I doubt we could stop ourselves even if we wanted to,” he said with a teasing smile. “What do you think?”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “I don’t want to stop. I want to make you come.”