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“Can we talk?”
It’s a stupid question, I know. What is there to say? We laid it all out earlier. Well . . . he did, at least. I know I’m setting myself up for rejection when his jaw clenches, eyes flaring darkly.
“I don’t want to talk.”
Oh . . .
His eyes coast the length of my body, over the pajama shorts on my legs to the thin tank top. Heat sears my skin and a shiver rolls through me.
“Bed.”
Oh . . .
He must realize I understand because that’s all he says before he turns around and disappears into his room.
Carefully, I extract myself from the blanket and stand on shaky legs. This is either a really bad idea or exactly what we need, judging by the pressure building between my thighs.
Slowly, I follow him to his room, like I’m coming to meet the executioner and not the man watching me like I’m the only woman in the world.
Like I’m his.
I shut the door softly behind me, locking it with a deafening click, and then watch as he tugs his shirt over his head. Thick bands of muscles ripple under the movement of his tattoos and that ache inside me turns to a full-on throb. Quietly, he leans back against the dresser, his eyes boring into my freaking soul.
I spent the rest of the day wondering how we would navigate this. Going over the terrible things I’d said in my head because I was angry and hurt.
Shame feels heavy when it’s staring you in the face.
Especially when it’s got hurricane eyes and a jawline that could slice through your jugular.
Mason’s silence is palpable. His gaze dark and hot. Everything in my body stirs until a shiver ghosts up my spine. Slowly, I make my way toward him, like a lamb approaching a seriously pissed-off lion.
His hand raises and for a second, I flinch. I guess old habits die hard. But instead of pain, his rough palm caresses my cheek.
My heart melts into a puddle at his feet.
Tears burn in the backs of my eyes and instinctively, I step into him. It’s more intimate than we’ve ever been. Mason doesn’t hold me, but with a quiet growl, he tugs me closer until my face is pressed into his chest.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe, sucking in a shaky breath and he makes a rough sound of satisfaction, his fingers sliding from my cheek and back into my hair.
He lets out a breath of amusement and disbelief. “And finally, the sweet side comes out.”
He’s so warm, his body folding into mine perfectly. Like we’re two puzzle pieces meant to fit. I can’t help but sink into him, wrap my arms around him and steal his warmth. Maybe hide it away for a time when he’s not here. When I’m alone with nothing but the memories.
“Thank you,” I whisper, because I feel like it needs to be said. “For the flowers. And for helping me. And for every—”
“Stop.”
The words hang on my tongue, but I can’t figure out what to say. Thank you for protecting me. For saving me. For everything. But he doesn’t want to talk and I’m in no state to profess my feelings.
So, I carefully extract myself from him, even when his hand tightens in my hair painfully to tug my head back.
“Hannah.”
I shake my head, pulling on the strands as I attempt to drop to my knees.
“I don’t want to talk either.”
His gaze goes from hard to hungry andhotin the blink of an eye. He keeps his grip on my hair for a moment as if he’s reading my thoughts and trying to decide if this is a trap.
