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I pull back to stare at myself in the full-length mirror in nothing but my black lacy bra and a leather skirt that hugs every. Single. Curve.
I feel . . . sexy? Alluring? Maybe there’s something to be said about putting on the leather skirt, but I don’t think my ass has ever looked this good. I slip on the black lacy corset top, but . . . like everything else in the pile, I need help to get it on.
Somehow, I feel like that was intentional.
Like I’m greeting a wild bear, I crack the door to my room.
“Mason, can you help me?”
There’s a pause and then I hear the shuffling of his heavy boots on the hardwood floor.
God, help me.
He looks like sex incarnate tonight. Black button-up that showcases the tattoos on his forearms. Dark jeans. Dark eyes.
Right now, those eyes are aimed at the black corset top.
“I can’t get the back hooked,” I mumble, cheeks hotter than the sidewalk outside.
He doesn’t reply save for a flash of something across his eyes, so I turn around. It’s better than facing him.
Carefully, he steps forward, and I hold my breath while he hooks the small clasps together at my spine. His hands brush my bare skin and a shiver ghosts through me.
Goddamn body.
He makes a small sound and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he waschuckling. Asshole.
He lingers longer than he should and both of us hold completely still, save for the buttoning of my top. Finally, when it’s done, he steps back as if I’d burned him.
The top is tight. I know it’s supposed to be, but I’m dangerously close to having the knock-off version of a Janet Jackson nip slip.
“Thank you,” I breathe, my skin buzzing with electricity where he’d touched me.
He looks around the room and suddenly, I’m hyper-aware that Mason Carpenter is not only in my Malibu Barbie DreamHouse but also in my bedroom. Like, where I sleep. With a bed. Where people have sex and do other naughty things.
Having him in this space feels too . . . intimate for Mason and me.
He’s always been the unobtainable. The man I couldn’t have and the one I could never get out of my head. I’m falling deeper and deeper into a hole I don’t think I’ll be able to climb out of.
Mason Carpenter is quicksand, sucking me in. My drowning is inevitable.
I shake my head, forcing myself to slip on the blackGianvito Rossiboots that are higher than anything I’ve ever worn before. I bought them a year ago when I was feeling particularly rebellious before one of Mom’s never-ending events that I was expected to attend.
I never got the chance to wear them because I chickened out before I left. Now, I imagine if my mother could see me, she would either disown me or lock me in the closet for a week.
I look like sex in a Sunday hat, but . . . when in Rome.
I turn around and find Mason leaning against the door frame. His gaze travels over me, down to the heeled boots on my feet, over the skin-tight leather, to the top, and finally, my eyes. His gaze burns a path in its wake and his jaw ticks, as if he’s making note of something.
I don’t know if I like the sound of that.
“Don’t look at my ass,” I grumble quietly when he helps me climb in the truck.
“Too late,” he murmurs, and just when my mouth falls open, he shuts the door on me.
“Your feet are going to be killing you by the time this is over,” he grumbles when he climbs in the driver’s seat. I swear, now that we’re forced to be in the small cab together, all my senses are on high alert. His scent, the way his button-up hugs his shoulders. The way those jeans look on his butt—I know, I know . . . hypocritical of me.
Heat washes through me and I find that even though I’m wearing less clothing than I have in a long, long time, I’m incredibly warm.
