Page 19 of Savoring Addison

Addison didn’t know whether to laugh or frown. It was actually a solid joke,but he wore the attempt at humor like an ill-fitting suit. She didn’t like the idea of him trying to mold himself into something he wasn’t. Particularly not if he did it for her benefit.

The idea of him watching her at the party though...that didn’t bother her at all.

“For the record,” she said, moving around to his side of the car, running her hands up his crisp, white shirt from his stomach to his chest. “If Camden asked me to come to his house, I would’ve said no.” Sure, the guy was hot as fuck, but it was Mason’s intensity that drew her to him.

The uncertainty seemed to melt away from his deep blue eyes. He brushed a hand along her temple and up into her hair. With a few quick tugs, he pulled her hair tie out, letting her long, messy locks tumble across her shoulders.

“Oh God.” A hint of a blush heated her cheeks as she laughed. “I’m such a mess. You didn’t give me enough time to shower after my shift.”

Unperturbed, he ran his hand through her hair, his fingertips grazing her scalp and making goosebumps rise on her arms. “It doesn’t matter; you’re always beautiful.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Even with cream cheese frosting on your forehead.”

Her hands flew to her face, rubbing at her skin to banish the offending frosting. Lord, how embarrassing. “Clearly, I need to buy a mirror for my room.”

Taking her by the wrists, Mason forced her hands down and behind her back. “How about this,” he said, leaning in to give her a slow, soft kiss that left her breathless. “Why don’t you take a shower and do whatever you need to feel comfortable. Then we’ll get started.”

“Perfect,” Addison breathed out, going up on her toes for another kiss. She groaned when he released her and backed away.

“Shower first,” he scolded, but there was no anger in his eyes. Only pure lust. “Then I promise, I’ll give you everything you need.”

A lot of time had passed since her last relationship with a real Dom. For the last seven years, the closest she got were the men at Luciana’s, who she essentially paid to do whatever she told them to do to her. None of it was real, and sex was strictly off the table. Hell, no one even got naked. Those scenes were only about the release submission and pain gave her.

She’d have to get used to following a whole different set of rules again.

“Ugh, fine,” she said, going to the trunk to get her overnight bag. Mason popped it open for her and grabbed his duffel bag—the black kind with two handles and a zipper, like FBI agents used to carry around stacks of ransom money, or an arsenal.

Retrieving her partially completed application from the back seat, Mason led her up the gray stone steps to the front door. He unlocked it and strode into the house without a word or a backward glance. Only a few inches over five feet, she had to take two steps for every one of his. The man was easily six-three or six-four, positively drool-worthy in those dark suits perfectly tailored to his long, lean frame. And that ass...

Addison was so focused on the spectacular view that she almost plowed right into him when he came to an abrupt stop. “Sorry,” she said, wincing when her bag swung into his leg.

Eyebrows slightly raised, Mason looked down at her with a small frown, but he didn’t comment. “The guest bathroom is in here,” he said, gesturing toward a closed door. “Feel free to use whatever you need.” Not waiting for a response, he stalked off deeper into the house, already flipping through her application.

A shiver of excitement rushed through her as she watched him go. Everything she’d experienced with this man in the last week pointed to exactly one thing: Mason St. John had more intensity in a single, arched eyebrow than everyone else she’d ever scened with added together. She had no idea what he had in store for her, but good God almighty, she couldn’t wait to find out.

She hurried into the bathroom, checking the vanity and a small closet for toiletries. A treasure trove of high-end products and styling tools waited for her, making her wonder how many women he brought up here.

Except Gabriel made a comment the other day that the Doms couldn’t take their clients off property.

So who did all this stuff belong to?

Her stomach twisted as she used the hair and skincare products—each and every one clearly belonging to a woman. The unease only grew after her shower, when she dug through the vanity drawer holding a hair dryer, curling iron, and straightener, all in matching black and pink. Using another woman’s products made her feel dirtier than before the shower.

She’d planned to leave the bathroom in nothing but her sexiest lingerie, but guilt had her so nauseated by the time she dried and curled her hair, she couldn’t follow through. Pulling on leggings and an oversized white sweater, she padded out of the bathroom on bare feet.

Mason was nowhere to be seen, so she took the opportunity to look around properly for the first time. Aside from the bathroom and one other room hidden behind a closed door—the guest room, presumably—most of the first floor was a huge open space. A living room filled with contemporary Scandinavian furniture, all in light wood and even lighter fabrics. To one side, a long, utilitarian dining room table, its eight matching chairs so perfectly arranged she suspected he placed them around the table using a ruler.

Then, best of all, the kitchen, its marble-topped island so enormous it was a baker’s dream. There wasn’t a kitchen like that to be found in Manhattan—at least not outside the penthouses and brownstones she’d never be able to afford.

“Focus,” Addison muttered, tearing her gaze away from the island and heading for the stairs. She wasn’t here to bake. And frankly, unless Mason told her what she needed to hear, she’d never see that kitchen or this house again.

The stairs were a ridiculous modern design that seemed to float in midair. They looked cool as hell, she had to admit, but they made her feel like she was one minor misstep away from breaking her neck. She made her way up slowly, white knuckling the slender metal railing the whole time.

The second floor was much more segmented than the first with a wide hallway running the length of the house, nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows to one side, four closed doors along the other. At the end of the hall, a few steps led to another glass wall, this one with a wide-open glass door. Addison headed that way, examining the artwork hanging on the wall between the doors as she went.

Mason’s eclectic taste in art intrigued her. The first painting—an abstract piece that may or may not have represented a snowy field and a blue sky—fit with the modern, minimalist theme of the house. But the second framed piece was a large painting of flowers in a riot of colors, the paints thick and textured, clearly applied with a palette knife instead of a brush. She could stare at the chaotic swirls and gashes of color for hours and still find something new to fascinate her.

The third painting? Either a real Renoir or a startlingly accurate reproduction. A framed poster of a very similar piece hung over the fireplace at her granny’s from the day Addison arrived in Manhattan until two weeks after she died. She couldn’t afford the rent on the Upper East Side three-bedroom and had to sell what she could and donate the rest before moving in with Kate.

Addison stared at the painting for almost a minute, rubbing at the ache in her chest. Her granny had loved art more than anything and dragged a young Addison along to every art museum in the boroughs. Now that she was older, she wished she appreciated all those trips instead of resenting them, longing for an afternoon zoning out in front of the TV instead.

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