Page 12 of A Little More Hope

He hadn’t been alarmed, and he didn’t look scared or wary at hearing someone walking in the dark. In fact, he appeared extremely relaxed, and I warmed all over to think he already recognized me, and his lack of a reaction had nothing to do with the fact I’m the only person who lived next door.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” I apologized.

He waved the hand not holding the wine glass, beckoning me over. “Heard your footsteps on the gravel, so figured it was you.”

How did he know it was me and not anyone else?

“You have a particular gait,” he continued as if I’d asked the question out loud. “Slow and easy.”

“Oh,” I said, flattered he’d bothered to remember something so ordinary.

He was on the closest lounger to me, but as I went to head over to the other, he shuffled over on his. “Come sit here.” He patted the thin strip of lounger. “It’ll be easier to talk.”

I didn’t need to be told twice.

Parking my ass on the edge, I faced him, the air stilling in my lungs at how utterly handsome he was. He hadn’t shaved, and my fingers itched to brush along his jaw, to feel the prickliness of his stubble against my smooth skin.

“You can’t be comfortable sitting like that,” he criticized. His hand moved to rest on my leg, warm and heavy, his fingers wrapping over my right thigh, pulling me in closer.

I let out a small involuntary moan. His hand was so close to my crotch, the heat from his palm burned all the way through my jeans and briefs to my aching balls.

His gaze shot to mine. “Sorry, I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No,” I croaked, “I’m good.” His hand remained nestled nice and snug, his touch branding me. I was content to leave it there, making no attempt to move. Thank God I sat half hunched over on the edge of the seat as my cock was as hard as steel, and I had no other way of hiding my erection.

With my ass pressed right up against his thigh, I so badly wanted to lower the rest of my body down and snuggle closer into his side; restraining myself physically hurt.

Mason let out a low hum of contentment, as he brought his glass to his lips and took a large drink of wine. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his lips wet from licking them after.

“You went out?” he asked.

“For dinner with some friends,” I replied. “What about you? Do anything exciting, today?”

The corners of his mouth curved, making my pulse skip and my stomach flutter. “Oh yeah, lazed around, made dinner, watched the sun set. It’s been a tough day.”

“Sure,” I snickered. “Sounds exhausting.”

He briefly raised his head to look at me, his eyes glazed. “It really was,” he lazily replied, before settling back against the recliner. We sat in comfortable silence for a while, my gaze on his face before moving away to take in everything laying around him. A few real estate and fitness magazines, his laptop, and phone. Definitely a relaxing day. I scanned the small table on the other side to see if any of the items there might give me further insight into this intriguing man, stopping when I caught sight of the empty wine bottle.

“Wow. How much of this have you had tonight?” I asked half teasing, half serious. “I’d end up in a heap on the floor if I’d had more than a couple glasses of wine.”

He waved his hand around, absently dismissing my question.

I returned my gaze to all his stuff, noticing what looked like a bottle of prescription drugs for the first time, half hidden under a newspaper on the floor. I stretched down and retrieved them before giving him a sharp look. “Mason?”

He took a quick glance at the pills and rolled his eyes, like him having them was no big deal. “It’s fine.”

I stared at him, aghast. “It’s not fine.” How I hated the banal word, as it said zero about how the person actually felt. I scrutinized the label. “Should you be drinking if you’re taking anti-anxiety pills?”

He plucked the container from my hand and tossed it onto the floor. “I said it’s fine. I’m fine.” His voice had begun to slur slightly.

Refusing to let him rile me, I deliberately calmed down and replied softly. “You’re not fine, Mason. You’re taking prescription-strength drugs, and you’ve had at least a bottle of wine.” I rested my hand on his arm and squeezed gently. “Does that sound like someone who’s fine to you?”

Mason pulled his arm from my hold and roughly ran his fingers through his thick dark blond hair. “Maybe not. But it sure does sound like someone who wants to forget his fucked-up life for a few hours and chill the hell out.”

He swung his legs over the side and clumsily climbed off the lounger, some of his wine spilling over the rim of the glass and on himself in the process, the ruby-red liquid rapidly spreading across his light-blue polo shirt like blood. He tutted and absently wiped at his front as he made his way to the edge of his deck.

“Mason,” I said, the plea in my voice had him stopping and his shoulders drooping. He turned around to face me, but the action must have been too quick as he lost his balance and pitched to the side, before stumbling forward to try to correct himself. He landed hard against the deck railing, emitting a grunt of pain where the unforgiving wood collided with his ribs. The jolt caused his wine glass to slip from his grasp and tumble to the floor, loudly shattering all around him, sending the remaining contents splashing up his legs. “Shit,” he swore and went to move.

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