Page 22 of A Little More Hope

As if hearing my internal dialog, a slight crease appeared between his eyebrows before he looked away, blushing a delicate pale pink, and I wondered if the same shade of pink might cover his cheeks after we’d had sex.

My dick filled rapidly at the picture I’d conjured, and Mason remained close enough for me to feel the waves of heat emanating from his body. The towel wouldn’t be able to hide how solid I was getting for much longer.

“Clothes,” I blurted, while subtly trying to maneuver the discarded blanket back over my lower half without alerting him. His eyes dropped to the action anyway, following my movement, making clear I’d failed to hide my erection when he blushed harder and his Adam’s apple bobbed a few times as he swallowed. “I need clothes,” I repeated, more panicky this time.

My comment broke the spell between us, and he instantly leaned away and rose to his feet, turning away from me, putting distance between us. However, he wasn’t quick enough to hide the full erection he sported in his sweatpants—the long and thick erection.

All the air whooshed out of my lungs and my ass clenched at how much I’d feel him stretching me open when he sank deep inside me.

When, not if.

I was going to hyperventilate.

Forcing my eyes off and away from his crotch, I sucked in a big gulp of air, trying to calm the hammering in my chest as my heart pounded against my ribs.

“I left out some sweats and a T-shirt in the bedroom.” Mason’s husky voice made my dick throb.

Grabbing the towel firmly and bunching it at the front to try to hide my own hard-on, I hopped off the sofa and scurried out of the room and down the hall, needing to get away before I did something monumentally stupid. I didn’t slam the bedroom door behind me, but it was a close call as I sagged against the wood, my legs barely holding my weight as I waited for my heartbeat to return to normal and the strange hissing in my ears to dissipate. I’d been a hairsbreadth away from giving up my moral stance and jumping the guy, so desperate to kiss him my lips tingled.

Moving over to the bed, I released a frustrated groan as I collapsed onto the mattress. I was becoming attracted to Mason as more than a potential friend, and knowing I couldn’t have him, knowing how vulnerable he was and how seldom he trusted people, drove me fucking crazy.

Yes, he was a grown man who could make his own decisions, and yes, from how hard he was, his attraction to me was obvious, or at least to the idea of me. But someone had attacked and nearly killed him, for heaven’s sake. That must have changed him, possibly irrevocably, and my uncertainty about what to do next so as not to exacerbate his issues further proved my point.

I didn’t know him. Didn’t know anything about his life until a day ago. Okay, we might fool around for a while, but it wouldn’t lead anywhere, my pathetic history being a massive testament to that. Previous boyfriends had all made themselves extremely clear—my fear of commitment, of being left behind, meant I never gave them, or anyone else for that matter, what they wanted. And I got the impression Mason would want a lot. The big house, the SUV, the white picket fence, and the two kids. It’s exactly the type of guy he was, and exactly the type of guy I’d never be.

A friend. He needs a friend. I kept repeating the mantra over and over as I dressed, hoping to penetrate my thick skull, but nothing helped. I smelled of his bodywash and was wrapped up in his clothes—clothes smelling of him. Pulling the T-shirt up to my nose I let his woodsy, musky scent fill my nostrils and settle deep in my bones. It was about as close as I’d ever get to being with him, so decided to enjoy the opportunity while it lasted.

Exiting the bedroom and walking down the hallway, I watched as he moved around the kitchen, opening pot lids and stirring the contents like a pro. When did he have time to prepare food? Must have been while I lay asleep on his sofa.

“Are you a chef in NYC?” I asked, remembering how he’d sidestepped a lot of my questions during the walk, not answering much about his life before the assault at all.

I wasn't about to let it go on any longer.

He snorted his response. “Firstly, come on, NYC?” He shook his head. “Secondly, hell, no. Being stuck in a hot kitchen all day and night is not my idea of fun at all.” He dipped a spoon into a creamy sauce and, hand underneath to catch the spills, brought it to my lips. I hesitated for a split second, wondering if he realized how intimate his gesture appeared. But the smell tempted me far too much to worry about how we might look, so I leaned forward, wrapped my lips around the spoon, and drew the sauce into my mouth.

White wine and cream and some herbs I didn’t recognize burst along my tongue. “Hmm, really good,” I groaned. “Not a chef, huh? So, where’d you learn to cook like a pro?”

He didn’t answer, and when I raised my gaze to look at him, his remained glued to my mouth. Heat instantly flooded my body and had my pulse racing. My tongue instinctively slid out to glide along my lips, leaving them slick and ready. His small gasp only heightened the tension between us, making my pulse hammer in my veins, and my temperature spike.

“Mase,” I whispered, my voice wanting, my eyes locked on his. He stared at me, unmoving for so long that tension skittered nervously along my shoulders. I was wading into dangerous waters. He needed a friend, I reminded myself. A shoulder to lean on. I’d undoubtedly ruin everything if I carried on.

All these arguments went through my mind but soon faded into the background as I kept wondering, hoping he’d make a move—any move. It had to be him, his choice. But instead, he stood silently, staring intently at my mouth. My lungs refused to work, every muscle in my body tensing, locking up tight, waiting for him to do the one thing I wanted more than anything. He swayed the tiniest bit toward me, making my pulse rocket and my body tighten in anticipation as his eyes darkened to black, arousal taking over.

And I was ready, so fucking ready.

Water bubbling over the top of the pan and sizzling loudly when it hit the stove top broke the spell, releasing me, us, as Mason’s hypnotic gaze dropped from mine when he turned to deal with the issue.

“Shit,” he muttered pushing the boiling pan off the flame before lowering the heat.

Stepping out of his way, I pulled in some air: short, shallow puffs as I desperately willed my body to calm the hell down.

“Why don’t you grab the wine from the fridge and go sit on the deck,” he said, not looking at me as he moved efficiently around the kitchen cleaning up the mess, his deep husky voice reverberating into my bones. “I’ll join you in a couple of minutes.”

My throat too dry to contemplate speech, I robotically did as he asked, and after retrieving the chilled wine and grabbing two wineglasses from the countertop, walked on shaky legs outside. The midday breeze, though warm, was a welcome relief against my face, cooling my overheated skin. After placing the items on the table, I moved to the railing and, leaning on my elbows on top, stared out at the beach below. There were a lot more people around than when we’d begun our walk early this morning. The clouds and rain were long gone, and in the distance, only the rhythmic ebbing in and out of the sea against the shore remained. The sound soothed me as I tried to wrap my head around what on earth I almost let happen.

Mason came out to the deck, the clunking of crockery loud in the quiet when he placed two bowls of pasta on the wooden table. Soon he stood there behind me, his fragrance teasing my nose, the heat from his body enfolding me, making me wish his arms were wrapped around me instead.

I wanted him so much.

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