Page 17 of I Choose You

His arm lowers from the force of my hand, and he smirks. “I will pull out my eighth-grade wrestling moves on you if I have to. I’m not afraid to take you down in the name of Battered Dogs.”

I crack a smile and snicker. “You had one match and lost.” Realistically, he could eat this with me hanging off his arm, but it’s tradition to wait until all the food is served and everyone is present. Also, I’m feeling courageous. His being so close to me minutes ago short-circuited my train of thought. Being near him is all I can seem to think about. The logical side of me doesn’t even push against it. I’m almost certain my fears have flown out the window by now.

He shifts to mirror me, angling so he can curl his fingers around my wrist. This close, I notice the change in his pupils. The way they smolder and dilate, becoming wider and darker by the second. “I’m better than I was back then. Bigger. Stronger.” The scar along his jaw stretches from the provoking smirk his lips form. I hate how my stomach squeezes with longing. Despise how it rattles my sexual appetite because I shouldn’t want this, especially not with him.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I reply quietly but with spark, noticing how the scales tip in favor of letting go whenever he’s near. “Put it back on the plate.”

His voice lowers, turning gruff when he mutters, “You’re putting me in a hard position here, Jones.”

I channel my smart mouth and attitude that always comes out to match Mason’s playful nature. If he doesn’t want to forfeit, then I have no choice but to hit him where it hurts. “You cried in the locker room after that match.” I smile sweetly. “Luke told me. Now put it back.”

His teeth nip into his bottom lip, which effectively steals my attention longer than I care to admit. “I’m definitely eating this now.”

Pinning him with a mischievous stare, my eyebrow shoots up in the same formation “The Rock” is famous for. I’m ready to open a can of whoop-ass on him if those peach lips of his even brush the damn thing. Playfulness aside, part of me feels like I have to protect our traditions because Sunday brunches will be nonexistent once he leaves.

My fingers press into his skin in warning. His eyes burn back with their own caution.

Like on the paintball field, I don’t back down. I get too much of a thrill out of pushing him. It sparks an electrical current to zip through me, creating a rush I can’t walk away from. Hell, I couldn’t if I tried.

I move my foot between his legs and prop a heel against the back of his foot. I plan to trip him backward, but I pause when his free hand lands on my waist. Without warning, his fingers pinch into my side, and I fall against his chest in an effort to get away from his tickling. I try to stay focused on the waffle stick, but it’s no use. His fingers are like popsicle sticks poking into my ribcage. Laughs form in my belly and burst from me.

Mason’s foot slips as soon as I push back. I fall forward and slam against his chest, knocking him even more off balance. The waffle sausage stick flies into the air at the exact moment he tugs me close and falls backward in slow motion.

A high-pitched squeal comes from me as his arm curls around my waist tighter. Though my mood dampens at the idea of losing out on a sausage stick, elation quickly replaces it at the feel of Mason against me as we smack the cool, hard linoleum. I groan in discomfort. Mason’s head bounces off the floor, which probably induces an instant headache.

“Well, that hurt.” He checks the back of his head before shifting to place a hand on my waist as I assess the damage.

“You okay?”

“I could be better,” he grunts, lifting to his elbows and insinuating this wouldn’t have happened if I let him have the damn stick. “If it weren’t for you ruining my fun,” he accuses, blaming me with a good-humored grin on his face as I straddle him.

This close, only inches from his face, I take in the odd-shaped green flecks in his eyes, appreciating that when he blinks, they dilate.

He jerks when I straighten a leg to roll off him. Immediately, I worry I might have hurt him somehow and freeze. “What’d I do?” I think of the bruise on his collarbone and wonder if I accidentally brushed against it during my roll, but I don’t see how it’s possible.

He bends a knee and lets his back fall to the kitchen floor. “Nothing,” he wheezes, lying flat again. “All is good.”

“I can’t believe you ruined a perfectly good waffle sausage stick.”

At the mention of it, he lifts back to his elbows to inspect the area. “Where the hell did it go?” He finds it underneath the kitchen table. “Gone to waste because of you.”

“Me?” My voice elevates, taking on a high-pitched whine. “You shouldn’t have touched it.”

“I’m a grown man, Kenz. When I see food, I want it.”

My cheeks immediately blush, and embarrassment ensues because my mind is in the gutter. Food is suddenly synonymous with sex, and what is wrong with me? “Exactly. That means you’re capable of self-control.” As much as I try to hide my rosy cheeks, I extend a helping hand when I get to my feet.

He takes it, then yanks me back to the floor. He twists me to my back lightning fast and hovers above me. “There are very few things I have no self-control over.” My mouth opens to say something, anything, but fails to find words. The flush that previously took over my cheeks returns and covers my neck when he glances at my lips. “Don’t judge me for Battered Dogs being one of them.” His unruly morning hair drops over his forehead, and his eyes darken more, turning a shade of green that ignites a war between my brain and heart.

He cups my cheek, and I inhale a sharp breath. While the act is innocent, the unexpected yearning rushing through me is anything but.

Something is legitimately wrong with me.

It’s something I’ve felt before, but it’s never been as extreme with Mason as it is now. I gulp down its suddenness and melt under his smooth palm. His eyes search mine, and I mirror him, looking for a crack or a sign that might reveal his thoughts.

I get nothing.

Sixty seconds pass under his scrutiny. I no longer want a peek inside his head. The sparks buzzing between our bodies are unbearable. The scrutiny of them is about to burn me to a crisp. My self-control wears down as each second passes. I’m near combustion, almost to the point of not being able to take it anymore, which is why I flatten my hands on his chest and nudge him. “I need to pee.”

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