Page 91 of Promise Me Not

They puddle behind my ankles, and my toes curl into the fuzzy mat beneath my feet.

My cheeks are on fire, my eyes holding and following his in the mirror’s reflection until he’s turning away, stepping into the shower, and closing himself inside it.

The moment he’s out of sight, the spell is broken, and I run back into the room, stopping to press my back against the wall.

I pull out the yoga breathing techniques, fighting for long, deep breaths and exhaling just as slowly. It doesn’t help.

I lift my shaky hands, staring at them in shock and confusion, then press them to my heated skin, explicitly aware my face isn’t the only part of me that’s on freakingfire, but a part that’s been dormant for a while now…if ever woken at all. A part of me I’m kind of scared to acknowledge but can’t ignore.

There’s a heat bubbling between my legs, threatening to grow into a boil, and my skin is tingly all over. My eyes fly wide.

“Oh my god,” I breathe, gently banging my head against the wall. “This isn’t happening,” I mutter, clenching my eyes closed. “I’m not falling for Mason.” I swallow, taking several long lungfuls. “Ican’t.”

“Can’t what?”

I yelp, spinning on my heels to find Mason standing in the doorway in nothing but a towel, water dripping from every inch of him.

“What?” I think I say.

Mason comes closer, water rolling down his face, his hair so dark from the water it’s nearly black. “You said you can’t. Can’t…what?”

“I…uh…”

His eyes, they’re roaming over every inch of my face, and I blush harder.

Can he see it?

Does he know my body reacted to his?

That I kind of want to know what it would feel like to be closer, if only out of curiosity.

Or maybe it’s a subconscious need for human contact or comfort.

Or maybe something else entirely…

Shit.

Mason takes another step, and I watch as fresh droplets from the fastest shower known to man slip from his sharp, slightly scruffy jaw onto his pecs. They’re impressive, perfectly cut and gleaming.

My throat grows tight, and when he nods his head toward the bathroom, stepping inside, my feet decide to follow, and we don’t stop until we’re in the room on the other side.

My eyes fly to the plush blankets on the bed, down comforter after down comforter thrown on top. Mason steps around me a moment later, basketball shorts slung low on his hips. Everything burns when I catch the smallest hint of dark hairs peeking out below his navel. And those hip bones, as sharp as a sculpture.

My god, what a perfect prize he would make behind my lens. I could win awards with his flawlessness.

Mason Johnson is…grown. He’s not a teenage boy on the cusp of adulthood. No, he’s all man. Strong and exquisite.

And shirtless and staring at me.

My head yanks down, chin practically digging into my chest.

“Come on.”

Oh god. There’s humor in his tone.

“Ari’s bed can’t be as comfortable as this one.”

“It’s not so bad” comes out before I can stop it, but as I say it, I realize I’m internally searching for an excuse to go back to the room I’ve been sleeping in. I don’t need one, though, do I? Mason asked me to come in here, and I…want to.

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