Page 40 of Mason

“I should’ve warned you that you were playing with fire.”

She shivers, and I already know that we’re nowhere near fucking done yet.

14

SHELBY

Mason doesn’t look at me the way David did.

He doesn’t scan my body like it’s something that needs to be fixed, altered, shrunk down to fit a mold that was never meant for me.

He doesn’t grab at my waist and squeeze, testing for softness like my love handles are something I should be ashamed of.

He doesn’t drop passive-aggressive comments about cutting carbs or watching my portions, all while shoveling an entire plate of food down his own throat.

No.

Mason looks at me like I’m a puzzle he wants to take his time figuring out. Like I’m delicate, made of glass, something to treasure.

Like I’m already perfect.

I used to think my body was the reason David controlled me for so long.

Because a man like that—handsome, successful, so perfectly curated—shouldn’t have wanted me.

Shouldn’t have chosen me.

So when he did, when he let his eyes rake over me with that slow, calculated approval, I clung to it like a lifeline.

Because I thought it was the best I’d ever get.

I thought I should be grateful.

That I should shrink myself down, make myself small, less of a burden, because if I didn’t…

He might not want me anymore.

And for too long, that terrified me.

Now, the thought of ever craving his approval makes me sick.

Because I love my body.

It’s strong. It’s soft and sharp in all the right places.

I eat well, I move, I stretch, I breathe—and I do it all for me.

Not for him.

Not for anyone else.

But Mason—he doesn’t even seem to notice my size.

Not in the way other people do.

Not in the way women give me once-over glances and silently compare.

Not like other men?—

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