Page 62 of Hidden Resolution
“Would you be upset if I said he wasn’t coming?”Mason asked curiously.
“A little. I went to the trouble of getting ready. The least he could’ve done was call.”
Without waiting for a response, she stalked to the kitchen. Mason could leave or not. Either way, she was parched and needed a drink. She poured a glass of water and downed half in one go.
Behind her, the door clicked shut.
She finished the rest and waited, heart pounding.
Then came the muttered curse.
The door opened. Closed again.
Her body, along with her ego, deflated.
Typical Mason. He’d probably bolted after he realized what day it was, unable to stomach the implications.
With a disgusted sigh, she refilled her water and walked toward the living room.
And promptly dropped the glass.
In the center of her space, Mason was holding two dozen long-stemmed roses in one hand and a shiny MylarBe My Valentineballoon in the other.
Knees trembling, she lowered herself onto the couch, too dazed for words.
Her brain scrambled to make sense of the image, but it refused to compute. What was he doing? And more importantly, what the hell did it mean?
The expectant light in his eyes dimmed. With a tired sigh, he set the flowers on the coffee table and tied the balloon string to a protruding rose stem. His movements were stilted, face unreadable.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Shonda.” His tone held no arrogance, no seduction. Only the awkwardness of a man in unfamiliar territory.
As he stepped around her to go, Shonda’s heart lurched. It occurred to her that he might interpret her silence as a rejection.
“Mason.”
He paused in the foyer.
“Don’t go.” Her voice came out broken. She repeated herself, louder this time.
Wordlessly, he turned the lock.
Pulse spiking, she ran to him and jumped into his arms.
Their mouths met in a clash of hunger and regret, with noses bumping in their haste. This week had been too damn long, and only with him did she feel this alive.
Her fingers worked at his tie, tugged at buttons, pushed aside fabric. One arm curled around his neck, her hand fisting in his thick dark hair; the other slipped inside his shirt and pinched the sensitive nub of his nipple. He groaned and slid his hands beneath her dress, exploring until they found the lace barrier that barely qualified as underwear. She moaned against his mouth, and her body melted into his touch.
No one made her feel as desired as Mason. Not before. Not since. Perhaps no one could. Mason’s special brand of magic was the exact reason she had difficulty letting go.
“I intended to take you to dinner,” he murmured against her jaw.
She barely registered the words. “Huh?”
“Dinner,” he repeated, tongue flicking the shell of her ear.
“I’m not particularly hungry. Are you?”
“Ravenous.”
