Page 37 of Mason
“You heard me. Take everything off. You can leave it in a pile there on the couch.” He comes back over to stand in front of me, a piece of charcoal in his hand. “I thought you wanted to fuckin’ help, baby sis.”
“I—”
He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. “I wanna draw you.”
I raise a brow. “Yeah… okay. And that’ll help?”
“Fuck yeah. It’ll get me out of my fucking head for a while.” Mason gives me a grim smile. “Get. Naked.”
There’s something in his tone that still worries the shit out of me, but whatever. He’s already seen me naked. I reach for the hem of my tank top and peel it over my head while he goes back to the easel, prepping a fresh sheet of paper. I heave out a sigh and pop the button of my jean shorts and unzip the fly, then wiggle back and forth to push them over my hips. I step out of the shorts, pausing to worry my lip as I watch him dust off his hands.
Mason’s eyes flick to mine. “Everything.” He saunters over, standing in front of me as I reach behind my back to unclasp my bra. I tug it free, then hold it up by the strap and drop it to the floor. Inhaling deeply, I hook my thumbs in the sides of my underwear and ease them over my hips and ass, before letting them fall to my feet, too.
“Should I call you Jack and ask you to draw me like one of your French girls?”
He chuckles, but it’s low and dark. Definitely not Jack-like at all. Crooking a finger at me, his brow lifts, waiting for me to obey.
My heart bangs around in my chest, but I come closer, patiently waiting for more instructions.
It’s unnerving the way he’s looking at me. Those hungry eyes of his are so full of anger and indignation that I’ve dared come up here in the first place that it feels as though rampaging butterflies have taken flight inside me. He circles around me, and all I feel is the heavy weight of his stare. He’s behind me so long I shift around to peek over my shoulder. He gives a shake of his head. “Nope. Turn around.” His hand settles on my hip, and I feel the charcoal drag over my back.
I suck in a surprised breath. “I thought you were going to draw me. What are you doing?” His breath is hot on my neck, his fingers biting into my hip where he’s holding me steady.
“Letting you help me. I want to make a point first.” He moves the charcoal in different ways, sometimes in sweeping motions, other times in brief staccato ones. If I’m not mistaken, some of what he’s drawing has to be actual letters. Words.
I wet my lips, nervous as hell now. “Do what you need to do, Mason.” I hope like fuck he can’t hear my rough swallow and can’t tell that I’m beginning to sweat bullets.
He’s quiet, totally intent on what he’s doing, so it catches me by surprise when a few minutes later, he rasps, “I need you to fuckin’ understand me when I say this is my personal space. And unless I specifically tell you to come up here, you don’t fuckin’ dare.”
“I get it.”
“Do you? Turn around. I’ll make sure you do.”
An involuntary shudder rolls through my body at the cruel tone of his voice. When I do as he requests, this time he grips me near my rib cage as he’s bent at the waist, going to town on me with the charcoal. I glance down at his dark, tousled hair, and let the idea that he comes up here to draw when he’s upset—the fact that he always seems to be up here—wash over me. He’s hurting. I saw it last night, and I can see it now, not only in his artwork but written all over his handsome features.
When his head tips up, I find he’s the very embodiment of concentration. His teeth pull on his lip, his eyes glued to the marks he’s making all over me.
My lungs constrict. My god, the charcoal is everywhere. If anyone were to look at me right now, I’m sure it’d be comical because my eyes have got to be as big as those huge round lollipops that you can get at carnivals—the kind that take an entire day to eat. And, oh fuck, my brain isn’t even following any sort of logical thought because he’s knelt on the floor and his face is down there, even with my pussy, as he draws all over my lower abdomen, then continues to my hips and thighs.Jesus.His warm breath tickles my skin, and there’s an answering throb in my clit. I can feel myself getting wet.Fuck, I must be deranged.
“You okay up there?”
“Why do you ask?” I twitch, wondering what the fuck I’ve gotten myself into.
Mason glances up, one brow arched. “You’re panting.”
“I’m—”
“Panting. You’re turned-on. Started the minute I got near your pussy.”
I exhale hard, unsure if he’s lying or not, but paranoid that he might be right. “Stop.”
He chuckles. “You can deny it if you want, but the scent of your arousal is potent.”
My mouth drops open, then snaps shut. I don’t even know what to say to that, but my face burns.
He keeps right on marking me up. A few moments pass before he speaks again. “Trust me, Lennon, I know how you smell. It was all over my fingers last night. I was sad to wash my hands, but then I remembered my souvenir, and that’s all it took to make me perk right up.” He gives me a dirty wink. “Literally.” He slides his palms up my outer thighs as he stands up.
I let out a nervous breath. “Are you done?”
