Page 127 of Gin and Lava

He doesn’t need any more prompting. He lifts me up from under my knees and suddenly both my thighs are around his hips and my arms are clutching his shoulders. My ass is in the air and his cock is pounding into me as I’m taken against the shed.

The slap of our skin is heaven.

The pound as I’m impaled on his cock is rough.

I love every second of it.

I turn Mason’s face to mine as he pumps, exertion and heat and lust rushing through his gaze as our eyes connect. I can’t look away. I need him to see what he does to me. I need him to know that he steals my breath away, steals my body, and I’d happily give in to him.

I don’t look to the opening in the gate to see if Sam’s still watching. But a part of me thinks he is. How could he look away from this? And if he has, it doesn’t matter, because right now, all I care about is how perfectly Mason splits me in half, and how he makes me forget Sam.

40

MASON

Ned strolls up to the beach house patio as I’m texting the photographer about the shoot for Naomi’s jewelry. Esme just emailed me with some great ideas that I want to make sure the photographer knows about.

Ned gives me a disgruntled look, walking straight to the built-in bar and pouring himself a whiskey before sitting on a wicker chair next to me. Over the berm of sand and grass in front of us is the beach where the remaining group has taken to lounging by the water, sunbathing and swimming. I don’t know who won the volleyball game, and I don’t care.

“You have to hang out with these people for the rest of the week?” Ned gruffs out, frowning severely, then tossing back half of his whiskey like he needs to be drunk to hang out for the rest of the afternoon.

“Are you referring to Naomi’s ex, or the whole wedding party?” I ask. “Cause Shauri’s fun.”

“When is this damn wedding? You need to go back to your life and stop taking shit from that jerk.”

“You weren’t dazzled by Doctor Sam’s resume and spiking ability? Doesn’t his precision on the volleyball court make you want to hire him for your next appendix removal?” I pocket my phone and get up to pour myself a whiskey in camaraderie.

“That guy couldn’t stop talking about how many charities he donates to,” Ned grumbles. “Or his ability to fillet a person open with a scalpel. I’m not convinced he isn’t a mass murderer.”

“Trifecta isn’t going to be your new best friend?” I scoff. “I thought you loved the Ivy League crowd.”

“I hate talking to anyone I don’t have to,” Ned clarifies, then nods to his wife on the beach. “Olivia’s the social butterfly and the master at small chat. I’d never leave home if it wasn’t for her.” Ned’s eyes cut to me, missing nothing. “Trifecta?”

I flop into the chair next to him. “My nickname for the ex,” I admit. “Naomi and I had a talk about the perfect man, and He’s the trifecta: money, good looks, and smarts.”

“This was her list?” Ned presses, going into cross-examiner mode.

“It was my list,” I say, not meeting his narrowing gaze. “Women are unconscious to this truth, until it’s pointed out. But once it was, Naomi couldn’t deny it. Sam’s the golden goose—everything she ever wanted.”

“Doesn’t that piss you off?”

“Of course, it does!” I motion to Ned and his lawyer-lounging-with-whiskey-in-hand frown. “Life’s easier when you’re you.”

“None of that ever made it easier for me to pursue women,” Ned counters.

“Says the asshole who just got married to that gorgeous woman over there.” I point at Olivia. “Yes, she had to get over your gloriously unpleasant demeanor, but trust me, the rest of the package didn’t hurt.”

“And when did you decide to give a fuck about any of that?” Ned leans forward, crowding my personal space and putting a hand on my arm rest. He loves to do this in court: move up to the stand, position himself above the witness, lean against the wooden railing like he owns it. It’d be intimidating if I didn’t know what he looked like in braces at the age of ten. “The Mason I know once gave Connor a lecture about pretending to be something he wasn’t when he met Arie. And hypocrite that you are, you’re pretending to bewhatwith Naomi?”

“Those are not comparable examples, counselor,” I sass. “I’m not changing who I am. It’s the label that’s messy.”

“How would you label it?”

“Is this turning into a therapy session?” I deflect. Ned doesn’t flinch, he just changes tactics.

“Tell me why you’re playing this fiancé charade? What is it supposed to achieve?”

“Not that I have to answer any of your questions …” I say, nudging Ned’s hand that’s still lying on my armrest like it’s his. “But I thought that’d be obvious. I get to hang out with hot girl. I get to fuck hot girl. I get to sleep on a shitty mattress with said hot girl practically naked and draped against me. Have you figured out the pattern yet, Sherlock?”

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