Page 102 of Gin and Lava

I take my phone and look at the boards myself, my stomach squirming. I don’t like this spotlight on me, but I take a shallow breath and force myself to sit in that discomfort. It’s surprising how unintrusive Mason is right now, considering he’s always saying something wild and wicked, yet he’s choosing to be still and wait—to hold space for me.

“I see …” I begin, clicking on a board in the center, “softness, and romance, and an undeniable sexiness. For example, I love the flowy dress in this one.”

I point to an image of a woman on a rocky beach surrounded by cool morning light. Her ethereal dress flows in the breeze, creating a sharp contrast to the jagged, dark stones at her feet. The woman’s head is tilted up, showing off the perfect canvass of her cleavage and neck. I touch that stretch of the photograph.

“This is where I want my jewelry,” I say. “Draped across skin like that. It’s sensual without being crass. Yet, it’s also hard to avoid thinking about taking that woman’s clothes off.”

I blush, keeping my eyes on the picture and not looking at Mason. My mind races back to last night and what it felt like to wear my jewelry and be naked with him. It ignited something inside me that I didn’t know I had.

“I’m not talking about porn, of course,” I say quickly. “I mean, when I wore that piece last night, it was … incredible. Not thatI’mgoing to be featured in my marketing. But I want a personification of that woman inside me. Nothing overt. I just wonder if my work could inspire something like last night for another woman who wears it. Only, more subtle—obviously. But … I also want it to be hard to not think about … you know, the sensuality of the piece. Or the woman one could be.”

Mason is breathing heavy.

I bite my lip, because everything I just said is probably too erotic to actually sell. Or maybe I was too lust-drunk last night, and I can’t shake off the heat. I should definitely wait until the big-O-rosy-glasses-glow wears off before I start planning a vision for my jewelry.

“That probably sounds silly,” I say quickly. “It’s just a first draft. I can delete that board and start—”

Mason cups my chin and tilts my face to him—his eyes black with fire.

“Or—or I could keep it,” I stutter, because his eyes demand I not delete it.

Then his mouth is on mine.

Mason’s lips are already parted, his tongue sweeping across the seam of my mouth and flicking, inching me open. I moan as his tongue slips inside and meets mine, feeling that lust-drunkenness kindling.

This, I think as his fingers trace across my throat, drawing an invisible necklace that I’ve yet to design.

Back and forth.

A necklace of fingerprints.

Yes.This, exactly.

Mason’s mouth is the opposite of a demand. In fact, his kiss is an approval of everything I was describing. Mason—in a way I’d never expect—is drowning me in gentleness. He isn’t raunchy or crass, but a different kind of wicked, with his lips lulling me into the sunset. Then further, into the purple velvet of darkness.

This kiss.

Yes.

This kiss is what I want my brand to be. If I could bottle everything I’m feeling in this moment and sell it, that would be my jewelry: airiness, light, and heat, but with a darkening desire that threatens to swallow me. It’s like falling upwards into an endless sky made of golden night. If I could promise that to my customers …

I pull away from Mason, completely breathless. His green eyes flicker, and a tremble echoes through me from my lips to my toes. This feels big. It feels like too much to promise in a piece of jewelry—and too much to want even for myself.

My cheeks flush, and my face burns scarlet. For the first time I feel embarrassment crawl up my spine. I’ve had no problem riding Mason—hard, and recklessly—but suddenly now, the tender prick of vulnerability is undressing me.

This kissmakes me feel naked.

I sit up and unravel myself from Mason’s arms, scooting to the edge of the air mattress. I wipe my bottom lip, still feeling the burn in my face that runs down my throat.

“I’m nowhere near fifty pins,” I say hoarsely. “So we should …” I nod to the living room and kitchen, where there’s commotion and drinks being poured.

My core aches, but not in the same way as before. I’m turned on, despite the fear in my gut, and the irrational part of me wants to lie back down with Mason and feel that whirlwind surging between us. Thank God, there’s no door for us to hide behind. Thank God, we’re surrounded by open windows and peering eyes.

“Are you hungry?” I ask, righting my clothes and turning back to him. The air mattress has deflated a bit, and it makes him look small in the middle of its sagging.

“Are you offering me food or your pussy?” Mason cracks, and I’m grateful for the joke. It makes it easier to look at him right now.

“Food,” I say, holding up my phone with the Pinterest app still open. We both know I have more work to do before I get the latter. Not that I could handle Mason’s gentleness on my body right now. It would burn me to ash.

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