Page 118 of Gin and Lava

Arie unsettled him with her comments, and I can feel him pulling away. I’ve felt this before with Sam. That unspoken cavern that begins as a crack, then slowly pushes apart till you’re on different sides of the cliff.

Mason kisses me, but he also keeps me at arm’s length. That shouldn’t bother me. We aren’t a thing. And still, something feels off when Mason’s not all in.

“Viking Princess is needy,” he teases. “Did you finish your Pinterest boards?”

I haven’t had a chance to look at them all day, so I kiss him harder, instead of answering, pressing my tits against his chest. But my body raking against him continues to make his muscles tense. The one true thing Mason and I have is how perfectly our bodies react to one another, and that too, is off.

I pull back and look at him in the dark.

“It’s like you’re pissed off that I want you,” I say softly.

“No finished boards, Princess, no orgas—”

“It isn’t that,” I interrupt. “It’s …” My hands trace down his neck and fan out over his shoulders, my nails digging into the hard flesh. “It’s like you don’t want me to touch you.”

“Impossible,” he replies, hooking an arm around my back and pulling me against him. But it’s forced. He’s putting on a show. There’s normally a heat in the way Mason touches me that lights me on fire. I crave it—but it’s not here.

“You’re not aroused,” I point out.

“Your ex is in the next room.”

“That didn’t stop you this morning.”

“Coffee then.”

“What’s wrong, Mason?”

“With my dick?” He rolls away from me, frustrated. “I’m sorry my perfect pogo stick doesn’t harden on command.”

“That’s not my point.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re angry,” I correct, not having to touch him to feel the negative energy bunching his muscles. “You’re angry at me.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “You’re—”

“Please don’t say perfect again.”

“Fine. Butyou’renot the problem.”

“Okay …” I wait for him to say more, studying his profile in the dark: his long nose, his soft lips. He’s a landscape I’m just starting to memorize. When he doesn’t say anything, I start prompting. “Is it Sam? Is it Arie?”

“No, it’s me,” he says quickly. Then he takes my hand and laces it through his. It’s a sweet gesture, one that asks for patience. “It’s not a thing, Princess. I’m not backing out on our arrangement, okay.”

“Okay, but …” I continue to urge.

“I’m not talky, Princess,” he replies. “I’m a dick on legs. I don’t do philosophical.”

“You wereverytalky when you were asking me about my brand,” I point out.

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

He’s silent again.

His face catches the moonlight and I can see his cheek feathering under the grind of his teeth.

---