Loving Mason (Imperfect Love Book 2) Page 5

  “That’s not nice, Sid! I don’t deserve that!”

  “The fuck you don’t! Calling me up, telling me this shit!”

  “God, I only called out of respect for you, Sid. I thought we were friends!”

  “You fuck all your friends?”

  This is not Sid. Or at least it’s not a side of him I’m familiar with. I scrabble around on the sofa, plunging back so that I’m lying along its length. “Can I ask you a question?”

  He sighs and I imagine him sitting down on a rock somewhere, isolated from his surfer friends. “What?!”

  “Have you slept with anyone since we broke up?”

  His silence is my answer.

  I thought I was prepared for the hurt, but I’m not. “Was it good?” There’s an element of spite in my question, but there’s curiosity too.

  “Frankie―”

  “I can’t believe you just gave me all that grief when you’ve already been sleeping with other women!”

  “It was only ever you for me, Frankie ... until I came out here, I never cheated on you. Not once, I swear!”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Frankie, don’t be like that ...”

  “Was it good?!”

  “Jesus! What do you want me to say?! It was sex! I got off, they got off, we went our separate ways.”

  “That doesn’t sound ...”

  “What do you expect? They were one night stands, Frankie. You fuck, you move on. You go and sleep with this guy, you think it’s gonna be any different? Coz I guarantee it won’t.”

  I screw up my eyes because Sid’s ruining everything, tearing apart my synthetic dreams of Mason being something other than a one night stand. My breath rattles down the phone.

  “Shit, Frankie, I hate saying this, but you’ve got to know that’s how it is. This guy, he’s most probably in need of a quick fix and you’re making it easy for him!”

  I can’t argue with his truth, even if it’s harsh. “I love you, Sid.”

  “Shit, you can’t say that, not when you’ve just said you’re gonna fuck some guy you’ve just met.”

  “I’ll always love you.”

  More static hits my eardrum. “You know I love you too, Frankie. Fucking always love you.”

  “Bye Sid.”

  He’s silent for a while and I swear I can hear the sound of surf breaking.

  “Bye Frankie.”

  I stare at the alabaster ceiling, examining its immaculate surface as twin rivulets trail into my hair.

  I am stupid.

  I am daring and brave, bold enough to embark on the unknown.

  Only one of these thoughts is true. I wish I knew which.

  ♥ THREE ♥

  Unfamiliar Territory

  Frankie

  At precisely one a.m. I wash my plate and cutlery, leaving them to dry on the draining board―I could search all night and still not find a tea towel in this vast kitchen. Making my way down the hall, looking for Mason’s room, I push against a heavy door.

  There’s a pile of discarded clothes in the middle of the floor and his bed is unmade. Aside from this, the room is immaculate. The headboard is wooden, dark as the brown bedding, but glossy, its wooden slats thick and equidistant. Brown, leather-clad tables sit on either side of the bed, silver studs running along their edges, metal brackets framing each corner.

  Aside from these items of furniture, there is little else to embellish the room apart from a brown rug, which is partially obscured by Mason’s clothes, and a solid looking chest that sits in one corner. It’s old and scuffed, its varnish flaked away in amoeba-shaped patches. My eyes fix on the utilitarian, heavy-duty padlock. Not only does the chest not fit with the room, but the padlock doesn’t fit with the trunk. It’s modern, fashioned from steel, all ridges and sharp angles when it should be tarnished brass.

  To the right of the bed there’s a door that’s slightly ajar. The tips of my fingers press on it lightly and it gives way to reveal a bathroom that has almost as much floor space as his bedroom. A glass wall sits in front of showerheads that curl from the ceiling and walls. A bath big enough for two sits along the far wall. I trail my fingers along twin sinks and a vanity unit that’s built on a mammoth scale. To its left is a glass shelving unit with a bank of white towels and products that run from floor to ceiling.

  If the expensive cars and hotel-sized kitchen don’t demonstrate that Mason Zannuto is seriously wealthy, this bathroom is the tap of knuckles against my skull, the “Hello? Is anyone in there?” taunt that brings me to my senses.

  Back home with Ivy, we share a two bedroom chalet. It’s as clean as Mason’s home, maybe more so since Ivy likes to dust and vacuum twice a day. The sofas are worn, the cushions sag, and the curtain edges are bleached from the sun. It’s as far removed from Mason’s luxury apartment as a common sparrow from an exotic peacock.

  Ivy’s place is a home, its cosy warmth wrapping around you as soon as you cross the threshold. Mason’s place is masculine, designer chic, almost exactly how I imagined a playboy penthouse might look. I grimace at the bed, wondering just how many females have shared that space with him.

  As clean as everything looks, it suddenly seems tainted and dirty. I lift the throw from his bed and touch its soft woollen fibres to my cheek. It smells of laundry detergent and faded, indistinguishable spices. I drape it around my shoulders and snatch up a pillow, making my way back to the cavernous living room and the leather couch that will be my bed for the night.

  Touching my hand to the blank plate I hope might be a light switch, I jump when all the lights go off. It’s dark, but light from neighbouring buildings filters through the floor to ceiling windows, highlighting the floor and casting shadows into far flung corners. My imagination conjures up sinister beings lurking in the gloom, waiting for me to fall asleep before they pounce. I reach out in panic for the plate, somehow figuring out that the simple touch of my fingertips is all that’s needed to bring varying levels of light or darkness. I hold my fingers steady until a low light creeps back into the room, breathing a sigh of relief.

  Lying on the sofa, the pillow cool against my cheek, the leather cooler still against my bare legs, I hook my feet beneath the woollen throw, tugging its warm weight over my shoulders until my head is partially covered. The journey into sleep is a long one and when I finally get there I dream of brown eyes watching over me.

  I wake from my sleep to find that Mason is carrying me to his room. My head is nestled in the curve of his neck and his scent fills my nostrils. Spicy and musky, it stirs the remnants of longing he initiated earlier. I’m warm and sleepy, not yet fully awake when he settles me on the sheets. His duvet falls over me and I watch beneath lowered lashes as he rounds the bed and kicks off his shoes. His arms sweep up, gathering his t-shirt, dropping it to the floor. This is followed by the heavy fall of his jeans. He climbs beneath the duvet, his arm coming round my stomach, the warmth of his fingers seeping through my dress.

  “Sleep,” he says. As if he’s a magician and the word is a spell. It’s easier said than done. I’m pretty sure he’s naked. I want to move, to stretch my restless legs, my need to fidget almost painful. I don’t know if Mason can feel this urge of mine, but the hand on my hip shifts and he begins to draw lazy circles with the pads of his fingers. His touch isn’t designed to be stimulating; it’s slow and loose and I can feel myself relaxing.

  “Sleep,” he says again.

  Gradually I return to the darkness. His touch and the warmth of his body pull me under until I’m once again dreaming of brown eyes.

  When I wake once more I know it’s late. My head is thick with sleep and my body feels rested. Mason’s arm is still draped across my stomach and there’s an ache in my belly. I recognise its overriding pull and I want to lift my hips and gyrate against the pressure of his hand. I bite my lip to suppress the groan that’s threatening to tumble from my lips, rolling towards the edge of the bed, towards escape. His hand is hot against my stomach and it pulls me back against his b
ody. I can’t prevent the sigh that escapes my mouth.

  He rolls me to my back, gazing down at me, taking in my tangled curls and sleepy eyes. His own hair is a sexy mess, long tendrils falling over his eyes, the strands separated by whichever product he uses. I thread my fingers through its silky length, my gesture an invitation. Seconds later his thigh eases between mine, his eyes daring me to give him what he wants. With my dress riding high on my hips, all that separates our lower bodies are my black, lacy briefs.

  My breathing stalls and my heart races. I can feel that he wants me, see it too in his narrowed eyes, his expression harsh and watchful.

  I should move. I should push him away and wait for the cool air to breach the gap between our bodies. I prepare to do just that, but Mason presses his thigh against the centre of me, his mouth covering mine when I cry out. My fingers curl around his upper arms, my nails scoring his flesh as he swallows my cry.

  We’re moving too fast, rushing towards something that might end in nothing. What was it Sid said? Something about hooking up and ... I reach for the words, but Mason’s hand strokes my belly and reaches down to cup me. I’m freefalling. I’m out of my mind with need, greedy for his touch. It’s not pleasant, it’s dark and vicious, pulling me against my will until I’m twisting and jerking beneath his touch.

  He rears back and kneels before me, his hands peeling my dress over my head, his mouth landing on one naked breast. He sucks on my nipple, pulling sharply. It stings and kicks-off a twin ache deep in my belly. Grasping his hair, I pull his mouth back to mine, needing the taste of him, the feel of his tongue. Just when I think I’m back in control, his hand slips beneath the fabric of my knickers, his finger sliding along my folds, seeking entrance. I buck and he presses the heel of his hand against my pelvic bone, restraining me as he slowly dips his finger inside, tormenting me with slow glides.

  His mouth leaves mine to return to my breast, his tongue lathing my nipple until it’s stiff and glistening and I’m begging him to suck on it again. I need to come. I can feel it calling, pulling me towards the edge. Mason watches me, his fingers pinching my nipple and I’m coming, silently screaming as he watches. When the last spasm rolls through me, he grins and reaches for the drawer in his bedside cabinet.

  I watch him roll on a condom, my eyes riveted to his thick length, to the bead of pre-cum that glistens on its tip. Just when I think I can’t wait anymore, Mason draws my briefs down my legs, dropping them to the floor. My hands glide down to his buttocks as he lines himself up and thrusts inside me.

  Groaning, he pushes in deep before pulling out and plunging back in again. It’s rough and hard, and though the pace is not fast, it’s not slow either. Sensitive from my orgasm, the jerk of his hips rebuilds my hunger. I rise to meet his thrusts but he pushes me down, holding me still.

  “Don’t move.” His eyes squeeze shut and his mouth is a tight, painful line. I want to do as he says, but when he withdraws again I can’t prevent my hips from rising to meet his.

  “Fuck!” He thrusts faster and I can feel him growing and pulsing inside me. I roll into another orgasm, this one longer and sweeter than the first. Head falling to my shoulder, he groans, his hips jerking one last time, his breath harsh and loud. I can feel his chest expanding, pressing me down into the mattress.

  “Fuck!” He sounds pained, but worse than that, he sounds angry.

  Seconds later, he withdraws and rolls from the bed. I remain where I am, watching him stride away, the tattoos along his back rippling, his tight buttocks beautiful in the dawn light. He disappears into the bathroom and Sid’s words finally come to mind ... You fuck, you move on.

  Shit!

  Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I retrieve my clothes, hastily pulling on my creased dress and underwear. I hear the shower come on and I know I can leave, or at least move to the living room, but my hands are shaking and my legs are wobbly.

  I wait.

  Minutes later the shower is still running and I edge towards the bathroom. The door is only partially closed, wisps of steam slipping through the gap. The bathroom is hazy, the shower empty, and I search the room in confusion. My eyes flick back to the shower and that’s when I see him sitting on the floor, unmoving. His back is to the wall and his arms are hooked over his knees. Water cascades over his bent head, running in rivulets across his chest, which is rising and falling unnaturally.

  Frozen, unable to comprehend what I’m seeing, my heart squeezes painfully as though my blood has thickened to jelly.

  Move! Now! Before he sees you!

  I stumble backwards, away from the door, away from what I wasn’t meant to see. Turning, I walk from the bedroom, my steps taking me towards the kitchen.

  Coffee. I should make coffee.

  And toast. Toast would be good.

  I find bread in the pantry and while it’s toasting I insert pods into the coffee machine. I fetch mugs from the cupboard and scrape butter along thick toast, watching it melt into yellow puddles. I do all of this on autopilot because all I can see, all I can think about is Mason sitting on the shower floor.

  Everything is ready when he enters the kitchen. I pretend not to notice the falter in his step when he sees everything spread out on the kitchen island, or the way he frowns when he sits down opposite me. I bite into my toast, licking butter from my lips, sipping coffee that’s too hot, all the while acting as though we haven’t just fucked and I didn’t witness him in the shower.

  His hair is slicked back. This, combined with his neck tattoos, buttoned black shirt and tight fitting black jeans, makes him look both sexy and intimidating. I know my gaze lingers too long and I’m probably showing my vulnerability, but there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

  His brows rise and I break the silence. “Are you okay to give me a lift home? Only I’m not sure I have enough money to get back. I could borrow some, but then I already owe you from the time you bought those shots.”

  He chews on his toast and watches me the way a cat watches a butterfly it’s about to paw. “Sure,” he says.

  I nod and pick up another slice of toast.

  “Will you tell him?” His voice rolls towards me across the island and my hand stalls, the toast hanging limply from my fingers.

  “What?”

  He doesn’t look at me when he says, “Your boyfriend. Are you going to tell him you’ve screwed someone else?” His tone is casual, but there’s something about his posture that tells me it’s a sham.

  I drop the toast to my plate, my appetite gone. “He already knows,” I say.

  His head snaps up, eyes filled with condemnation and disbelief. “You called him after we fucked?”

  “No!” I reel back, offended. “Jeez, Mason, who’d do something like that?! I called him last night, after you called me.”

  He looks like he can’t grasp what I’m saying. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

  His brown eyes radiate judgement and I shrug. “It seemed like the right thing to do,” I answer honestly.

  “You broke up with him so you could fuck me?”

  “No. Yes.” My fingertips rub the skin between my eyebrows. I don’t understand this myself, so explaining to Mason isn’t easy. “I mean, I wanted you and I knew you wanted me, and going on what just happened I did the right thing, don’t you think?”

  He cocks his head to the side and says coldly, “I don’t know, Frankie, you’re the one who threw away a five year relationship for a fuck. You tell me.”

  His words ignite a sharp pain in my belly and I place my fingers over the imaginary wound, sealing in the pain. I can’t deal with his fuck comment so I latch onto the part that’s innocuous. “Four and a half,” I correct.

  “What?”

  “Sid and I were together four and a half years. Four years, five months, to be exact.”

  “Four and a half, five years, what’s the fucking difference?”

  “About six months, actually.”

  “Real funny, Frankie.” His fingers ru
n through damp hair, creating furrows that make him look sexier than ever. “Christ, who the fuck dumps their boyfriend for a hook-up?”

  “Me, obviously!”

  “That’s crazy―”

  “No, Mason, it’s not! Sid and I were on a break. We hadn’t seen each other in weeks, and he’s thousands of miles away having sex with god knows who, so why shouldn’t I do the same?”

  His hands splay against the island and he tilts his torso away as if he needs that extra bit of distance between us. “I’m your fucking rebound?”

  “Considering we hooked up one lousy time, I’d say that’s none of your business.”

  His sudden tension is disturbing. My eyes dart over his body, up to the rich lustre of his hair and eyes that aren’t wild-looking anymore, they’re feral. I wonder if he ever looks anything but gorgeous. It doesn’t seem to matter whether his hair is perfectly styled, mussed from sleep, or slick with water. He’s beautiful every which way.

  “Lousy?”

  “Yeah, Mason, lousy! Ten minutes from start to finish is not―”

  Mason is off his stool and standing in front of me, his thighs pushing against my knees. Now it’s my turn to lean back on my stool.

  “You came twice in those ten minutes.”

  “I―”

  “Screamed with the force of it.”

  “Mason―”

  “Given that, and the fact that I haven’t been with anyone in months, I’d say it was far from fucking lousy, but what the hell do I know?”

  “Months?” Taken aback, I can’t help but compare him to Sid, who when we’d been apart for more than a couple of days, would finish in an instant and leave me hanging. The fact that Mason gave me two orgasms prior to reaching his own is mind-blowing.

  “Months,” he confirms. “Your friend Nora was going to fix that, but we all know how that ended.”

  I don’t like that he’s throwing Nora’s name in my face less than thirty minutes after we’ve ... My mind stalls because I want to say made love, but I can’t. That’s not what happened.

  Fucking is what happened.